Chapter 1: Simultaneous! Deaths

There are 4 to 4.3 births every second. 

But there's somethings that happened at the same time. Somethings can't be called a coincidence. It was a regular afternoon. On a hot summer day in the tropics. June 11th, storming into the ER. Two mothers and their husband's. The mother complaining of intense pain. The other mother going in and out of consciousness. The time is 19:09. Crying out of it's mother's womb. A young baby boy. It's bloody red and moist but the warmth confirming it's alive. The husband and wife waited for this day their whole lives both tell themselves 

"our little angel."

 In the other room the husband holding her wife's arm as she holds him.  A young baby boy. She cradles him and holds him. The baby crying endlessly. Both the husband and wife. Say to each other. 

"He's a warrior."

That day a story was woven for the two boys. One of acceptance, loneliness, and pride.  And the other of jealousy, resolve, and ideals. 

A rambunctious young boy outgoing as all young boys ought to be. He only knew one thing. Blazing a path running. If there was a jungle he'd go in it without fear. If there was a valley he'd make sure his footprints had made its way on it. His closest friend was cut from a different cloth. While the boy chased the roar of distant hills, his companion’s heart beat to the quiet rhythm of circuits and screens. A child of the new age, he marveled at the gleam of touch-screen tablets and the soft glow of neon, seeing possibility not in the wild earth but in the humming promise of technology.

The boy could never quite understand his friend. “Why stare at a glowing screen  when the world is wide and wild?” he would laugh, kicking up dust as he ran past. His friend only smiled, fingers dancing across a tablet’s glassy surface. “Because this,” he said, tapping the screen where lines of light spiraled into patterns, “is the age of minds and machines. Master this, and we build a brighter future—one we can shape instead of just stumble through.” The words hung between them like the echo of a distant storm. One heard a challenge, the other a promise. Neither was ready to yield.

The boy kicked a loose stone, scowling.

“My mom’s always on one of those things,” he muttered. “Tablet, phone—doesn’t matter. It’s like the world’s already swallowed her up.” He paused, the memory of last night rising sharp and heavy: the blue glow across her face, eyes fixed and empty, as if all the light in the room had been drained into that screen. “She used to laugh,” he said more quietly. “Now it’s like… there’s nothing there. No life. Just that cold look.” His friend glanced up from his pad, the bright interface reflecting in his eyes, but he didn’t answer right away.

The boy’s voice softened, almost pleading.

“If everyone ends up like that,” he said, nodding toward the glowing tablet, “we won’t be able to run and climb and… just play. Not like this. Not out here.” He swept a hand at the open-ended jungle around them—sunlight slanting through the leaves, the air alive with the smell of earth and the chatter of birds. “This is the good stuff. Let’s use it while we can.”

But his friend only hunched a little closer over the screen. The flicker of code and color reflected in his eyes, cool and distant. No answer came, just the faint electronic hum competing with the rustle of wind-stirred branches. He felt the silence settle, heavy as the canopy above, and wondered if he was already running alone.

Without another word, the boy sprang forward, vanishing into the green with a whoop that startled the birds. Leaves rattled in his wake, the sound fading until it was only the slow breath of the jungle again.

His friend stayed where he was, headphones on and the glow of the tablet brightening as the day began to dim. The canopy’s gold light slipped to orange, then to the first quiet blue of evening. When the last notification blinked across the screen, he finally rose and turned toward home, eyes never leaving the device in his hands.

The jungle fell silent behind him as the other boy’s shouts faded into the trees. Headphones slipped over his ears, soft music drowning the world while the tablet’s glow guided him through the dusky streets. He barely noticed the lengthening shadows or the distant hum of traffic—just the quiet buzz of notifications and the steady beat in his ears.

The gate to his house creaked open with a familiar groan. Warm lamplight spilled across the porch, chasing away the twilight. Inside, his mother looked up from a stack of unopened mail. Her smile flickered, brief but warm.

“You’re late,” she said, voice half-scolding, half-relieved.

From the kitchen came the clatter of a pan and the smell of soy and garlic. His father leaned around the doorway, apron dusted with flour.

“Homework done?” he asked, eyebrows raised. The boy slid off his headphones and gave a small nod, the tablet still glowing in his hands.

“Mostly,” he murmured.

His mother’s eyes softened as she brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Dinner in ten. Wash up first.” The house felt steady—ordinary—like a rhythm he could always count on. He set the tablet on the counter, still alive with quiet light, and for a moment the outside world faded to nothing.

The kitchen smelled of simmering broth and warm bread when he stepped inside. His mother set down a tablet of her own—spreadsheets and lesson plans glowing on the screen. His father wiped his hands on a towel, the faint scent of engine grease clinging beneath the flour.

“You’re still on schedule for the robotics exam?” his father asked, eyes narrowing just a little. “If you keep this pace, you’ll have a full scholarship before you’re sixteen.” His mother added gently, “As long as you keep studying, we’ll make sure you have every resource you need. Any course. Any equipment. Your future is worth it.”

He nodded, sliding his own tablet onto the table. The weight of their expectations was as familiar as the hum of the refrigerator.

“I’m working on it,” he said.

But after a pause he added, almost without thinking, “My friend… he doesn’t care about any of this. He just runs. Climbs. Jumps into the jungle like it’s nothing. No plan. No pressure.”

His mother tilted her head, curious. His father leaned against the counter, waiting.

“I wish I could be more like him sometimes,” the boy admitted, voice low. “Just… free. Not worried about exams or the future or what comes next.” The room settled into a thoughtful quiet. The stew bubbled on the stove. Outside, the evening cicadas began their song.

His mother’s gentle squeeze tightened, her brows drawing together.

“Oh, that boy,” she said with a sigh that was half-chiding, half-worry. “You two were born on the same day, same hour, in the very same hospital—and look how different you turned out.”

She folded her arms, the glow of her tablet casting sharp lines across her face.

“There’s no time for fun and games anymore. Not in this world. Not after everything we’ve just come through.” Her voice lowered, as if the words themselves carried a weight from those difficult years. “This is a post-pandemic age. You’ve got to stay ahead—study, study, study. That’s how you build a life that lasts.”

His father gave a small nod of agreement, stirring the pot without looking up.

The boy stared at the floor, tablet cooling in his hands. Outside, the last daylight drained from the windows, and the quiet hum of the house felt suddenly heavy.

“I know,”

He said softly, though a part of him still lingered to be with his friend, chasing the echo of his friend’s laughter.

The screen door creaked open and slammed behind him, shaking a few loose leaves from his hair. Mud streaked his shirt and dried along his arms, but he didn’t bother to wipe it away. The smell of damp earth followed him into the narrow hallway.

His mother sat at the dining table, laptop glowing in the darkened room. Fingers flicked across the keys in a relentless rhythm, her eyes locked on numbers and charts. She didn’t glance up when the door banged shut.

“Hi, Mom,” he offered, voice rough from the jungle air.

No answer. Only the soft tap-tap-tap of the keyboard.

He padded down the hall, each step squelching faintly, and pushed open the door to his father’s room.

The blue light of the television spilled across the floor, painting everything in cold shadow. His father sat hunched on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the flickering screen. Sports highlights? Old war footage? It didn’t matter—whatever it was, he stared like a man possessed, lips parted, breath shallow.

“Dad?” the boy tried.

The man didn’t blink.

The boy stood in the doorway, mud drying on his skin, the sounds of the jungle still in his ears. The house smelled of stale coffee and quiet neglect. For a long moment he said nothing more, the silence between them as thick as the night outside.

He let the door ease shut behind him, the click lost under the low murmur of the television.

The hallway stretched out in dim light, walls lined with shadows. No smell of dinner. No sound of anyone calling his name.

His own room greeted him with the same stillness. A thin stripe of moonlight cut across the floorboards, highlighting the mud on his shoes, the scratches on his arms. Sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the cool wood, knees drawn up. The house felt hollow—just the faint buzz of his mother’s laptop in the distance and the ghostly chatter of the TV leaking through the walls.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Nothing.

Only a quiet blankness, as if someone had turned the volume of the world all the way down.

Dawn broke pale and cold in the neighborhood, the kind of morning when the streets still belonged to mist and birdsong.

The tech-minded boy slipped out before his parents stirred. He liked the world at this hour—no horns, no deadlines, just the steady rhythm of his sneakers on the pavement and the soft glow of the tablet in his hands. A new update had dropped overnight, headphones and music blaring at maximum and curiosity tugged him out of bed before the sun could warm the rooftops. Behind him, his freind on top of a tree, hair still tousled from sleep, drawn by nothing more than the thrill of moving through a world half awake. He hadn’t planned to meet his friend. He simply followed the faint light ahead, like a moth to a quiet flame. When the first wail of sirens tore through the air. Tires shrieked. Somewhere around the corner, an engine roared—a wild, desperate sound. A car shot past the end of the street, headlights flaring like angry stars. It swerved, skidding across the empty road, a crazed driver running from the cops. The sirens chased close behind.

The wail of the sirens rose, a metallic cry that should have warned him. But his eyes stayed fixed on the tablet’s glow—bright enough to hide the oncoming glare of headlights. The car burst from the corner like a beast unchained, engine screaming, tires clawing at the pavement. It veered wildly, the driver’s face a blur of panic and speed.

For a heartbeat the boy didn’t move.

No breath. No thought. Only the cold light of the screen.

Then—a blur.

Something darker than dusk, faster than the eye, rushed across the street. Trying to grab him but to no avail. 

A shadow slammed into him, hard enough to lift him off his feet.

The tablet flew.

The world spun.

The car’s metal howl thundered past, so close the wind of it burned his skin.

Blood trickled into his eye, warm and sticky, but he felt nothing.

Pain never reached him.

He tried to focus, vision swimming, and realized he was looking down at his own body—twisted, bruised, already sliding out of reach. Just beyond, the boy who had once been his only friend lay sprawled across the pavement, barely moving.

“I’m… I’m sorry!” the friend gasped, voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

The words tumbled over each other, frantic and useless, as the sirens wailed closer.

Darkness pressed in at the edges of his sight. The world narrowed to a single point of sound—his friend’s panicked voice—until even that faded, and he sank into silence.

The boy on the pavement shuddered, a wet, ragged sound as blood bubbled at his lips. His chest hitched once, twice, lungs struggling against the weight of crushed ribs. He turned his head just enough to find his friend’s eyes. A faint smile—half grimace, half comfort—trembled across his face. The world fell into a strange quiet, like someone had muted the universe. Sirens flashed in the distance, their scream swallowed to nothing. The friend stared at him, lips moving, but not a sound reached his ears.

Only the slow shape of words.

Wish n...... eve.......r friends.

 The boy’s heart cracked at the sight. No…He shook his head, trying to shout, but only blood bubbled in his throat.

Darkness stretched like an endless sea—weightless, soundless.

Then a heartbeat.

Another.

A sudden rush of air, the scent of polished steel and incense. Warmth pressed close, and a voice, deep and commanding, pierced the void.

“My son,” it said, a tone that carried both triumph and weary relief. “You will succeed me as a Holy Knight.”

The newborn blinked against a flood of golden light. Marble pillars loomed above, banners of crimson and gold swaying in a gentle draft.

Strong arms cradled him—arms wrapped in a cloak heavy with the scent of battle and royal oil. The man holding him wore a crown of hammered silver, his eyes fierce with hope and destiny.

The child’s tiny chest rose and fell, but somewhere behind those unfocused eyes, a different consciousness stirred. A memory of running through sunlit trees. A flash of blue glow on a tablet screen. The distant echo of a friend’s voice calling his name.

Which boy had opened these eyes?

No one in that hall—not even the king—could know. The king bent lower, whispering a vow only the newborn could hear.

“You will be the shield of this kingdom,” he said. “The sword of the gods. My heir… my Holy Knight.”

The baby’s breath caught, a faint tremor rippling through the small body—as if, deep within, a question waited, unspoken.

I'm alive???