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Chapter 29
Into the Past - 4
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When Nikolai opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the ceiling—grey, cold, and concrete. It was jarringly different from the familiar, cozy wood-paneled roof of his home. The sterile scent of disinfectant clung to the air, sharp and unfamiliar. His head throbbed with a dull ache, and he instinctively raised a hand to his temple, squinting against the fluorescent light above.
The world spun gently, like a top losing its balance, and he blinked several times to clear the haze from his vision. Gradually, the shapes around him sharpened—white walls, a simple bed with thin sheets, and to his left, a familiar silhouette. His mother.
She was speaking to Mikhail in hushed tones, her brow furrowed in a way that made Nikolai's stomach twist with unease. He narrowed his eyes to see better. Her expression was one of deep concern—almost fear.
'Please don't tell me he's snitching about the sweets...' Nikolai groaned inwardly. 'I gave him two to shut him up! That little bastard better not be ratting me out now.'
But then, his mother gasped, her face going pale.
Oh no. He did. That traitor!
"I wasn't the only one who stole the sweets! He took two himself!" Nikolai blurted out as he tried to sit up, but his limbs betrayed him. The tangled bedsheets yanked him off balance, and he fell to the cold tile floor with a loud thud.
Both Mikhail and Aroha jerked toward the noise. Within seconds, his mother rushed to his side, scooping him into her arms and cradling him as if he'd been gone for years.
"Are you alright, my son?!" she cried, checking his body with frantic hands.
"I took only four sweets, Mama. I swear…"
"What are you talking about?" she asked, confused.
"…Wait, it's not about the sweets?"
"What sweets?"
"…Oh… nothing. Never mind."
She gave him a puzzled glance but didn't press. Her focus shifted to his face. Gently, she tilted his head and traced her fingers along the four scars that ran from his cheekbone to his jaw. Her touch was soft, reverent, as if confirming something impossible.
Nikolai remained still, confused by her inspection. Eventually, she let out a shaky sigh of relief and leaned in to kiss his forehead.
"Mama? Is something wrong with me?" he asked, his voice small.
"I'll explain everything soon," she said, managing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Let's go home."
"Okay, Mama."
Before they left, Aroha turned to Mikhail, who was still hovering awkwardly near the doorway.
"Mikhail, we're making borscht tonight. Want to join us?"
He hesitated. "Sorry… I can't. Papa said we're visiting Babushka in the hospital."
"Oh! How is she doing? Is she getting better?"
"Papa said she's recovering."
"Good. When you see her, tell her we all miss her delicious kompot."
"Haha, she'll definitely love to hear that!"
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The road back home was quiet, save for the crunch of snow beneath their boots and the cheerful hum of a nursery rhyme. Anahera skipped a few paces ahead, bundled up in a too-large coat, her curly hair bouncing as she sang.
"Twinkle, twinkle, little star—"
"Sweetheart, don't pick up sticks from the road," Aroha called out.
"This not stick, this is magic wand!" Anahera declared proudly, brandishing it like a sword.
"But it's dirty, sweetheart. We have a better one at home."
"Really?!"
"Yes, and it's shinier than that one."
"Yay!"
Aroha chuckled, then turned her attention to her son. He looked up at her with confusion and anxiety clouding his eyes—eyes that demanded answers.
"I heard everything from Mikhail," she said gently.
"Mama… is something wrong with me?" he asked again, more fragile this time.
"No, my son. Nothing is wrong with you. But… you were affected by something called the Maori Madness."
"Maori Madness?" he repeated, confused.
"Yes. It's something all Maori are born with. Since I am Maori, you inherited it from me."
He blinked. She had told him about her heritage before, but it had always felt abstract—distant. Now it was suddenly real, and it terrified him.
"But what is it?" he asked. "What is Maori Madness?"
She thought for a moment, then explained, "Think of it like… a light switch. Normally, you're just a regular boy, full of love, laughter, and fear like anyone else. But when that switch is flipped… you become a warrior. A fearless, relentless force. You feel no pain, no fear—only fury. That is the Maori Madness. It's what our people once called the Toa's Flame."
His eyes widened. "So… I turn into a monster?"
"No, sweetheart. Not a monster," she said firmly. "A protector. A warrior born of ancestral blood. But it is dangerous—especially when uncontrolled. Normally, it doesn't appear until around age ten. I didn't manifest mine until fifteen. Your uncle teased me for years about it." She chuckled softly at the memory, but her smile faltered.
"Wait, you have it too? And I have an uncle?"
Aroha nodded, her smile dimming.
"Where is he now? And your Mama and Papa?"
Her eyes glistened, and she looked away.
"They've all passed on. We… we're all that's left of our tribe."
"Oh…"
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the crunch of Anahera's boots in the snow. Today wasn't the best day. In fact, it might be the worst. First he learns he has some strange warrior disease, and now he finds out most of his family is dead. His young mind couldn't quite grasp it all, couldn't file away this information into the proper boxes. It just sat there—heavy and raw.
"But now that it's awakened," his mother said suddenly, "it's time I train you to control it."
"Huh?"
"We can't have you rampaging through the village like a madman," she said playfully, though her eyes were serious. "So… tomorrow, training begins."
"Umm… what kind of training?"
"Oh, nothing much." She winked. "Just something much harder than what your Papa gave you and Mikhail."
He groaned internally. His Papa's training was already hell on Earth. He had just cursed himself by hoping this would be easier.
"Don't worry," she added. "We'll start after I speak with your Papa."
At the mention of his father, anxiety returned.
"Will he be mad at me?"
"When he finds out you beat up that boy for your sister, I'm certain he'll be proud," she assured him. "You remember what he always says?"
"Family is everything. My family is my life, and everything else comes second."
She patted his head gently. "Exactly. That's the warrior's code too. Family is sacred. Promise me, Nikolai… promise me you'll always protect your sister."
"I promise," he said instantly, fire flickering behind his young eyes. No one would ever hurt Anahera—not while he was breathing.
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Four Hours Later
Villages are curious things. In a place so small, news spreads like wildfire—fast and exaggerated. By evening, Boris had already heard half a dozen versions of what his son had done. The only consistent part was: Nikolai beat the shit out of the village leader's son.
"Blyat," Boris muttered, rubbing his temples.
He tried to piece together a scenario where his sweet, usually timid son would savagely beat another kid. Nothing made sense. His boy wasn't violent—not without reason.
He decided he needed answers. Not rumors. The truth. From the only source that mattered—his son.
He walked the snow-covered road back to his house, hands tucked into his coat, breath misting in the cold air. The cottage appeared ahead, glowing warmly against the evening dusk. Despite everything, a smile touched his lips. It wasn't much, but it was home. A home he and his wife had built with their own calloused hands. A place filled with laughter, tears, stories… and love.
He paused at the gate, looking at the modest wooden house. Seven years ago, he had walked away from everything—his birthright, his bloodline, his duty. And for what? This. A real family. A good woman. Two beautiful children.
He had no regrets.
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KNOCK KNOCK
Aroha was preparing dinner when she heard the knock. She wiped her hands and opened the door—and there he was. Her husband. Her rock. His presence alone made the day's weight melt off her shoulders.
She flung her arms around him and buried her face in his chest.
Boris blinked, caught off guard. "Well now," he chuckled, wrapping her in his arms. "I don't know what I did to deserve this, but I'm not complaining."
"I missed you…" she whispered, clinging tightly. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You'll never have to find out."
They stayed like that for a long moment before she pulled back.
"So… I heard Nikolai got into a fight?"
"He… manifested the Maori Madness," she said.
Boris's eyes widened.
"Isn't he too young? Isn't that supposed to happen at ten?"
She nodded. "It happened because of Vadim."
"Vadim? The village leader's little shit?"
"He said horrible things about Anahera. About her condition."
Boris's expression darkened. Stone-cold fury glinted behind his eyes. "What did he say?" he asked, voice low and venomous.
"It doesn't matter," Aroha said calmly. "Because Nikolai made him eat every single word."
Boris blinked… and then he grinned.
"Niko— that's my boy! Haha!"
"I heard Papa!"
From the other room, Anahera came running the moment she heard his laughter. Boris turned just in time to catch her in his arms, lifting her high with a wide smile. He showered her face in kisses, making her giggle uncontrollably as she tried to return the affection, but Boris clearly had the upper hand.
"How was my little angel's day today? Did you have fun at home?" he asked, gently setting her down.
"Papa, Papa! Today Mama taught me a song!"
"Oh really? Then I absolutely must hear it after dinner."
"After dinner? Why not now?" she pleaded, eyes wide and glistening with disappointment.
Boris chuckled and leaned down slightly, opening his coat. "Here, smell Papa's coat first."
Anahera took one cautious sniff—and recoiled dramatically. "Papa smell bad! Go take bath!" she cried, pinching her nose shut.
Boris roared with laughter at her reaction. "Hahaha! Alright, alright. Papa will go now."
He walked toward the hallway, where he found his son standing silently by the door, guilt heavy in his eyes.
"Papa…" Nikolai began, unsure.
"Don't worry, I'm not angry with you." Boris reached out and gently ruffled the boy's hair. "In fact, I'm very proud."
He knelt down, bringing himself face-to-face with his son. "You are a good boy, but more importantly—you're a good brother and I'm glad you stood up for your sister. That's what it means to be family. I'm so proud to have you as my son." Boris then pulled his son to a warm hug, "Promise me you'll always be there to protect her when I can't."
"Don't worry, Papa! I'll never let anyone hurt my dear sister. That's a promise!"
Whatever shame Nikolai had carried throughout the day melted away, replaced with pride and a sense of purpose.
"Well, I can already smell dinner. I'll take a quick bath so we can all eat together."
"Okay, Papa." Nikolai beamed.
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Later that night
Everyone was gathered at the dinner table, enjoying a warm meal. The house rang with laughter as Anahera sang Kalinka—or at least, her unique version of it. Her lyrics barely resembled the original, but no one cared. It was the effort that made it beautiful.
Suddenly—
KNOCK! KNOCK!
A loud, urgent knock echoed from the front door.
"Who on earth would visit us this late?" Boris muttered, rising from his chair.
The knocking came again, louder this time—rhythmic, insistent. It grated on his nerves.
"Blyat... I'm coming, cyka!" he growled, walking to the door.
He unlatched the hook and flung it open. "What do you wa—"
The words died in his throat.
Standing before him were three cloaked figures. Their bodies were shrouded in thick, writhing black mist, like shadows that had taken form. As the mist began to dissipate, it revealed three figures clad in dark robes, their hoods casting their faces in shadow.
The one in the center stepped forward and slowly pulled his hood back.
Boris's face drained of color. His hand gripped the doorframe so tightly, the wood cracked under the pressure.
The man smiled.
"It's been a long time... Brother."
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Author's Notes:
Well, I don't have much to add this time. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I wish you all a very, very belated Happy New Year!
Please consider leaving a comment or review—I'd really appreciate it.
See you all in the next chapter!
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