Chapter 155: Big Brother- Real/Fake ?
[Ding~ Analyzing target: Marcus Willson. Cost: 1,000 SP. Confirm?]
My thumb hovered over the ’Yes’ prompt. A thousand SP wasn’t cheap, but the unease coiling in my gut demanded resolution.
"Confirm."
The system screen flickered, lines of data scrolling rapidly. Then, it froze, displaying a result that made my blood run cold.
[Analysis Complete.]
[Subject: Marcus Willson]
[Status: Stable. No external influence detected.]
[Anomaly Detected: Awakened Past Life mories.]
[Subject Classification: Reincarnator (Type: Martial Cultivator - Sword Path)]
[Note: Core personality integrating past life experience. Subject retains current identity and familial bonds, but cognitive and skill fraworks are undergoing significant evolution.]
I stared at the screen, my mind reeling. Reincarnator. Past life mories. A cultivator from a martial arts world.
So, it wasn’t just my imagination. My brother wasn’t possessed.
He was... soone else, fused with the Marcus I thought I knew. He was, technically, the sa person, his soul carrying echoes of another existence, another lifeti of training and combat.
The revelation was staggering, terrifying, and yet... strangely clarifying. It explained the maturity, the skill, the unnerving calm. It explained everything.
My brother was an extra in this world too, just like . But unlike , his ’system’ was the knowledge and experience of a past life.
A complex wave of emotions washed over . Shock. Confusion. A strange kinship. And then, surprisingly... relief.
He still treated like his younger brother. He still showed genuine care for our parents. The core
’Marcus’ was still there, just... layered. Enhanced. Tempered by experiences I couldn’t even begin to imagine.
He wasn’t a threat. In fact... he might be the greatest asset the Willson family had.
Soone strong, mature, and reliable to watch over them when I was away at the Academy, embroiled in my own chaotic plotlines.
I let out a long, slow breath, the tension finally easing from my shoulders.
I wouldn’t confront him. Not now, maybe not ever. His secret was his own, just as mine was mine. We were brothers, bound by blood, walking parallel paths shrouded in secrets.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
I closed the system window, the blue light fading, leaving the room in comfortable darkness. For the first ti since returning ho, I felt a flicker of genuine peace.
My family wasn’t alone. They had Marcus. And Marcus... he wasn’t just my older brother anymore.
He was potentially a hidden blade, a silent guardian forged in another world
I smiled faintly. This hocoming was getting more interesting by the minute.
_______
The peace I’d felt after discovering Marcus’s secret was a fragile thing, like thin ice over deep water. It held through the night, allowing a rare, relatively dreamless sleep, but the morning light brought back the familiar weight of my double life.
Downstairs, the guild hall was already humming with a renewed, albeit cautious, energy. Marcus’s presence seed to have subtly shifted the atmosphere.
He wasn’t barking orders or trying to usurp Dad’s authority, but his quiet competence was undeniable.
I watched him sparring lightly with two junior guild mbers in the small training yard visible from the common hall window.
His movents were fluid, economical, each parry and thrust executed with a precision that made their C-rank opponents look clumsy.
He corrected their stances patiently, his voice calm, offering insights that sounded far more profound than typical C rank training advice.
My father, Darius, watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, a complex mix of pride and perhaps a touch of unease on his face. He saw his son, stronger, more mature.
I saw a cultivator’s soul adapting to a hunter’s world. Our mother, Lilly, brought Marcus a steaming cup of tea, fussing over a barely noticeable scratch on his arm from the spar.
He accepted it with a gentle smile that seed entirely genuine, thanking her in a tone that lacked the slight impatience Michael’s mories associated with the ’old’ Marcus.
He still loves them, I realized with a pang of sothing akin to relief. The past life hadn’t erased the present bonds.
He was different, yes, but he was still family. My decision to keep his secret felt right, solidifying into quiet resolve. Let him walk his path. I have my own battles to fight.
Feeling restless, needing space to process the swirling vortex of guild finances, hidden quests, Academy politics, and now reincarnated brothers, I decided to walk through Selorn City.
It had been years for Samar, and only fragnted mories for Michael. I needed to reacquaint myself with the place that was supposedly my ho.
Selorn wasn’t Arcadia. No towering spires scraped the clouds here. No shimring mana-rails crisscrossed the sky.
The streets were narrower, paved with worn cobblestones, lined with sturdy brick buildings housing workshops, rchant guilds, taverns, and residential apartnts. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the sll of coal, baking bread, and tanned leather.
People bustled – craftsn hauling timber, rchants haggling loudly over crates of fish, children playing tag in alleyways, their laughter echoing off the damp walls. It felt... grounded. Lived-in. A city built by calloused hands rather than grand ambitions.
I walked without a specific destination, letting the original Michael’s mories guide my feet. Past the clanging forge of old Master Borin, whose hamr blows rang with rhythmic certainty.
Past the slightly crooked spire of the Healer’s Guild, its doors constantly swinging open and shut. Past the boisterous market square, where the scent of ripe fruit mingled with the sharp tang of freshly caught seafood.
It was near the fountain in the smaller, quieter Weaver’s District square that I heard my na called.
"Michael? Michael Willson, is that really you?"
I turned. A young woman hurried towards , pushing stray strands of light brown hair from her face.
She was dressed simply, in a practical tunic and trousers, but her eyes – bright, intelligent, and currently wide with surprise – were instantly familiar from the depths of Michael’s mories.
Elina Thorne. Daughter of Master Thorne, the city’s most respected (and only) rune-scribe. Michael’s childhood friend.
The one who used to patch up his scrapes after disastrous training sessions and sneak him extra sweets from her family’s kitchen.
"Elina," I managed, forcing a smile that felt half-borrowed. "It’s... been a while."
She stopped in front of , looking up and down with open curiosity.
"A while? It feels like ages! You look so... different. Taller, definitely. And... serious." She tilted her head.
"The Academy changed you more than I expected."
"Sothing like that," I said vaguely, shifting my weight. Interacting based on mories felt like walking a tightrope.
Say the wrong thing, react the wrong way, and the illusion would shatter.
"How have you been? How’s Master Thorne?"
Her bright expression faltered instantly, clouding over like a sudden storm.
She looked down at the worn satchel clutched in her hands.
"I’ve been... busy. And Father..." Her voice dropped, becoming thick with worry.
"He’s not well, Michael. Not well at all."
My internal alarms went off. This shift was too abrupt, too heavy.
"Not well? What happened? Was it an accident?"
Elina shook her head, her knuckles white where she gripped the satchel strap.
"No, nothing like that. It started subtly, a few months ago. Fatigue, mostly. Then... the tremors began. His hands shake so badly now he can barely hold a carving tool. He gets weaker every day by day. His mana feels... drained. Withered."
She looked up at , her eyes shimring with unshed tears.
"The healers don’t know what it is. They call it ’Mana Withering,’ give him tonics, but nothing helps. He’s just... fading."
Mana Withering.
The na struck like a physical blow. My mind instantly pulled up the ga lore entry, the pixelated image of a rare, corrupted mana crystal, the detailed description of its insidious effects.
Prolonged exposure causes gradual mana depletion, nerve degradation, systemic organ failure... often mistaken for simple exhaustion or aging... fatal if untreated.
And the cure: Sunpetal Dew Elixir.
An obscure, difficult-to-brew potion requiring ingredients found only in specific, often dangerous, C-rank or higher environnts. One of those ingredients, the Sunpetal itself, only blood under specific lunar conditions.
My breath caught in my throat. I knew this. I knew exactly what was wrong, and I knew exactly how to fix it. The knowledge sat heavy in my chest, a burning secret.
"That sounds... serious," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady, masking the turmoil inside.
"Have they tried consulting specialists from the capital?"
Elina gave a small, bitter laugh.
"Specialists cost fortunes, Michael. We’re rune-scribes, not nobles. We barely have enough to keep the workshop running now that Father can’t work."
She looked down again, her shoulders slumping. "I don’t know what to do."
The raw despair in her voice twisted sothing inside . This wasn’t a ga quest; this was real.
A good man was dying, and his daughter was watching helplessly.
I had to help. But how? Revealing my knowledge was impossible.
Claiming I suddenly rembered an ancient cure would raise too many questions. Buying the ingredients openly, even if I found them, would expose my hidden wealth.
(To be continued )
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