Jacob’s first life, The First Fall of St. Peter

Huge hordes of monsters had gathered and destroyed St. Peter’s high walls. No one had been able to do anything. Francis and Helena had died, Jacob, their little friend, was missing. Tens of thousands of people who had found refuge in this city were now dead.

Frederick looked from afar at the destruction while clutching his mangled side. He had fought the first horde, thinking that annihilating it would give St. Peter time to evacuate. But it had been wishful thinking.

His heart ached thinking of Helena.

She had been so cold with him after the world had changed. Her talent had not been anything else, and she had fallen behind him, much behind. He was the first warrior of St. Peter, what his father had called the hope of all humanity.

The ex-principal of the Quintus Horatius Flaccus High School was ahead of him, with even more wounds than him across his whole body.

“Freddie, it’s done. The city’s gone!” his father told him.

“We could have tried to fight more, father,” Frederick said.

“And we would have died in it!” his father clutched his stomach and vomited some blood on the ground. Of course, as cultivators, it wasn’t that worrying, but he still went up to his father and kept him standing.

“I don’t think that anyone else managed to escape,” Frederick said in a low tone.

“We did! And that’s what matters! You are too strong to get hung up about one St. Peter. What about the rest of humanity? One day, you will become a huge hero for everyone. Running away one time doesn’t make you a coward, it makes you smart.”

His father had talked him into running away to save their own life. They had both realized that if they had stayed, they would have died. And his father had categorically refused to waste their lives to save a couple of dozens of other people.

Something inside Frederick cracked. His brain was telling him that his father was more than right, but something else was now broken. He felt it deep inside his Qi and Mana as if they had become more sluggish.

“I don’t know,” Frederick muttered while they scuttered away.

There were so many things he would have rather done; just to name one, die by Helena’s side. That would have been good; that would have been proper. But, surviving without Helena, without people to protect, alone, wasn’t something he was looking forward to.

…

He had a portrait of Helena made by an artist that could use your memories and imprint them on a canvas. It had the attributes he remembered her with, a strong sense of justice, stubbornness, and the most beautiful smile he would ever meet.

It reminded him of a different life, a simpler one, during his high school days. When he would only worry about the next training session and how to get Helena to spend some time with him. It had been a simpler time, blessed with ingenuity and plenty of hours to waste reading his favorite books, hidden from his father.

To this day, he still had a stash of books filled with heroes and their grand quests. Of course, they were incredibly cheesy, but they were what kept him going; without the hope of one day being that hero, he was nothing, no one.

And it devastated him.

When he thought of his post-apocalypse experience in St. Peter, he could still remember good things. Not after, though. It had been only miserable after.

He still remembered when one of his classmates had fallen ill from depression and how Helena and her friend Francis had tried to uplift him.

Jacob.

That was his name.

He had spent most of his time training, looking for Ancient Ruins, for artifacts that would make him stronger. Then, when they had found out about Cultivation Techniques, he had started roaming Italy to find the most powerful ones.

And it hadn’t been easy. He had to endure terrible battles and treacherous travel companions who only thought of what they would get.

He had seen so many good people die. And, in general, just too many people die. It wasn’t right to have seen so many deaths. How could a man live like this?

Frederick sighed, thinking back to the days in St. Peter when he was still a child.

He wondered if he would meet them again somehow and have the opportunity to share another life with them one day.

Ah, what a wishful dream.

…

Frederick was alone.

His father had died the day before during a bloody battle with an Asian Sect. He had ended up killing them off, but he did not feel any joy. He tried to cultivate, but he decided to do otherwise a second after.

He remembered his fathers’ words the day that St. Peter had fallen.

And he felt dirty.

Frederick got up and banged a fist against the wall, making the entire building shake.

He knew that his father’s words made perfect sense. But, of course, he knew.

Why get killed when you can become one of humanity's strongest warriors?

But what had he become? He fought more wars with humans than Demonic Beasts, and he had no one he could truly call a friend or a lover.

So, even though his father’s words made sense, was all he should look for in his life sense? His body, too, had told him to survive, and that was the reason why he had caved to his fathers’ words.

One day I will do better than this, I promise.

Frederick had left St. Peter behind, promising himself that he would return there and do the right thing, not the one that made more sense. And he would, one day, keep that promise.