Chapter 41: A New Name, A Lighter Self
First Person – Oliver Woods
I woke up slowly.
Soft light crept through the curtains, a warm pink hue glowing against the blue walls. For a moment, I forgot where I was. My brain still had that weird half-dream haze, expecting the heavy ceiling fan above my old bedroom, the cold AC hum, the unfinished plate of microwaved garbage on my nightstand.
But that wasn't here.
This room was… clean. Big. Mine.
I sat up in bed.
No creaking. No groaning. No struggling just to breathe.
And that's when it hit me again.
There was no weight pulling me down. No pressure in my chest, no pain in my knees, no aching back from a body I let rot for years.
> I feel... free.
I swung my legs out of bed. Light. Fast. Like I could jump ten feet and still stick the landing.
Then I remembered something else.
My name.
> Oliver Reed.
Except… not anymore.
I blinked, staring at my little hands.
No. That name's already fading.
It's Oliver Woods now.
Like Liam Woods.
Martha Woods.
Lyra Woods.
This isn't just some borrowed life anymore—I've been folded into it. Adopted? Technically, yeah. But in this world, no one sees me as some random kid who showed up out of nowhere.
I'm part of the family.
I'm their son.
> It feels strange to let go of "Reed."
That name was mine through all the hard years. All the mistakes.
But maybe... that name belonged to someone who already finished his story.
And this new one?
Oliver Woods…
He's just getting started.
I hopped off the bed and stood on the floor like a brand-new person. My bare feet barely made a sound.
> No restraints. No limits. No gravity dragging me down.
Just freedom.
And a world full of possibilities.
[Third Person view narrative]
Third-Person Narrative:
The morning light slipped gently through the window blinds, casting golden stripes across the blue-painted walls. Oliver stirred beneath the covers, his small hands clutching the soft fabric as his eyes blinked open. For a moment, he lay still, caught between the remnants of dream and the quiet reality of his new life.
Then it hit him—again.
He was no longer Oliver Reed, the 28-year-old man burdened by the weight of his own body and a life that never quite moved forward. That name, that version of himself, had been washed away with the Primordial Sea. Now, in every sense that mattered here, he was Oliver Woods. The name echoed through the house: Liam Woods. Martha Woods. Lyra Woods. And now... Oliver Woods.
He sat up slowly, surprised once more by how light he felt. The crushing gravitational pull that once haunted every step, every breath, was gone. There was no pain in his knees, no shortness of breath. His limbs were small, nimble, and unburdened. It felt... unnatural—and yet completely liberating.
He swung his legs off the bed, the soft carpet brushing against his bare feet. His heart beat quietly in his chest, not from exertion, but from the strange mixture of peace and confusion that lingered in him.
"I feel... free," Oliver whispered to no one, eyes scanning the unfamiliar room. Free—but to do what? To be who?
He didn't know the answer yet.
But the day had begun—and so had the rest of his life.
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Chapter 42: Morning Silence
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver hopped off the bed, landing lightly on the polished floor.
No loud thud. No wheezing breath. No joints cracking like dry branches.
Just… movement. Smooth and clean.
His small frame carried him forward with surprising ease, like the world had finally loosened its grip on him.
Still in his pajamas—a loose navy-blue shirt and soft black shorts—he wandered quietly down the stairs, one step at a time, his little hands brushing the wooden banister.
Each step felt like a relive.
A moment untangled from gravity, from despair, from heaviness both physical and emotional.
---
At the bottom, the house opened up in full clarity.
There she was—Lyra Woods—curled up on the living room rug with her hair tied in a sharp red bun, pieces of a complex multi-colored puzzle scattered around her. She leaned forward, laser-focused, rotating one piece in her fingers like it was a priceless artifact.
She didn't even look up when Oliver entered.
Not a glance. Not a word. Just quiet concentration and occasional frustrated mutters as she struggled with oddly shaped pieces that refused to fit.
Typical Lyra.
The golden dog—now clearly a household guardian—was sprawled across the white marble floor of the kitchen, completely slumped, eyes half-closed in an eternal state of dogged peace. Occasionally its tail flicked once, then fell still again.
Oliver stood there for a moment, soaking it in.
The kitchen was sleek and modern—cabinets with chrome handles, an open hanging rack of cast iron pans, marble counters that shimmered under sunlight pouring through large windows. A faint scent of fresh bread or fruit lingered in the air.
This… didn't feel like the start of some grand RPG.
No swords. No dramatic music. No quests.
> It felt like home.
And as Oliver stood barefoot in the hallway, watching it all like a quiet observer of someone else's life, he realized something:
> He didn't miss the old world.
Not right now.
Not this morning.
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First-Person View:
I hopped out of bed, my small feet hitting the floor with a light thump. The feeling still hadn't worn off—this weightlessness, this strange freedom in my own body. No aching knees, no sluggish movement. Just... me, light as air, in a child's frame.
I walked downstairs in my pajamas, the hallway quiet except for the soft creaks beneath my feet. It felt like reliving something I never actually lived. Like déjà vu from someone else's life.
When I reached the bottom, I saw her—Lyra.
Her red hair was tied up in a messy bun, a few strands falling over her focused face as she hunched over a complex puzzle spread across the coffee table. The girl didn't even glance my way. Not even a "good morning." She was completely immersed.
I wandered into the kitchen, eyes sweeping across the space. It was surprisingly modern and clean—white marble counters, polished cabinets, a soft scent of toast lingering in the air. A large dog—some kind of white retriever—was sprawled out lazily on the cool kitchen floor, tail twitching slightly in its sleep.
I stood there for a moment, soaking it all in. The soft light. The sounds. The distant hum of a fridge.
This was real.
And despite the tight knot of nervousness curling in my stomach... it was kind of exciting.
This is my new life now.
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Third-Person View of Oliver's Inner Feelings:
As Oliver stood silently in the kitchen, the marble floor cool beneath his feet and the morning light gently flooding in, a storm of emotion stirred beneath his calm exterior.
There was a new kind of excitement pulsing in his chest—quiet but undeniable. The thrill of a fresh start, a clean slate, a chance to be someone entirely different in a world that had yet to fully reveal itself. He was no longer shackled by the past version of himself, the one weighed down by regret, self-loathing, and inertia. Here, in this unfamiliar home with a new name and family, he could be more.
But that excitement came with a shadow.
Nervousness crept in like a whisper at the edge of his thoughts. Everything was new. Everything was fragile. He didn't know the rules of this world or the expectations placed upon him. Every movement, every word, every silence could mean something more. What if he messed it up? What if they noticed he wasn't quite the child they thought he was?
Uncertainty wrapped itself around him like a mist. Who was he supposed to be now? What did the Black Tortoise expect of him? What role was he meant to play in this life? There were no answers—only vague impressions and a looming sense that something much bigger was at play.
And yet... deep within, past the fear and confusion, was potential. Raw, glowing potential. The chance to rebuild—not just himself, but everything he thought he lost. He had been given something people only dreamed of: a second life.
And he knew one thing with absolute clarity.
He couldn't screw this up.
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Chapter 43: Pinwheel
Third Person – Narrative View
The soft hum of the house was interrupted by a flicker of light and sound.
The flat screen television mounted on the wall buzzed gently to life, casting a warm glow across the living room. A chime played—gentle, airy, whimsical—and the screen displayed a cheerful, colorful logo:
> [PINWHEEL]
"Your World of Wonder!"
The background burst into bright watercolor hues—lavenders, mint greens, oranges, and sky blues—blending together like a children's book come to life. The animation was smooth, painterly, hand-drawn, with soft lines and an intentional rhythm that pulsed with comfort.
Onscreen, a group of odd animal-like characters bounced and spun across a flower-speckled hill. They were like nothing Oliver had ever seen back on Earth—furry, colorful, with gentle oval eyes and stubby limbs. The closest comparison he could make was a fuzzy armadillo without the shell, covered instead in layers of patterned fur that rippled with each movement.
One of them let out a bubbly squeak, its tail spiraling upward like a cinnamon roll.
Oliver blinked slowly, trying to process it.
> "What the... is this like... a kid's show?"
Before he could say anything, a loud voice rang out from across the room:
> "PINWHEEL!!"
It was Lyra, suddenly very alive and expressive, pointing dramatically at the TV like it had just summoned joy from the heavens.
She scrambled onto the couch, practically diving into the cushions, puzzle pieces forgotten on the floor. Her red bun wobbled slightly with the motion, and her freckles seemed to brighten as she grinned wide.
> "They're showing a new one! The one with the Wigglenut Clan!"
Oliver stayed near the kitchen entrance, half-hidden behind the doorway, watching.
It was strange… not in a bad way.
Strange because it felt normal.
The kind of morning kids in this world probably looked forward to.
A goofy cartoon. A sister yelling at the screen. A dog sleeping nearby.
No chaos. No scrolling doom. No half-hearted hot pockets.
> Just life. Ordinary and peaceful.
And for the first time, Oliver didn't feel like he had to "figure everything out."
For a few moments, he could just stand there.
And watch the Wigglenut Clan bounce across fields of pastel grass as cheerful music played on.
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Third-Person Narrative:
Oliver leaned slightly over the arm of the couch, quietly watching Lyra from behind. She sat cross-legged on the floor, her eyes glued to the television as a brightly colored cartoon played across the screen. Some loud, energetic show called The Wigglenut Clan on something called the PINWHEEL Network. Talking animals, chaotic songs, and slapstick humor—it was overwhelming, but Lyra was locked in, completely unfazed by its nonsense.
Turning his gaze away, Oliver's eyes drifted toward the nearby glass coffee table. Neatly stacked beneath it were several thick, hardcover books. He knelt down and began to examine them, running his fingers along their spines.
"The Tree That Stole Time?"
He tilted his head. What kind of title was that?
"The Boy That Caught the Rain."
Poetic. Maybe a fantasy? Or some strange allegory?
"The Cup That Travels Throughout the Sea."
He raised an eyebrow. A sentient teacup going on a nautical adventure?
And finally—
"The Legends of the Mythical Beast Tale."
That one sounded more straightforward. Maybe.
Each book was long, far thicker than he expected for something sitting in a family room where a nine-year-old girl watched cartoon animals yell at each other. Curious, he flipped one open.
The pages inside weren't just filled with text—they were color-coded. Each chapter had its own border tone: blue, gold, crimson, violet... He flipped further—some even had sketched illustrations woven into the margins, almost like a blend between a novel and a child's storybook, but still detailed and dense.
Such very long novels... Who even reads all of this? he wondered, half impressed, half baffled. He glanced up at Lyra again. She hadn't even blinked in his direction.
Oliver sat back, holding the book in his small hands. The world was different—its people, its habits, even its entertainment. But somewhere between the chaos of cartoons and these mysterious color-coded epics, he felt a pull—toward something bigger, something waiting.
He didn't quite understand it yet.
But he knew this world was built for more than just reruns and puzzles.
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Chapter 44: First Contact
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver gently set the stack of books down on the side table—strange novels of this world, filled with odd lettering, distant kingdoms, and terms he barely understood. He had tried reading them, tried piecing together the new language and world… but his mind wandered.
Instead, his eyes drifted to the kitchen.
To the dog.
It lay sprawled across the cool white marble, a massive golden-furred creature, easily as long as a loveseat. Its coat shimmered slightly in the morning light, not like glitter, but like refined silk, each strand catching light in a lazy ripple. It didn't pant or twitch or bark—it simply rested, regal and unmoving.
Oliver stood quietly for a moment.
He took a breath.
Back on Earth, he was never really… a dog person.
Not because he hated them. Just—he wasn't used to them. The barking, the jumping, the licking—it always put him on edge. He preferred keeping his distance.
But this one?
There was something different about it.
Elegant. Quiet. Still.
Like a retired guardian more than a pet.
Oliver slowly stepped forward, his small child-sized feet making the faintest sound on the polished floor.
The golden dog stirred.
One of its large, floppy ears flicked up slightly.
Its glowing amber eye cracked open, watching Oliver carefully but without aggression.
Not a growl. Not a bark. Just… awareness.
Oliver stopped.
He glanced around, unsure. Nervous tension pricked his fingertips. His instincts told him to retreat, to go back to the books, to do anything else.
But he didn't.
> He reached out.
His hand hovered over the shimmering golden fur. A breath caught in his throat. Then—
He touched it.
The fur was warm.
Soft. Alive.
It wasn't like petting a normal dog—it felt more like touching living light, thick with warmth and weight and presence.
The dog didn't move.
Didn't react.
Just watched him, one glowing eye half-lidded with the patience of a being that had seen far too many lifetimes to be startled by a boy's touch.
Oliver let out a shaky exhale.
> It was okay.
For a moment, he felt like he was being acknowledged.
Not feared. Not rejected. Not judged.
Just… seen.
And accepted.
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Third-Person Narrative:
Oliver gave the tired golden dog one last gentle pat on its warm side before rising to his feet. The dog barely reacted, save for a slow thump of its tail against the marble floor—too comfortable in its kitchen slumber to care.
With quiet footsteps, Oliver stepped away, curiosity beginning to tug at him. The house felt massive now. What once would've been a modest two-story home for a grown man now stretched before him like a grand estate—walls taller, doorways wider, and furniture looming like gentle giants. Being in the body of a six-year-old had shifted his entire perspective.
He wandered through the halls, each turn a new little adventure.
First, he peeked into what looked like a study—shelves full of worn books, a desk cluttered with notes and something glowing softly beneath a dome of glass. He didn't enter, just watched from the doorway, filing it away in his mind as a place worth coming back to.
Down the hall, another room revealed itself—Lyra's bedroom. Bright and messy. Stuffed animals piled in one corner, stickers covering her desk drawers, and a constellation chart taped crookedly above her bed. A pink scarf hung from a ceiling fan, spinning lazily. He smirked faintly but didn't linger.
He kept moving, his hand brushing along the walls, feeling the textures of his new home. Another room—storage. Another—guest room. Another—laundry.
Each room he entered gave him a small glimpse of the life the Woods family lived. It was quiet. Lived-in. Normal.
And yet, as Oliver stood in a hallway lined with family photos—some old, some recent, some now including him—he felt that familiar swell of emotion rise again.
Nervousness. Excitement.
Uncertainty… and potential.
This house wasn't just a place.
It was the beginning of something far greater.
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Third-Person Narrative:
Oliver made his way back into the living room, his small feet padding softly against the wooden floor. The chaotic noise of The Wigglenut Clan had faded into commercial jingles, and Lyra now sat turned away from the television, crouched beside a potted plant near the window.
He didn't think much of it—until the leaves twitched.
Then, right before his eyes, the plant began to grow. Just a little. Its stem straightened, its leaves unfurled wider, glossier. A faint shimmer—like morning dew under sunlight—danced over its surface.
Oliver flinched, startled by the sudden motion. Something about it tugged at him—not fear, but recognition. The air around Lyra tingled faintly, like static.
She turned and caught his reaction. "Scaredy-cat," she said with a grin, then stuck out her tongue. With a playful flick of her fingers, she summoned something else—her palms gathering condensation, light swirling around her hands.
A small orb of water formed above her open palm. It spun slowly, perfectly spherical, glimmering like liquid crystal in the filtered light of the room.
Oliver's eyes widened.
That movement… that spiral… the shape—it was familiar.
His mind was pulled back—yesterday, or what he could only assume was yesterday—in the celestial realm above, where time meant little. He remembered it clearly: the Black Tortoise, serene and vast, standing in the North Celestial Palace. The jade staff raised, the calm ball of spiraling water forming in the air, delicate and focused… and then—release.
An entire ocean had surged forth from that one simple sphere, roaring with divine energy, crashing down upon him like a celestial judgment.
Now, here in the living room of a quiet house, a child no older than nine conjured something eerily similar—on a much smaller scale, of course, but unmistakable in its form.
Lyra laughed again, spinning the water playfully between her fingers before letting it dissolve into mist.
Oliver stared at her—less afraid now, more… curious.
There was more to this family than he'd realized.
And perhaps—there was more to him too.