Temple of the Demon Lord of Wishes

The haze lifted slowly, and Ivaim found himself standing in a familiar place bathed in golden light.

The scent of oak and varnish filled the air, wrapping around him like a long-lost embrace.

Sunlight filtered through cracked windows, painting the workshop floor in warm patches where dust motes danced lazily.

He blinked, taking it all in, his chest tightening with nostalgia.

"I'm... back home?"

The thought lingered in his mind, surreal and dreamlike.

Then he saw them—his father and a younger version of himself, barely fifteen, standing side by side at the worn workbench.

The boy's grip on a block of wood was clumsy, frustration written across his face.

"You're rushing it."

His father said sternly, his voice steady but firm. Find your next adventure on My Virtual Library Empire

"Hold it steady, Ivaim. If you rush, the wood splinters."

He lifted a polished piece, its edges smooth and clean.

"See this? Patience makes perfection."

The younger Ivaim scowled, his fingers fumbling with the sandpaper.

"It takes forever. I've been at this for hours."

His father chuckled softly, setting down his own work.

"Hours? You call that long? I spent three days sanding down my first project. And it still had rough spots."

"You're joking..."

The boy muttered skeptically, glancing at his father's confident hands.

"No joke."

His father said with a grin.

"But I kept at it. One careful stroke at a time."

He tapped the wooden block in Ivaim's hand.@@novelbin@@

"What if this one turns out to be your best piece?"

The boy huffed, clearly unconvinced.

"What if it never turns out right?"

His father's expression softened. He wiped his hands on a rag, stepping closer.

"It doesn't have to be perfect, son. You just have to care enough to try. That's what makes it worth something."

The younger Ivaim's scowl wavered.

"Even if no one else cares?"

"Especially then..." His father said quietly.

"That's when it matters most."

Ivaim watched in silence, his throat tightening as he observed this moment frozen in time.

He wanted to step forward, say something—but the scene carried on without him, untouched by his presence.

His father's voice lingered, warm and steady like the hum of the workshop.

"Now, let's see if we can make this piece of wood proud, hmm?"

The boy let out a small, reluctant laugh.

"It's just a block of wood, Dad."

"Ah, but it's your block of wood."

His father grinned.

"That makes all the difference."

The scene played out like a memory etched deep in Ivaim's heart.

He watched silently, rooted to the spot as though afraid even a breath might shatter this fragile moment.

The workshop faded, its golden hues melting into the soft, muted tones of a small kitchen filled with the rich aroma of stewed meat and spices.

The rhythmic clatter of a spoon against a pot echoed through the space.

Steam curled lazily in the warm air as his mother stood by the stove, stirring with practiced ease, her brow serene despite the heavy atmosphere.

At the dining table, his younger self sat slumped forward, face buried in his arms.

"I ruined everything, Mom..."

The boy muttered, voice thick with bitterness.

"I worked so hard to get in... and it wasn't enough?!"

His mother didn't pause, the steady stirring never faltering.

Her voice, gentle but unwavering, broke the tense silence.

"You didn't ruin anything, my boy."

She turned, wiping her hands on a faded kitchen towel before walking over to rest them firmly on the boy's hunched shoulders.

"You hear me? One letter, one failure—it doesn't define you."

The younger Ivaim lifted his head, eyes rimmed red, frustration and sadness tangled together.

"Then what does?"

She knelt slightly, meeting his gaze head-on.

Her smile was soft, tinged with sadness but infinitely kind.

"Finding joy in what you do, even when it hurts. And when you fall? You get back up."

The boy's lips quivered, skepticism clinging stubbornly to his expression.

She squeezed his shoulder gently.

"That's the trick, Ivaim—just keep getting back up. That's all life asks of you."

He blinked, the weight pressing down on his chest lifting ever so slightly, though doubt still lingered.

Turning back to the stove, she cast a teasing glance over her shoulder.

"Besides, if all else fails, I'm always hiring a kitchen assistant. Pays in taste tests and unsolicited advice."

A hesitant, shaky laugh escaped the boy, fragile but genuine.

"That's the worst deal I've ever heard..."

"Oh?" She lifted a spoon, mock-seriousness overtaking her expression.

"I'll have you know this stew alone is worth a fortune."

The boy wiped his sleeve across his eyes, trying and failing to hide a smile.

"Yeah, sure it is, Mom."

"Careful," she warned playfully.

"Keep that attitude up and you'll be eating leftovers for a week."

Despite himself, the younger Ivaim laughed fully this time, the sound raw but healing.

His mother smiled, the warmth of her presence filling the room, stronger than any stew simmering on the stove.

Ivaim stood frozen in silence, watching it all unfold as though he were nothing more than a ghost in his own memories.

He wanted to reach out, to speak—but no words came.

The kitchen slowly faded away, and Ivaim found himself standing at the center of a room filled with the sounds of laughter and conversation.

The scene was strikingly familiar—his 17th birthday party.

His friends crowded around him, talking and laughing like they had so many times before, the atmosphere light and carefree.

Colorful streamers decorated the room, and balloons floated lazily in the air, their soft rustling barely audible over the noise.

Someone pushed a cake toward him, its candles flickering brightly, casting warm shadows on the faces of those around him.

"Make a wish, Ivaim!"

One of his friends called out, grinning wide.

"Yeah, come on! We all want to know what you're wishing for!"

Another teased, nudging him playfully.

The laughter rang in his ears, and Ivaim's lips curled into a genuine smile.

He felt lighter, surrounded by the people he cared about, the people who saw him as the person he wanted to be.

He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the warmth of the moment to wash over him.

The flickering candlelight cast a soft glow on his face as he whispered to himself, a wish more for hope than for anything specific.

"I wish..."

The air shifted suddenly, the sounds of the party seeming to melt away, as if someone had pulled the plug on the joy.

The light dimmed, and the room grew unnervingly quiet.

He opened his eyes just as his younger self, no more than fifteen, looked up from the cake, his face twisted in confusion.

The laughter faded, and a heavy silence filled the room, making Ivaim's chest tighten.

"I wish…"

The younger Ivaim repeated, his voice shaking with an unsettling weight.

He looked directly at Ivaim—no, through him.

His eyes locked onto Ivaim's, and for a moment, it felt as though the world had stopped.

The intensity of that gaze froze everything in its tracks.

The people around them, his friends, were frozen too.

Their smiles stuck in place, their eyes wide but lifeless.

"I wish… I didn't have to sacrifice all of this…"

The words hung in the air like a shadow, suffocating the once joyful atmosphere.

The younger Ivaim's face twisted with an anguish Ivaim had never seen before.

A look of regret, pain, and something darker.

It was as if the very soul of his past was screaming out, trapped in this moment, yearning to escape.

The room began to distort.

The laughter that had once filled the space was now a distant, fading echo.

His friends began to blur, their faces stretched out of focus, as if they were nothing more than shadows, nothing more than fleeting memories.

The air turned cold, and the flickering candle flames seemed to stutter and die in the growing darkness.

Ivaim's heart thudded in his chest.

The younger Ivaim's eyes held his with an almost unnatural stillness.

The tension in the air was suffocating, and despite the boy's age, there was something ancient in his gaze, as if he had lived through countless lifetimes of regret.

Ivaim watched, motionless, unable to speak.

The younger him, still locked in that unsettling gaze, tilted his head slightly to the side, his eyes not just empty but pleading, demanding.

"You never should've made that wish..."