I should have worn gloves. Bran heaved another scoop of dirt which was mostly rocks onto the growing pile. I hope you’re worth it Jacob Hammond III. Crickets serenaded him in the chilled spring night air. Pale moonlight lit the long abandoned graveyard. The gravestones jutted up through a shallow fog like crooked teeth. Bran left his flashlight off except to occasionally check the bottom of the hole. From where he stood, it wasn’t grave robbing per se. More like a historical excavation to - honor the memories of the dead. This was important research!

  Temperance Rests graveyard was a long forgotten relic crumbling in obscurity behind Holy Rollers, a less than reputable junk yard. As a kid, Bran had stumbled across it while exploring the small stand of trees. There hadn’t been a burial there for hundreds of years. Sweat stung Bran’s eyes and the freshly turned dirt smelled musty. His shovel hit something that snapped. Trembling, he turned on his flashlight. Among the rocks and dirt he could see his shovel wedged between several weathered and brittle rib bones.

  “Crosses.” He breathed.

  This was the moment he had been hoping for. Secretly a small part of him wished that he had found nothing. A much larger and more insistent part burned with curiosity. With a quick glance around he reached down and hesitantly touched the unearthed bone. Predictably the green energy and snapshots of memory rushed from the corpse towards him. Bran focused on finding a memory that would be useful to him. A particular scene called to him and he dove in.

  Everything smelled of pig manure. Bran rested his arms on the recently repaired wooden fence. Several sows mucked about in the pen. There would be a litter of piglets soon. His pork empire was well on its way.

  “Jacob! Dinner’s ready!” His widowed mother called.

  “Aye! Hope it’s somethin’ tasty!” He called. Bran’s conscious identity coalesced. Instead of fighting the memory, this time he chose to go with the flow. Whew, that smell is so strong! Jacob meandered, as only a farmer can, towards the house and hot grubb.

  The homestead was built of roughly sawed logs. Several oil lamps and a glowing fireplace lit the dim interior. Though remarkably clean, the house smelled of smoke, sweat, and pigs. The family sat around a well-built table, eating a simple stew of meat and root vegetables.

  “The preacher came by again today.” His mother mentioned, dishing out steaming salt pork and turnips. “Says there is a holy revolution brewing. That Jesus is gonna lead his army to take over the capitol.”

  “That’s stoopid.” Jacob’s younger brother said, his mouth full of turnips.

  “Watch yerself young man! And swallow your food before you share an ‘pinion.” Jacob’s mother snapped.

  “I don’t much care for his meddling in our business mum.” Jacob said. “Ain’t none of us want to join his war.”

  “I think it’s ‘bout time someone fought evil in this country.” Jacob’s sister and twin said. “The Bible says God doesn't abide an evil country. Sandy said there is a new gambling hall in town.”

  “And a witch lives under the bridge!” Jacob’s brother added helpfully. Jacob stared at both of them blankly.

  “That’s a worry for people that don’t have hard work to do,” Jacob said. “Mother, next time the preacher stops in, tell him we ain’t having a part of his revolution.

  Bran wondered what the year was. He searched the room for a calendar, but only handmade cross-stitch art embroidered on scraps of fabric decorated the walls. There didn’t seem to be anything useful about this memory. Pig farming was not appealing. Maybe he could direct the memory somehow. He focused his thoughts on his goal. Find a useful power.

  As he concentrated his perception expanded out from himself and the structure of the memory itself solidified. Swirling blue eddies of time meandered through the space around him like neurons pulsing with momentum. As the blue tendrils of time flowed around the souls of the people in the room their existence merged with time. Causation, correlation and chaos all blended together in a vibrant symphony of experience. As time was transformed by living souls it took on a green hue. It became more. It was alive.

  Inspiration struck Bran. The truth shone clear as a bright blue sky, memory doesn’t fade when the brain ceases to function. Memories are written into the fabric of the universe itself, forever changing reality. Bran now knew instinctively that his soul was able to sense these changes and alter the memory’s structure. An awareness awakened in Bran to a reservoir of energy nestled in the core of his soul. The energy roiled like slowly boiling honey. Need overrode caution and Bran tried to manipulate the energy with his thoughts. As his awareness seeped into the reservoir the energy reacted to him. It seemed eager to obey his commands. Again Bran focused; Find a useful power. After a moment of uncertainty, the energy left his soul through the brand on his arm in a rush of billowing green smoke. A faint green glow outlined every object as time sped up. At triple the normal pace, Jacob shot out the cabin for nightly chores. Motion sickness assaulted Bran as his human soul-car sped about the farm. Panicking, he released his mental hold on the energy and time slowed to its usual pace during a moment when Jacob was asleep for the night.

  Woah, now that’s crazy and interesting. Manipulation of the memory caused his energy to drain faster. Likewise speeding up time felt like lifting a heavy weight. Curious, he tried to stop the flow of time. Energy flowed from him but it felt like an immovable weight blocked him. Testing the bounds he attempted to reverse time instead. He failed again. Guess pausing or going back isn’t an option.

  After some testing, Bran found that if he separated his soul from Jacob's, in his now patented ghost-head-hat form, the sped up motion was tolerable if at an increased loss of energy. He noticed there were gaps in time. If Jacob Hammond III didn't remember it happening, then it didn't exist here. Different memories were filled with inconsistencies. The placement of objects jumped about, the colors of clothes and ages of people changed to match Jacob’s own internal timeline.

  After skipping through approximately a month’s worth of memories Bran estimated that a third of his reserves remained. Bran decided that Jacob's life was very ordinary. Jacob’s boon was the ability to easily tame and train animals. Even a grumpy wild badger named Frank. Jacob remembered doing the same things from day to day. Raising pigs, general farm upkeep, fishing, teaching his siblings In place of a father. Birthing piglets had been a very notable event. The ambient lighting in the memory brightened as Jacob's excitement rose. Bran, however, was thoroughly disgusted. He sped through that part.

  Just before Bran’s energy reserves ran out, the color drained from the surroundings. Pressure pushed down on Bran’s soul. He felt dread rise. Some memories were best forgotten. Jacob rose to work like any normal day. He smelled the smoke before he saw it. It rose above the trees from the neighbors homestead a mile to the south. At the same moment A small soot-covered girl stumbled out of the woods.

  “They burned our house!” She cried hoarsely. “They took momma and poppa!”

  That doesn’t sound good.

  Jacob shouted for his brother to take the girl into the house. He dashed to grab his father's old war sword from the mantle.

  Bran could hear voices yelling as Jacob dashed through the woods. They broke through the tree line to see the cabin consumed by fire. A group of men carrying weapons surrounded it, jeering and laughing.

  “Death to the pagans!”

  “This is God's country!”

  “Stop this!” Jacob said. Trembling with fear and rage he drew his father's sword.

  The men turned towards Jacob, surprised, and Bran recognized a face. The preacher. Bran rolled his metaphysical eyes. Yeah I saw that one coming. The more things change over time the more they stay the same.

  “This madness!? This is your great revolution!?” Jacob asked.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The preacher stood up straighter and set his jaw. “Aye my lad tis! The unholy mind readers must be purged. Then God will bless this land! Jacob, you are a man of God! You should join us in destroying these sinners!”

  Jacob realized there was muffled yelling from inside the burning cabin.

  “You bastards!” Jacob barreled through the closest thugs as they dodged his wild sword swings. Continuing his charge Jacob smashed the cabin door inward in a wash of searing flames.

  The couple were tied to chairs. His neighbor and friend, Mr. Milland, was unconscious. His wife screamed through a gag. Hissing with pain Jacob seized the chairs dropping his sword. A moment later he collapsed coughing outside the cabin. Mrs. Milland screamed again.

  “Mr. Hammond, you foolishly aided an enemy of the revolution. I reckon that makes you a traitor.” The Pastor said leaning over Jacob’s prone form. “Pity, I hoped you would see the light of God.”

  The Pastor brought a club down on Jacob's head.

  Snap!

  Bran held the side of his head. Damn the hells that hurt. The pain quickly faded as his own body was perfectly fine. He swooned as his legs gave out in exhaustion. Well mostly fine anyway. He had learned a lot but his reserve of energy was completely spent. Physical changes coursed throughout his body. Words of smoke poured from the brand on his wrist.

  Necro Drift complete.

  Memories harvested: 3

  No power harvested. A random power has been assigned.

  You have greatly increased tolerance for pain.

  He had been so caught up in the events of the memory that he had completely forgotten to try to harvest a power! Well pain tolerance wasn't a bad thing. However, his grand plan to Corpse Drift several times that night was ruined. His energy was tapped and recharging at a snail's pace. Damn. I don’t remember learning about holy people starting a revolution in history class. That was an awful ending. Jacob was a hero and got killed for it. That was stupid. He had a family to take care of. I don’t know if I could throw myself into a sacrifice like that. Moreover, experiencing someone else's death was not something he wanted to make a habit of.

  Exhausted Bran filled in the hole he had dug and trudged home. After a long shower he collapsed into bed and closed his eyes for what felt like two minutes.

  “Rise and shine for the glory of God righteous Citizen!” His Mobile Tome blared.

  “Shut up stupid book” He mumbled.

  He sat up and stretched. Considering he had dug a hole for three hours last night he was surprised that he wasn't sore. One time last summer, his grandfather made him pull weeds for an afternoon. The next day Bran could barely move his arms. Athlete, he was not. Increased pain resistance. Nice.

  He summoned his status. Ethereal words of smoke materialized before him.

  Necro Drifter - Level 1

  Curse Power: Corpse Drift - Weak

  -Touch a corpse and drift through its memories to harvest power.

  Curse Skill: Memory Manipulation - weak

  -You have the ability to affect the fabric of memories by bending them to your will. The greater the effect the greater the energy cost. Additional manipulation abilities unlocked at higher skill levels.

  Memories harvested: 3

  Harvest growth: Your sense of smell is enhanced to smell feline enemies at a distance. You have six toes. You have greatly increased tolerance for pain.

  Beware, a level increase is available. Will you pay the cost?

  YES / NO

  The new skill was surprising, but also made sense. His inspiration about the nature of memory must have been caused by unlocking Memory Manipulation. As for the last section. Beware? What?! Can you get any more vague? Oh ho, I am the mighty curse power that has ruined your life! Will you gamble an unknown cost for an unknown level upgrade? Go blaspheme yourself.

  Bran left for school in a worse mood than usual. Haven’t I paid enough already? It’s almost like whoever made this power has it out for me. That day he managed to avoid Clyde until mandatory afternoon prayer time. During this period students were allowed to pray wherever they wished on campus. The devoted students tended to pray together in groups. The rest of them were free to wander about “praying”. Bran was caught on his way down the hall towards the chapel.

  “Well hello boonless.” Clyde’s mocking voice whispered. His iron hand grasped Bran’s neck. Bran stiffened with fear, but remained silent. Maybe if I just shut up they will give up sooner.

  “Let's pray together.” Clyde said.

  His gang snickered as they led Bran into an unoccupied maintenance office. Before the door shut Clyde shoved Bran against a filing cabinet. Bran felt his teeth cut into the inside of his lips as his mouth struck the cold metal. The tang of blood filled his mouth.

  I bleed almost every day now. He thought.

  “Let's see, what should we pray to God for today?” Clyde said. “Oh I know. I pray that this filthy pagan shall receive punishment for his blasphemy.”

  He leaned down to look Bran in the eyes.

  “Do you think God will answer Pag?”

  He slapped Bran across the face. Blood streaked from his mouth across the dirty carpet.

  “Look at that. I guess he listened to me.”

  They punched and kicked Bran. Laughing as he curled into a ball to protect himself. He thought of Jacob. He thought of The man that the Seraph Saint had speared through the chest. They had resisted God. For what? To die heroes? Bran wasn’t a hero. He wasn't worth fighting for, not anymore.

  What if?

  That small thought flicked desperately in his psyche. Between punches and insults. One thought was all that remained of his capacity to hope, to have faith. It spread like venom until there was nothing left in his mind. What if? What if his life didn't have to be this way? What if he had the power to change?

  Bran opened his clenched eyes. The bullies looked surprised and stopped hitting him.

  “Hey the Pag is staring me down! You wanna fight?”

  “Clyde the boonless has a death wish!”

  Bran painfully used the nearby desk to lift himself to standing.

  Bran summoned his curse:

  Beware, a level increase is available. Will you pay the cost?

  YES / NO

  Without hesitation he selected YES.

  New skill activated: Necro Siphon - Weak

  - the cost must be paid. In blood.

  “This has been a long time coming.” Bran growled. Holding up two fists. His eyes flashed green and smoke streamed from his skull crest as it bathed the small room in a sickly green light.

  “We must have hit your head too hard, Killinger. Put those fists down and take your beating like a good little boy.” Clyde said, poking a finger into Bran’s chest for emphasis.

  “Don't touch me!” Bran screamed and threw a wild punch, feeling his fist connect with Clyde's smug face. Green energy siphoned from Clyde's flattening nose and coiled down Bran's arm like a serpent. The energy absorbed into his arm and a pulse of strength coursed through his arm muscles and filled his internal energy reservoir to overflowing. That feels amazing! Buzzing with energy and brimming with pent up rage, Bran punched Clyde's stupid arrogant face again. His arm pistoned so fast that Cylde didn't have time to react. Bap bap bap! Three jabs to the nose.

  Clyde fell to the ground, his nose bleeding profusely.

  “Kill him!” Clyde wailed.

  The other four hooligans rushed Bran and tackled him to the floor. But Bran was possessed by more siphoning energy, and he fought dirty. He nearly bit off the largest boy’s ear, then kneed another in the groin. Rising into a feral crouch and smiling with bloody teeth, Bran said, “not so much fun when the Pag fights back, eh?” He stomped on a third boy’s knee. The longer the fight lasted the more his siphon skill drained his opponents' stamina. Sensing the shift in power the fourth assailant wisely ran for the door leaving Clyde defenseless in the corner of the room. Bran charged Clyde and gripped his throat with a single hand pinning him to the wall. More of Clyde’s soul energy flowed into him. Clyde began to go pale and flailed ineffectually as Bran choked him.

  “Three months,” Bran hissed, “you've made my life hell.” Bran laughed wildly drunk on power and squeezed Clyde’s throat tighter. With an audible “POP!” Something in Clyde's neck snapped. Clyde's body shuddered for a moment and then he went limp. Blood trickled from the corner of Clyde’s mouth as bulging eyes lost their light. Bran released his grip and Clyde slumped to the floor.

  The boy whose ear Bran had aggressively bit down on stumbled over pushing Bran out of the way. “CLYDE!” He knelt down next to Clyde’s motionless form and felt for a pulse. He whirled on Bran, “YOU! KILLINGER– WHAT DID YOU D—”

  Green energy exploded outward from Clyde's body and crashed into Bran’s chest. Realization pierced him like a jagged ice shard to the heart. A memory drift had begun. Stumbling back, Bran tried to resist the energy, willing it to stop. He hadn't wanted this! But the memory ensnared him, forcing his soul to enter. With horror Bran realized the truth; this was the cost–to drift the final memories his victim re-lived as they died.

  It was Bran’s seventh birthday party. No other children had come this year. Again.