Darkness.
There was no color here, no depth. In truth, there was nothing at all, only an even blackness.
My consciousness drifted on its own, finding no anchor. Only the faint trembling of a thought remained, barely holding itself within the edge of awareness. I tried to find something—fingers, breath, any resistance at all. But there was nothing. Even my own thoughts unraveled the moment I touched them.
Then, somewhere at the edge, lights flickered, followed by sound, flashes, voices—brief and chaotic. But whose? I didn't know.
In one of them there was a room. In another the glow of a monitor. None of the memories held, they slid away, refusing to give me footing. As if someone were showing me disconnected frames from a film.
The word film surfaced suddenly. It was familiar, but what was it? Memory didn't respond.
A moment—and everything vanished. After that, the void trembled.
At first it was a light jolt, then an actual movement. Something was pulling from within, directionless and source-less.
I didn't feel a body, but I knew—I was being sucked in.
Space folded in, dragging me deeper. A thought tried to hold on, but failed. Darkness closed around me and drew me downward. Everything sped up. I couldn't see, but I felt the dull, even pressure, as if space itself had tightened around me.
And then—
A sharp inhale.
The first real, conscious breath. My lungs filled, my chest tightened, my arms twitched and didn't obey. My arms…
What's with my arms?
They were tiny. My fingers barely moved, like those of a paralyzed person.
My chest seized, and I rasped out a weak, helpless sound. My body trembled, and I couldn't move my fingers. The light bleeding through my eyelids was too bright. The sounds around me grew clearer.
No, no, no… is this a nightmare? I can't…
My eyes flew open. I saw a face—a woman with golden hair. She was saying something, but the words blended into a single indistinct flow.
And then it all went dark again.
***
The next time I woke, it was quieter. Calmer.
I didn't try to move. Just lay still, soaking in everything I could—sounds, smells, sensations. The sheets were soft. The air was warm. Someone was holding me, rocking me gently. The voices were clearer now. I still didn't understand the words, but I could hear the rhythm, the way sentences stretched and softened at the edges.
I'm a child.
The thought sparked like a live wire—then crashed back into me like a wave.
No. That's not me.
My body was supposed to be different. Stronger. More controlled. Bigger. But even the act of trying to clench my fingers made my hands tremble. Everything around me was too large. The world no longer fit me—I was tiny inside it, a speck.
I've been born again.
Laughter and fear rose together. But outwardly, I stayed still. I couldn't even breathe properly, let alone act on any of it.
***
Days passed. Weeks. Months. I drifted in and out of sleep. Time crawled. But with each waking moment, my mind sharpened—clearer, steadier.
At first, it was all a blur. Memories of my previous life came in fragments, like echoes from a fading dream. I didn't know who I was. I didn't understand what was happening. It felt like I was being reborn into awareness, while my body lagged behind—foreign, weak, useless.
By the time I was a year old, I understood my name was Rudeus. That I had a mother—Zenith, a father—Paul, and a woman who was always nearby—Lilia. Their faces became familiar. Their voices no longer just noise. The language that had once been static fuzz started taking shape. Words turned into meaning. Phrases made sense. I hadn't studied it—it just… came. First simple words. Then full sentences. Then the strange realization that I understood everything they said.
By age two, I could follow conversations. I knew what my parents were talking about, could read their moods, catch their intent.
The house was warm. Warm with hands, with voices, with the smell of food. I saw Zenith's smile, felt Paul's arms lift me, watched Lilia tuck me into bed.
But it all felt distant. Like watching a movie about someone else's happy family. Not mine.
By three, I knew the symbols meant something.
And one day—I realized I could read out loud.
"Rudy, what are you mumbling?" Zenith asked, surprised by the sound of my voice.
"Just… reading."
It took a moment to hit me.
I shouldn't be able to do that.
It was strange. I hadn't tried to learn. I'd just watched them read me stories, looked at the letters, and… understood. As if my brain was piecing the language together on its own. Like I already knew it—just needed to remember.
That scared me. It wasn't normal.
It was unsettling.
I'd been stupid in my past life. Where was this coming from now? Or… maybe I hadn't been?
Sometimes, just before sleep, images crept in. Vivid. Disjointed.
— A flickering screen. Fingers tapping across a keyboard.
— Voices behind a door. Distant, familiar.
— Headlights. Blinding. Water underfoot.
I'd sink into them, adrift in half-formed memories. I remembered humiliation. Anger. Pain. I remembered hating my life. But not why. It was like watching someone else's misery through frosted glass.
Was I always like that? Had I once been a kid who laughed at dumb things, who dreamed, who wanted to be better? Or was I born broken?
I didn't know.
Sometimes I felt like I was two people at once. On the outside, I was Rudeus—a baby, a child, growing up in a warm, caring family. But deep in the shadows of my mind, the other version of me lingered. A coward. A loser. Someone who dreaded every morning like it was a curse. I wanted to believe this life could be different—but the fear stuck. Like old scars under new skin.
Over time, it stopped bothering me as much. I chose not to dwell on it. I had a second chance. A clean slate. And I wasn't about to waste it looking backward.
***
I was sitting on the floor, idly rolling a wooden block between my hands while Lilia cleaned the room in near silence.
Outside, the sun poured through the curtains. The air smelled faintly of something sweet—maybe baked goods, maybe flowers. Calm. Ordinary. Familiar.
Then something unusual happened.
Zenith walked over to the table, picked up an empty cup, and muttered something under her breath.
A language I didn't recognize.
It sounded… strange. Guttural. Odd rhythm. Nothing like the words I'd been learning.
And then, water appeared inside the cup. Instantly. As if it had poured from nowhere, filling it to the brim.
My hands gripped the edge of the table. My heart started pounding.
What the hell was that?
I looked at Zenith again. She didn't even react.
As if it were nothing. As if that's just how things worked.
Magic. I'd only ever seen it in games, movies, books. There, it was rare—something for the chosen few.
But here…
I stared at my hands.
Could I do that too?
A strange rush hit me—part fear, part thrill.
If magic was real—actually real—then this world wasn't the one I came from. Not even close.
***
The house buzzed with voices, light, life. A glowing orb floated near the ceiling, casting warm light over the room where my whole family had gathered. My fifth birthday. The first milestone in this new life of mine.
Emotions tangled up inside me—too bright, too loud, too... unfamiliar.
"Five years old," Paul said, eyeing me like he was trying to figure out when his son had grown up so fast. "You're shooting up like a weed. Soon you'll be taller than me."
"You say that like I'm already grown," I muttered, dropping my gaze.
"And you think you're still a kid?" Paul smirked. "Then why the serious face?"
I didn't know how to answer. Because I'm not five? Because I remember too much?
Right. Try explaining that out loud: "Hey, Dad, technically I've lived over thirty years, so I might actually be older than you." Best-case scenario, I end up locked in a basement. Worst case—burned at the stake.
I just shrugged.
"It's... nice."
"Good," Zenith said, leaning over to ruffle my hair. "Though I swear, that serious face of his? Totally from you, Paul. Always walking around like he's about to rescue a damsel in distress."
"And you're against that?" my father grinned.
"Yup. Stay home, chop potatoes, swing your 'sword.'"
"I always appreciate how much my wife cares about me," he said, his grin widening. "But honestly, you barely leave me time to train."
He scooted closer to Zenith, and the air got weirdly tense.
"Thing is, chopping potatoes is a delicate art. Gotta keep the blade sharp." Paul raised his eyebrows, grin turning smug. "Takes skill to handle it right. Lucky you married a master swordsman."
Zenith squinted at him.
"So lucky…" she exhaled. "Just don't overestimate yourself, or that 'sword' might snap under pressure."
I stared at them, and a cold shiver crept up my spine. Not fear. Just... secondhand embarrassment.
Technically, I was an adult. Somewhere in a past life. But right now, all I wanted was to squeeze my eyes shut and pretend I didn't understand what they were talking about.
No, seriously. Were they flirting in front of me? Openly? With full commitment?
Zenith giving him that look, Paul grinning like an idiot, and me... I just wanted to take a sip of water and choke on it, anything to escape this little performance.
"Sword," huh? I groaned inwardly, doing my best impression of someone mentally checked out.
Perfect. Now every time Dad draws his blade during training, I'll remember this conversation. Wonderful.
Something started to simmer inside me. Not anger, not envy—just that irritating, off-kilter feeling, like stepping on a loose floor tile and knowing it's going to bug you all damn day.
In over thirty years of life, I'd never touched a woman. Literally. No closeness, no warmth, none of those stupid little moments that make people feel human. And now? I'm sitting in the body of a five-year-old, watching a couple that not only lives together—they made me.
Where the hell's the justice in that? This isn't what I reincarnated for.
I winced and took a sip of water. Yeah, I knew how pathetic and petty the thought was. Didn't make it any less real.
Maybe I just wasn't meant for that kind of connection back then. Maybe this time things would be different.
But not now. Not when I was stuck as a kid, sitting there while my parents played out their little romantic comedy in real time.
Lilia, who'd been silently setting the table this whole time, finally spoke up.
"Congratulations, Rudeus."
I nodded, accepting the words. That's when I noticed the glowing orbs floating gently in the air. Instead of candles, little spheres of light shimmered above us—one for each year.
The Creator, a blessing, light for each year lived… It all felt too much like the religious rituals from my old world. I hadn't been a believer, but those flickering lights? They felt… warm. Comforting.
And really, how do you not start believing when you've literally been brought back in another world? Those lights were clearly magical. If there was a god here, maybe they were real too. But if so—why bless me? I hadn't earned anything.
"Well then, since this is a special day…" Zenith cleared her throat theatrically and raised her glass. "Oh, my noble Rudeus! Pride of our bloodline, heir to our honor, beacon of hope! On this day of your birth, receive this gift."
Lilia stepped forward, holding something in both hands.
A sword.
I froze.
Black scabbard. Carved hilt.
"Here," Lilia said gently, offering it to me.
I took it carefully, feeling the weight settle in my hands.
"Heavy," I murmured, giving it a light swing, testing the balance.
"Of course it is. That's not a toy, Rudy—be careful," Paul said, leaning in. "This isn't just a sword, it's artifact-grade. Custom-made. I've got one like it myself."
He tapped the sheath at his waist, grinning.
"Look at the craftsmanship. At first glance it looks simple, but the blade's lined with mythril threads. Makes it stronger, and better for channeling magic."
I ran a finger along the edge, feeling the cold bite of real steel. In my old life, I'd never held anything like this. Games? Sure. Movies, anime? All the time. But an actual weapon—real weight, real sharpness? Never.
Paul called it artifact-grade. I didn't know what that meant, but it sounded serious.
"It's beautiful…"
"And sharp," Paul added, carefully sliding the blade back into its sheath. "Take care of it. Lose it or break it, and you'll regret it."
I nodded, but only one thought echoed in my head.
Back where I came from, magic was just a story. A myth.
But here… it simply was.
And now, I was part of it.
"Oh, and one more thing," Paul said with a grin. "Starting tomorrow, I'll be teaching you the basics of swordsmanship. Training usually starts at ten, but you—you're not like the others."
Training. That meant progress. That meant I wasn't just drifting through this life—I was moving forward. It was something. Something better than sitting still, better than losing everything all over again.
"I won't let you down!" I straightened up, chest tight with determination. But the moment my father looked at me, I instinctively shrank a little. "I mean it. I can do this."
"We'll see," Paul smirked.
I gripped the sword's hilt, feeling the cold weight of it settle into my palm.
In my last life, I'd never had a weapon. Never needed one. I locked myself away, afraid of the world, afraid of me. But now…
Now I had a sword. Something real. Something that was mine.
This was the first step. The first step into a new life.