The wind was calm that morning, carrying with it the scent of tilled soil and the rhythm of my father's hoe striking the earth. From where I sat beneath an old oak tree at the edge of the field, I could see him—Brian—moving with quiet determination, sweat glinting on his brow under the sun.
It was planting season again. I had offered to help, but with this small frame of a five-year-old, I was more of a distraction than an asset. My father had simply laughed and told me to "guard the field" instead—a mission I took far too seriously.
Five years.
I still couldn't believe it had been that long since I died and was reborn into this world. Five years since the gods, for reasons I still didn't understand, decided to give me another chance at life.
It hadn't been entirely pleasant, of course. The struggles, the adjustment, the memories of my past life that clung like shadows… yet, as I looked out at the golden fields and heard my father humming a tune I didn't recognize, I realized something.
This life—despite everything—was a gift.
"Why me?" I murmured, leaning against the tree. "Of all the souls out there, why pick me?"
I shook the thought away and focused on the worn book resting in my lap. Its leather cover was cracked, the title almost faded: History in Galarian. The pages were thick, surprisingly high quality—far too expensive for a commoner household. Perhaps it was something my mother had saved from better days.
When I opened it, I was immediately pulled in. Words, maps, and stories of old empires unfolded before me like threads of fate weaving through time.
It told of an age when the entire Central Continent was united under one banner—the Kingdom of Predonia. Back then, the people didn't even know other continents existed. The world, as they saw it, ended beyond the horizon.
Four races walked the land then: Humans, Elves, Dwarves, and one I had never heard of before—Lyriens.
I paused, tracing the unfamiliar word with my finger. "Lyriens…?"
Flipping through the index at the back, I found their entry:
'A race with white hair and green eyes. Fragile in body but gifted in spirit. Their mana capacity surpasses even that of the elves. Light magic flows in their veins—a rare blessing in all other races.'
"Light magic, huh…" I whispered, a spark of fascination lighting in my chest. "So they're basically walking mana reservoirs."
I was so absorbed in the text that I didn't notice someone creeping up behind me—until I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.
I froze. My heart jumped to my throat.
Instinct took over—I rolled away, landing awkwardly in the grass, staring wide-eyed at whoever dared sneak up on me.
A startled yelp escaped the intruder. "W–what are you doing?!"
It was just Lyra.
Her black hair caught the sunlight as she blinked at me, more confused than angry. "You nearly scared me to death!" she said, crossing her arms.
"You're one to talk!" I shot back, clutching my chest. "Who sneaks up on someone like that? You could've gotten yourself hurt."
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, please. You act like I attacked you with a knife."
"I—" I stopped, realizing how ridiculous I must have looked. My outburst only made her smirk.
"What's with that look?" I muttered.
Lyra tilted her head, feigning innocence. "I just came to see how you were doing… and maybe ask you something."
Her voice faltered near the end.
"Ask me what?" I prompted.
She twisted the hem of her sleeve, cheeks pink. "If you could… come to my tenth birthday party. At my place. In two days."
I blinked. "That's it? You look like you were about to confess to a crime."
Her eyes widened. "Hey! It's a sensitive thing to invite someone, you know! Especially for a girl."
"Sensitive?" I repeated, teasing. "You make it sound like I'm meeting your parents for marriage negotiations."
Her face went crimson. "Xavier!"
I couldn't help it—I laughed. Her pouting expression only made it worse.
For a brief moment, the world felt light again. The heaviness of my thoughts melted away in her presence.
"I'll come," I said finally. "Wouldn't miss it."
She smiled—a small, genuine curve of the lips that always managed to brighten even the dullest day.
Then, her expression shifted, more serious. "By the way… did you make up with your sister yet?"
My smile faded. "Not yet. She's… still avoiding me."
Lyra frowned, clearly unimpressed. "It's been a year since that incident, Xavier. You forgave her ages ago—why can't she forgive herself?"
I sighed. "Some wounds take time. She'll come around."
She looked like she wanted to argue but stopped herself. "Fine. If you say so."
Then, with a mischievous grin, she added, "I'll go invite her too. Maybe that'll force her out of hiding."
Before I could protest, she waved and turned away, her slender figure disappearing into the wheat field.
And just like that, I was alone again.
I sat back down, picking up the book I'd dropped when she startled me. My fingers brushed over the pages, and I found my place once more.
The history of Predonia continued. The text grew darker as it spoke of greed and conquest. Humans, driven by their swelling population, began enslaving the other races. The Elves were taken for their beauty, the Dwarves for their craftsmanship, and the Lyriens for their mana-rich bodies.
It wasn't that the other races were weak—they simply lacked numbers. The humans' unity made them unstoppable.
Wars raged for centuries. Blood soaked the soil of the Central Continent. And just as the world seemed to drown in its own cruelty, the book mentioned something that made my skin crawl:
"Then came the demons—born not of light nor darkness, but of despair itself."
I closed the book slowly, my reflection trembling in its polished cover.
"Demons, huh?" I whispered. "So that's where everything changed."
The wind blew again, rustling the pages as if the world itself was whispering its forgotten truths.
And somewhere deep inside, I knew this was only the beginning.
The air grew colder as the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the fields in molten gold. My father had already gathered his tools and was heading back toward the cottage, his silhouette stretching long across the furrows. I lingered under the tree, the book heavy in my lap, unable to pull myself away from the world within its pages.
The story continued, darker than before.
It spoke of the arrival of the demons—creatures that neither belonged to light nor shadow. They descended upon the Central Continent like a plague, devouring cities, razing kingdoms, and slaughtering without reason or mercy. Humanity, already fractured by greed and pride, could not stand united against them.
The Elves, Dwarves, and Lyriens fought alongside mankind for survival, but even their combined strength was not enough. The text described it as "the War of Death."
And I could understand why.
"Half of all life was consumed," the book said. "The rivers ran red for years, and the cries of the dying echoed louder than thunder."
I shivered slightly. The breeze caught the pages, flipping them as though the book itself was trying to hide the memories it carried. I could almost imagine it — the skies darkened with ash, the smell of burning flesh, the desperate clang of steel meeting claw.
Eight years. That's how long the war lasted. Eight years of endless bloodshed.
And then came King Garcia — or rather, the man who would become him.
The book spoke of him as though he were more legend than man. A warrior blessed by the gods, wielding an ability known as World Breaker — a single strike powerful enough to cleave mountains and turn battlefields to dust. With that power, he supposedly destroyed the demon army in one blow, ending the war and restoring the world to fragile peace.
It was a story my mother, Christiana, loved to tell me when I was younger. She would whisper it by the fireplace, her voice soft and full of reverence.
But as I read it again, with the eyes of someone who had already seen death and rebirth, I couldn't help but question it.
"One strike to destroy an army?" I muttered to myself. "That sounds more like divine propaganda than truth."
Still, the tale captivated me. The way the book described the aftermath — the silence after years of screams, the rebuilding of kingdoms from ash — it painted a picture of both triumph and tragedy.
After the demons were defeated, Garcia was crowned the first king of the new era. He renamed himself Franklin Garcia, and with that, history began anew. But victory came at a terrible cost.
Humanity, though victorious, had been reduced to less than a third of its former strength. The elves, dwarves, and Lyriens suffered even worse — their numbers nearly driven to extinction.
And then, as if the gods wanted to reward or perhaps punish them, the survivors discovered something incredible.
They found new continents.
The development of sea vessels — a technology born out of desperation during the war — allowed them to explore beyond the Central Continent. What they found were vast lands, untouched and waiting.
But instead of uniting, the races divided once more.
The Elves and Dwarves, tired of human arrogance, departed south-west to claim a continent of their own. There, they split it into two great kingdoms — the Elvian Kingdom, draped in eternal forests, and Trostorth, the mountainous realm of the Dwarves.
The Lyriens, fragile but wise, journeyed north-east to a frozen land they named Frailand — a realm of shimmering white plains and pale cities carved of crystal.
As for humanity… they remained in the heart of the Central Continent. But unity was a fleeting dream.
Garcia himself divided the continent into eighteen separate kingdoms, perhaps believing smaller nations would prevent another empire from growing arrogant and corrupt like Predonia once had. The largest of these was, of course, the Kingdom of Garcia, his own domain — rich, fertile, and powerful.
But peace never lasts long in the hearts of men.
The nobles and remnants of the former royal families despised his decision. They saw his mercy toward the other races as weakness, and his breaking of the Central Kingdom as betrayal.
Some accepted his rule grudgingly, but others fled — traveling to the newly discovered continents to build their own empires, free of Garcia's ideals.
Those who went north were said to carry with them the deepest hatred — clinging to the old language of Predonian, preserving ancient laws and customs as if to defy time itself.
I turned the page, tracing the ink-stained words with my thumb. The script grew harder to read — smudged, rushed, as though written in haste. Whoever wrote this book must have been there… witnessing history being rewritten in blood and pride.
A gust of wind ruffled the leaves above me, and for a moment, I imagined the distant sound of waves — the same waves that carried explorers to those new lands centuries ago.
"What kind of world am I really living in?" I murmured. "One born from peace… or one built over the corpses of its own heroes?"
The question lingered in my chest, heavy and cold.
I flipped to another page, eager to uncover more, but before I could read another line, my stomach growled loudly.
I froze, blinking, and then laughed under my breath. "Right. Mortals still need to eat."
The weight of the book seemed to double as I closed it, dust dancing in the fading sunlight. I looked toward the cottage — smoke was already curling from the chimney. My mother must have started supper.
For a moment, I hesitated. My eyes drifted back to the book, to the stories of war and kings, of gods and monsters. All of it felt so far away, and yet… so close.
Somehow, deep down, I couldn't shake the feeling that those same shadows of history were waiting — watching — for the next chapter to begin.
I tucked the book under my arm and started walking toward home, the wind whispering through the grass behind me.
And as the last rays of daylight vanished beyond the hills, one thought echoed quietly in my mind:
"If legends were born from blood and lies… what will my story be written in?"
By the time I closed the book, dusk had already fallen. The last embers of sunlight bled across the sky, turning the fields into waves of fading gold. My stomach growled again — louder this time — as if reminding me that history lessons could wait until after dinner.
I brushed the dirt off my trousers and made my way toward the cottage. The scent of something warm and familiar — stew, maybe with bread — drifted from the kitchen, guiding me home like a beacon.
When I pushed the door open, the gentle creak of the hinges announced my return. My mother, Christiana, turned from the hearth. Her smile met me before her voice did.
"You must be hungry, my little star," she said, her tone calm and graceful as always. There was something regal in the way she carried herself — a quiet dignity that didn't quite fit the life of a farmer's wife. Even the simple apron she wore couldn't hide the nobility in her movements.
I gave a sheepish grin. "Was it that obvious?"
She chuckled softly. "Your stomach has been grumbling louder than the cows outside."
Before I could answer, my father entered through the back door, his boots still dusted with soil. "Ah, there's my boy," he said, ruffling my hair with his rough, calloused hand. "Did the tree stump win the staring contest again?"
"Maybe," I said, laughing. "But I learned a lot from that book today."
Father raised an eyebrow. "As long as you're not learning how to fight trees, we'll be fine."
We moved to the table, where my sister, Lila, was already seated. She didn't look up as I sat across from her. Her spoon traced slow circles through her stew, eyes fixed on the bowl as if the food might vanish if she looked away.
It had been a year since the incident — since I was beaten by Grace and her guards. Lila still carried the guilt like a shadow that refused to fade. I'd told her countless times it wasn't her fault, but some wounds don't listen to reason.
Dinner began in a comfortable silence — the kind that wasn't awkward, just… familiar. The soft crackle of the fire and the occasional clink of spoons filled the gaps between breaths.
After a few bites, I spoke. "Lila… Lyra's having her tenth birthday party in two days. Were you invited?"
She froze. Her spoon stopped midair. Slowly, she nodded — barely.
Before she could answer, Mother spoke up in her gentle, melodic way. "Yes, she came by earlier and invited your sister too," she said. "Such a sweet girl, that Lyra. Time really does fly, doesn't it, honey?"
She glanced at Father.
He was too busy devouring his stew to catch what she said. When her tone sharpened slightly, he looked up, startled. "Oh—y-yes, it does! Can't believe it's already been a year since Lila's tenth birthday."
Mother's eyes narrowed. "You weren't listening, were you?"
Father blinked. "Of course I was!"
"Oh really?" she said, tilting her head ever so slightly. "Because that's not what I said."
He hesitated, realizing he'd walked straight into one of her traps. "I—I know. I was just joking around."
"Mm-hmm." Her lips curved in a sly smile. "Then you'll be glad to hear you were right after all."
Father choked on his next spoonful, coughing until he managed to grab his cup and gulp down some water.
Lila and I exchanged glances. Despite everything, I couldn't help but laugh quietly. It was moments like these — small, ridiculous, utterly human — that reminded me what made this world worth living in.
Mother reached over and patted Father's back, her expression softening. "You should really chew your food, dear. I'd hate for your heroics to end over a bowl of stew."
He gave a mock glare. "If I survive my wife's teasing, demons would be a blessing."
That made her laugh, a sound that filled the room like warm light.
I leaned back in my chair, watching them, feeling something I hadn't in a long time — peace.
The conversation drifted toward lighter topics — the crops, the weather, the neighbor's new dog that wouldn't stop howling at night. But my gaze kept slipping toward Lila.
She still hadn't said a word.
When dinner ended, she stood quietly and began clearing the plates. I caught her wrist gently. "Lila," I said softly, "you should go to Lyra's party. You'll have fun."
She hesitated, her eyes darting away. "I don't deserve fun," she whispered.
"Hey." I forced a smile. "That's nonsense. You didn't do anything wrong."
Her lips trembled, but she didn't reply. Instead, she nodded once and slipped into the kitchen.
The door creaked shut behind her, and the sound lingered like a sigh.
I looked toward my parents — Father humming while stacking dishes, Mother wiping the table. Everything felt so normal, so beautifully mundane. Yet beneath that calm, I sensed something moving — like shadows shifting beneath still water.
Tomorrow would come, and with it, Lyra's birthday.
But part of me couldn't shake the feeling that the peace around this table was only temporary — that somewhere, far beyond our little cottage, the wheels of fate had already begun to turn once more.