It's been three years since I opened my eyes in this new world . Three years of breathing, eating, pretending, and learning how to walk again.
Three years, and I still feel… nothing.
No divine revelation. No destiny calling out to me. Just silence.
Maybe that's what's funniest about all this. People think reincarnation must feel special — like your soul is reborn with purpose or power.
But me? I just woke up hungry and crying.
And apparently, I was an uncanny baby.
I remember the first time I accidentally spoke a full sentence clear as day when I was barely a year old. One of the servants walked in on me, and her face went pale like she'd seen a ghost.
So I panicked and said, "Gu-gu… gaga?"
Didn't work. She screamed, dropped the laundry, and ran straight down the hall. By dinner that day, half the manor already knew the "duke's bastard baby could talk like a grown man." That was the day the rumors began that I was a creepy child touched by something unholy.
I sighed then, and honestly, I still sigh now. Humans fear what they don't understand, even when it's just a baby with good vocabulary.
Anyway....
My name now is Delian Ardent.
Son of Ibalena Ardent and Lucias Devoraneo Ardent the Sword Saint.
Yeah. That Sword Saint.
One of the most powerful beings in all of Aetherion.
Apparently, I was born into the most influential ducal family under the Empire of Solmir the Ardent family.
The kind of people whose name makes grown men kneel and kings reconsider their words.
The kind of lineage blessed by the gods themselves. If irony could kill, I'd have died twice by now.
I learned about them slowly, bit by bit, from servants who whispered when they thought I wasn't listening.
My father, Lucias, was the empire's blade the hero of countless wars, blessed by Lucitas, god of light.
A man who could slice through an army before anyone even realized they'd been cut.
My mother, Ibalena… well, she wasn't supposed to be here.
She was from the far East of the central continent, a foreigner with dark hair like spilled ink and warm brown eyes that never seemed to fade, no matter how cruelly others looked at her.
And I well, I took after her.
I had her hair, black as night, and her softer features. My skin a shade lighter than hers but darker than the pale nobles around me. My eyes, though a strange mix, like molten amber in shadow. People said they were unsettling. I kind of liked that.
Sometimes, I caught my reflection and thought, Huh. Not bad.
Definitely better looking than my past self that malnourished loser who barely saw sunlight.
And if my father was half as handsome as the stories claimed, then maybe I really did win the genetic lottery this time.
But even as I grew, looked better, and learned faster, something inside me stayed still.
Empty. Quiet.
But It's strange how a second life can make you remember what it truly means to be loved.
My mother, Ibalena Ardent, wasn't like the nobles who filled these halls with their self-importance. She never cared who my father was, or how far beneath him her bloodline supposedly stood. She didn't care that the other wives whispered, or that she came from a distant land where the stars had different names.
All she ever cared about… was me.
She loved me in a way that felt too real, too familiar. Almost painfully so.
When I was six months old, I called her Mom.
I still remember her reaction. I thought she'd be shocked maybe laugh, maybe question how an infant could even speak so clearly. Instead, she froze. Then she lifted me up, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe, and cried into my tiny shoulder. Tears of joy. Relief. Maybe even love she'd been holding back for far too long.
That day, I think I finally understood her and my other mom.
Maybe this was how my mother from my first life felt when she looked at me that raw, wordless affection that made her smile even when everything else was falling apart.
Only now, unlike before, thanks to my memory of my previous life i was able to comprehend it.
For that first year, I barely spoke to anyone except her.
The maids gossiped about how I understood things too quickly, how my eyes followed every sound and word like I was listening. My mother sometimes looked at me with the same confusion a hint of curiosity when I spoke too clearly for a child my age but she never asked. She just smiled, brushed my hair back, and said how proud she was to have such a clever little boy.
However, I knew why she clung to me so tightly.
She was a foreigner an outsider who bore the child of one of the most powerful men in the Empire of Solmir. The Sword Saint.
In a world where bloodlines dictated worth, her existence alone was a scandal barely tolerated. The others, especially those from the main house, made sure she never forgot it.
The worst of them was Marinas Melias Ardent, my father's first wife. A blonde woman probably in her mind 30s who's age is already starting to show probably form the spite she carries everywhere. Another old hag.
She would barge into our room unannounced, her perfume choking the air, her voice dripping venom.
"Your charm will fade one day, Ibalena," she would sneer. "Then we'll see how long the duke keeps his little toy. And as for that brat.." her eyes would flick toward me, "..no matter how much you pretend, a bastard will never become a true Ardent."
My mother never answered her. She would just hold me closer, whispering for me not to listen.
But I did.
I heard everything. And every time that woman spat her poison, I glared at her.
I didn't cry, didn't shout I just stared.
Something about my silence seemed to unnerve her. Maybe it was the way my eyes didn't waver, or maybe she could feel something cold creeping beneath my calm expression. She always left quickly after that, muttering,
"Creepy child."
Good, I thought. Let her be disturbed.
Then that first year was… peaceful.
For the first time in two lifetimes, I was happy. Even with the glares, the whispers, the scorn of the servants who never forgot to remind us of our place I didn't care. Because I had her.
My mother.
Her laughter filled that cold marble house, softening even the sharp edges of its golden walls. When she sang, I forgot that I was supposed to hate this life. I forgot about the gods, the curses, the abyss. For that one brief year, I thought maybe this second life wouldn't be so bad. Maybe, if I just stayed like this, I could be content.
But that illusion ended the moment the Naming Ceremony came.
Every noble child, by the age of one, was brought before the Patriarch to receive their name not the one given by their mother, but the one acknowledged by the gods. A rite where divine energy was awakened within them. The ability to connect with the divine, to be blessed by the god their house served.
In Aetherion, nothing mattered more than divine energy.
It was power, status, faith.
Those blessed by the gods could wield miracles. Those not… might as well be shadows.
And that day, I learned just how insignificant I truly was in the eyes of House Ardent.
It happened on my birthday.
The great hall of the Ardent estate shimmered in golden light, banners of Lucitas the god of radiance hanging from every pillar. The family's emblem, a sword wrapped in a halo of light, gleamed above the Patriarch's throne.
That was the first time I saw my father.
Lucias Devoraneo Ardent.
The Sword Saint. The Duke of Ardenos.The man whispered to be closest to godhood itself.
He wore his title like armor literally. A radiant suit of plate that shone even without sunlight, engraved with the sigil of Lucitas. His short golden hair caught the light just right, and his golden eyes… gods, those eyes. They didn't look at you. They pierced you.
He was beautiful, terrible, divine everything the Empire worshiped.
And yet, as his gaze fell on me, I felt nothing.
No awe. No pride.
Only… recognition.
Because behind those radiant eyes was the same thing I'd seen in countless "righteous" men before arrogance. The kind that believed the world existed solely to kneel before them.
It didn't scare me. Not after I'd stood before Abyrion himself.
Lucias leaned forward, resting one arm on his gilded throne.
"What is his name?" he asked, voice cold and clear.
"Delian," my mother said softly, holding me close.
He nodded. "Very well."
He turned to the elders beside him, his tone reverent. "Though his mother's blood is not noble, he bears my lineage. Let Lucitas judge him, and grant him the gift of light."
One of the elders a frail old woman in white robes presented him with a small rune stone, glowing faintly with divine inscriptions. My father took it and descended the steps, his armor clinking softly with each step that echoed through the silent hall.
He stopped before me.
"On your knees," he commanded.
My mother hesitated, but I obeyed. Her grip on my shoulders trembled as she helped me kneel before him.
"Close your eyes," he said. "Pray."
He began the invocation
"Oh Lucitas, Father of Light, grant us your mercy. Let your flame of divinity bless this child and embrace him with your holy grace."
I clenched the rune stone in my tiny hands.
I wanted to laugh.
To pray to their god, the one who'd cast me aside even in my last life? The same kind who'd cursed me to this fate? I wanted to spit on that name. But I didn't.
Because I knew one wrong word, one flicker of defiance and my mother would pay the price.
So I did what I had to.
I shut my eyes and pretended.
And then…
.....
.....
Nothing.