Five years.
That's how long it's been since I opened my eyes in this world.
Five years that passed like the blink of an eye—so quiet, so gentle, that sometimes I wondered if the storm of my previous life had only been a dream.
Life here moved differently. The days stretched longer, the air carried warmth instead of smoke, and time didn't rush anywhere—it just flowed.
That morning, I sat by the window as usual. The breeze slid through the open frame, brushing against my hair. It carried the faint scent of wet soil and flowers, and for a moment, I simply closed my eyes and breathed it in.
The world here was pure—free from the gray stench of pollution. The sky looked alive, painted in a soft blue that deepened as the clouds drifted lazily across it. The sweet wind swept over the small garden just outside, rustling through the colorful blooms my mother tended every morning.
Our house stood at the very edge of the village, half-embraced by trees and quiet roads. It wasn't big or fancy, but it was strong, warm, and full of life. The walls held laughter, scolding, and the smell of freshly baked bread. For me, it was… enough.
At first, it was difficult to understand their language, I thought to myself, smiling faintly, but now I've mastered it.
It had taken time, effort, and more than a few embarrassing moments. But once I learned to read their words, I couldn't stop. I began reading books earlier than any child my age. People whispered that I was a prodigy—a gifted child born under a lucky star.
They didn't know, of course, that inside this small body lived the soul of a thirty-year-old man.
I chuckled softly.
A genius, huh?
Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't. But at least this time, I had a chance to become something. In my previous life, I was… nothing. A name without meaning. A man forgotten even before death.
I have a second chance now, I whispered under my breath. This time, I'll live it differently.
My gaze drifted toward the kitchen. My mother, Niana Alder, stood there washing dishes. The sunlight glimmered on her long golden hair, turning it almost golden at the ends. Beside her was Talia, our maid—no, not just a maid anymore. She had red hair that caught fire under the sun, blue eyes sharp as ice, and glasses that she always pushed up with her finger when they slid down.
Talia was my father's second wife.
My father, Paul Alder, had once been a man of prestige—a Knight Commander of the Holy Empire in the Land of the West. But for reasons still unknown to me, he had left everything behind and settled here, in the Land of the North.
He had always loved Talia. No, obsessed might be the better word. When I was four, he finally gave in to that obsession and married her. It caused quite a stir, especially for my mother, who was heartbroken at first.
I remember that time vividly.
The house had been filled with shouting, slammed doors, and silent dinners. My father was too proud to admit his fault, and my mother too hurt to forgive. It was ugly—far uglier than a child should have seen.
But somehow, I managed to stop things from collapsing completely. I don't even remember how exactly—perhaps it was my strange way of speaking, or maybe she saw something in my eyes that reminded her of the man she once loved.
In the end, my mother accepted Talia's presence, reluctantly at first, then with quiet tolerance. Talia, for her part, treated my mother with respect and guilt in equal measure. Time, as always, softened the edges of their pain.
Now, they stood side by side in the kitchen, talking and laughing softly while washing the dishes.
It wasn't perfect—but it was peaceful.
Suddenly, two small cries echoed through the house, breaking the calm. Both women hurried toward the nursery, where the babies were waiting.
I smiled.
The cries belonged to Feya, my little sister, and Lior, my half-brother. Both of them had inherited their mothers' hair and eyes.
They were both so small, so pure—born without the scars of the past. I didn't care who their mothers were. To me, they were both family.
Now Talia's part of us, I thought quietly, watching from the window. And somehow… that feels right.
Outside, the village was waking. The morning sun spilled across the fields, and birds chirped above the rooftops. Their songs carried a kind of peace I had never known before.
I leaned against the wooden frame, eyes softening.
Then I heard it—the distinct sound of steel clashing against steel. My father was outside, training with his sword in the yard.
He moved like the wind, each swing precise and powerful. The sunlight danced on the edge of his blade, and for a moment, I understood why he had once been called "The Silver Lion of the West."
I have a name now, I murmured, placing a hand over my chest. Rion Alder.
That name belonged to this body—to this new beginning.
Father had promised that when I turned seven, he would start teaching me his sword techniques.
I'm five now. Just two more years.
I admired him for his strength, but part of me longed for something else—something deeper, stranger, and more infinite.
Magic.
Something in me is drawn to it — not as a tool or a weapon, but as… a calling.
It's strange. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I feel it — a quiet hum in the air, like the world itself is breathing.
While other children dreamed of swords and heroes, I found myself drawn to the unknown—the symbols and runes in the old books, the whispers of power in the air, the feeling that something beyond human understanding slept beneath this peaceful world.
Maybe it's just my imagination. Or maybe it's the start of something greater.
Either way, I'm ready.
This time, I won't live as a failure.
This time, I'll carve my own path — sword or magic, it doesn't matter.
Because this time, I wasn't living someone else's story.
This time… I would write my own.