Four Years Later
Jason Bartel was no more.
In his place lived Rafael Valemont, born into a poor but gentle family in the far eastern reaches of the kingdom. He had not expected to awaken in a world ruled by swords and magic, yet this was reality now—one governed by blood, war, and a force called aether.
From his mother, Sara Valemont, Rafael learned that every living being possessed a spark of aether—an inner energy that made magic possible. For some, that spark bloomed into power.
For Rafael, it remained silent.
He spent his early years hunched over dusty spellbooks stacked on a crooked shelf, tracing ancient runes with small fingers, whispering incantations long into the night. Again and again, he tried to coax his aether into responding.
Nothing happened. Not even a flicker. When he finally asked his mother why he couldn't cast even the simplest spell, she only smiled and brushed his hair aside.
"Don't worry, my little one," she said softly. "Magic comes in its own time." Her kindness did little to ease the weight in his chest. Everywhere he looked, he was reminded of what he lacked. Sara wielded water magic with effortless grace, shaping liquid from thin air. His older brother, Draven, had awakened a natural affinity for fire—bright, wild flames that danced at his fingertips.
But Rafael had nothing. And so, he waited.
The world itself offered no mercy. Rafael had been born into an era drowned in blood—an age of endless war between humans and elves. Villages burned. Borders shifted. Peace had become nothing more than a rumour whispered by the desperate.
His father, Arthur Valemont, served as a sergeant in the royal army. He left for the battlefield shortly before Rafael's birth—and never once held his youngest son. All Rafael knew of him were stories: a powerful mage, a respected soldier, a man admired by the entire village.
Yet despite living in the body of a child, Rafael carried the mind of a twenty-seven-year-old mafia boss. He did not cry. He did not throw tantrums. Fear felt distant—foreign. His unnatural maturity worried his mother, but as long as her son was healthy, she chose not to question it.
Rafael himself cared about only one thing. Strength. Enough to fulfil the mission that had carried him into this life. But true strength proved harder to obtain than he had ever imagined.
Despite everything, the Valemonts treated him as family. They loved him. Draven protected him, teased him, taught him. Sara held him close when the nights grew cold. For the first time across both his lives, Rafael felt something unfamiliar bloom in his chest.
Warmth. Safety. Peace. And he grew terrified of losing it.
Draven began teaching Rafael the basics of magic whenever he wasn't working at the family shop. He patiently showed him how to guide aether through his body—how to shape it, release it. Rafael failed every time. Still, Draven never scolded him.
From those lessons, Rafael learned of the three paths of magic: Casting, Augmenting, and Divination. Casters manipulated elemental forces—fire, water, earth, wind, and lightning. Augmenters strengthened their bodies beyond mortal limits. Diviners peered into fate itself. No one could walk more than one path.
Magic awakened when it chose to—and fate decided everything. Rafael clung to the hope that one day, his power would awaken, too. But that day was not today. Today was the day his world cracked.
The duke arrived without warning, flanked by royal guards. The village was ordered to surrender its capable young men to fuel the war effort. Draven was taken. for he was strong, talented and promising.
"Don't worry, little brother," Draven said with a grin as he was dragged away."I'll be back. Take care of Mom." Those were the last words Rafael heard.
As his brother disappeared beyond the village gates, something dark twisted inside Rafael's chest. Draven had shown him a kindness he had never known—protected him, believed in him. And now, that warmth was being ripped away.
Sara wept for days. The battlefield was no place for a seventeen-year-old boy—not in a war this merciless. Rafael could only wait.
Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Months became years.
Draven never returned.
The light in Sara's eyes faded, and every time Rafael saw it, rage coiled tighter inside him. He questioned why the Goddess of Death had reincarnated him into a family destined to suffer. But it was too late for regret. He endured. He grew. He learned to survive. If fate would show him no mercy, then he would carve his own path—with his own hands.
Ten Years Later
Rafael was fourteen.
Fourteen—and already well acquainted with hunger.
The war had strangled the kingdom. Food was scarce. Work even scarcer. Both humans and elves bled each other dry, neither side willing to yield.
Rafael and his mother barely scraped by.
Through relentless effort, Rafael had become a competent wind caster, mastering everything Sara could teach him and everything the battered old books contained. But it wasn't enough. Her knowledge was limited. His progress slow.
Time was slipping away. He had not found the Key to Hell—the very reason for his rebirth. Survival came first. Destiny could wait. One afternoon, as he walked through the dusty market street, something caught his eye. A wanted poster. Pinned crookedly to a wooden post, ink smudged by time. The sketch depicted a boy, no older than Rafael himself.
Below it, a single number stood out. 10,000 silver coins. Rafael's heart thudded.
That much money could feed him and his mother for months—maybe longer. It could buy him time. Time to train. Time to search. Time to prepare. He stared at the poster, silent. Then he exhaled. "I know what I must do." This was no longer about surviving.
It was time for Rafael Valemont to start hunting.