Noise hit from every direction.
Boom! Boom!
A shockwave hit. A man went dizzy, lost direction, but pushed himself upright.
The dust covered his vision after the explosion, carrying a metallic, earthy stench with a sour smell that settled deep in his nose. Broken stones and twisted rebar were strewn across the ground. Bodies lay among them.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Arghh!" "Help!"
Another chain of explosions erupted in the distance. Each blast rolled closer and louder until it felt like the ground itself was cracking apart.
Something slammed into the side of his head. Heat ran down his skin. His knees buckled.
He hit the ground.
He tried to stand but the world tilted.
Blood filled his eyes, turning everything red. Shadows swayed through his vision. Sounds were muffled. Nothing made sense.
A voice cut through to his ears.
"Hey! Stay with us! You hear me? Stay with us!"
"Open your eyes! Come on, man, open your eyes! Shit!"
"Over here! We need a med—"
Cold spread through him. His arms and legs turned heavy. Blood gurgled from his mouth.
He saw fragments of his childhood. His parents. His home. His regrets flashed before his eyes before dissolving into smoke, faces and voices drifting through the air.
Then emotions started flooding in all at once, like tangled rope tightening around his heart. Fear, anger, joy, grief. Each one squeezing into the next as more memories poured through his thoughts.
So, this was what dying felt like.
Light faded. Sound weakened. His body grew lighter, as if sinking and floating at the same time.
Then everything went dark.
. . .
Something warm wrapped around him.
Three small orbs drifted behind him, their colors shifting like tiny flames. One pulsed faintly, following him. He didn't understand why, but something about it felt familiar. Like it was part of him.
As he neared the light, a silhouette took shape.
Words echoed inside his head, broken and distant.
"We..."
Something around him tightened. Not painfully. But firmly, like something that did not intend to let go.
His eyes opened.
A blurry woman leaned over him, breathing hard, exhausted. Her heartbeat thudded against his cheek. Sweat ran along her neck. Her hands trembled, but her grip stayed firm, pressing him against her chest like she was afraid he'd vanish.
'What? Is she holding me?' he thought. His head felt too heavy to lift. His limbs wouldn't move.
Am I dreaming?
The warmth of her arms felt real. So did the faint trace of sweat on her skin.
He tried to move again. Nothing.
What is happening?
Voices argued around him, but the words were incomprehensible. The tone was frustration and urgency.
Then a low hum followed, and the air around him vibrated softly. It brought him comfort he didn't understand. His consciousness grew hazy, heavy, pulling him under like warm bed.
. . .
Six months.
That was how long it took before he stopped waiting to wake up.
He had tried to deny it first, telling himself it was a coma, a dream, something his brain had come up with to fill the unknown. But the days kept coming. The ray of the sun stayed warm on his skin. The smell of the room stayed real. In the end, whatever he had believed before simply broke apart.
This world was not Earth.
People dressed like they had stepped from history books or fantasy novels. No phones, no cars, no wires in the streets. Instead, glowing stones lit the rooms and powered tools he still didn't understand.
The language had been a mess of sounds at first. It twisted on his tongue, and he stumbled through words. However, after months of repetition around him, it became something he could follow.
Most mornings began the same way. His face pressed against warm blob of skin while Mother rocked him. Her heartbeat hummed steadily beneath his ear. Her long blonde hair brushed his cheek whenever she looked down.
She always smiled when she did.
Being held by her felt strangely safe, a kind of safety he had never known in his previous life. He didn't have a word for what that felt like.
"Mama," she whispered. "Say it, Mama"
Her voice was gentle.
The door opened. A tall man with jet-black hair stepped in and crossed the room quietly. He smelled faintly of steel and sweat, like he came from work was my father.
"How is our little boy?" he asked.
"We were just playing," his mother said, her voice soft with affection.
She leaned into him without thinking. He said something low that he couldn't catch, and she laughed, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.
His Father brushed a strand of hair from her face. She fixed the collar of his shirt. His hand lingered on her shoulder.
They had forgotten he was there entirely.
He kicked his feet.
I'm right here.
No response.
His father tilted her chin up and said something that made her cheeks flush. She swatted his chest lightly, then pulled him closer.
He kicked again, harder.
Being baby with past memory sucks.
. . .
A year passed.
He took his first steps, shaky and unsteady, doing his best to keep his balance before he fell. His sister clapped and giggled, then pinched his cheek.
Her name was Isabelle. Black hair, emerald eyes, two years older, and apparently convinced that bothering him was her full-time job.
His name was Lucian Vi Lockewood. Son of an aristocratic family.
"Father, Lucy's face looks scary," she said, staring at him.
"He is admiring your cuteness, sweetie," Father said, grinning.
"Really?" Isabelle asked, eyes brightening.
"Of course. You are an adorable big sister."
"I knew it," she said, lifting her chin.
Father picked him up as they kept talking. For a while, Lucian shut his eyes and pretended to sleep, letting the soft rhythm of their voices fade. When they left, he quietly crawled out of the cradle.
He crept toward the room across the hall, the one he had noticed days earlier. Its door had been left open with a crack.
Inside, shelves of books and various objects lined the walls. Strange tools, parchment scrolls, carved stones. Things that could help him understand this world.
His heart raced.
He reached out toward the nearest book.
"Young master? What are you doing in that room?" a maid gasped behind him.
She hurried over and carried him gently. "Lady Arian will worry if you wander like this."
As she carried him away, he reached toward the door, his fingers brushing the air as the room disappeared behind the closing door.
Damn it.
. . .
Two more years have passed.
He could understand the language clearly now and had started working through whatever books he could read.
"Stop resisting," Isabelle said, dragging him by the arm. "If you skip church again, Mother will scold me."
"I would rather stay home and read," Lucian muttered.
"Too bad. You are coming."
"Why do you even care?"
She glared at him. "Because I want live. Now walk."
In this kingdom, Valeria, the citizens believed in the so-called Mighty Sovereign. A god of war. Of all the gods in this world, he had to be born into a family that worshipped a literal god of war.
Lucian had lived through war before. He had seen what it could do to people, and the scars it left never healed. All he wanted from this life was to live quietly and peacefully, away from the conflict of war. But being a noble's son meant certain things were not optional.
He chuckled just having that thought.
Inside the church, the air was heavy with incense. Walls and pillars were carved with symbols and faded runes. Colored light from stained glass washed over the polished stone floor. Rows of believers knelt in silence.
At the front stood a statue of a shield with a fist carved on it, and behind it a sword marked with ancient runes.
The priest wore traditional robes, but heavy armor covered his shoulders and a sword hung at his hip. Scars ran along his arms. He moved like a soldier, not a priest.
They found Mother near the middle of the hall. She turned as they came down the aisle, and her eyes moved from the dirt on Lucian's sleeve to the sweat on Isabelle's forehead.
"What happened?"
"Belle would not let go of my arm," Lucian said.
"He would not walk," Isabelle said.
"Because you were dragging me."
"You were being slow."
Mother sighed and rubbed her forehead. "Can you two just behave for one hour."
"Let us begin," the priest said.
They stopped and sat.
The priest opened with the teachings of the Mighty Sovereign. From there he moved into the founding history of the church, and he began praising the god with a passion.
A few minutes in, Isabelle's head dipped.
Lucian pinched her arm.
She jerked upright and glared at him, rubbing the spot. "What?"
"You were snoring."
"I'm not." She pinched his cheek and pulled.
"Stop! You were sleeping."
Their mother frowned as she watched them.
"We will talk about this later," she whispered, then smiled at them.
They stayed silent for the rest of the sermon. They both knew what that meant.
. . .
Months passed.
Currently, Lucian was in the back room off the training yard, hiding from Isabelle.
"Finally," he muttered, closing the door.
Isabelle was annoying once she decided she wanted to play. She would drag him everywhere she went, and with her unnatural strength for her age, there was nothing he could do to retaliate. Hiding was all he had.
He sat by the window with his book, glancing out at the quiet training yard every so often.
Then he heard something.
Swish. Boom.
He looked up.
Father was in the yard, cutting through the air with a wooden sword. Every swing sent a shockwave across the ground, leaving shallow marks in the dirt. A smoke-like mist rose from his body. Around his right arm, something glowed faintly.
Lucian had read that people here preferred swords over guns, something that had felt strange to him at first. He had thought he understood it as a tradition, a cultural habit. Watching Father now, he realized he had understood nothing.
Each swing carried the kind of force you felt near a grenade blast, a pressure that hit your body before the sound reached your ears. And this was just practice. Imagine if Father turned serious and used a real sword.
Father paused. His gaze shifted to the window.
Lucian ducked. Too late.
"Lucy?" he called.
He stepped outside with an awkward smile. "Hello, Father."
Father half-sheathed his sword. "What are you doing back there?"
"Belle keeps trying to make me play with her dolls," Lucian said.
Father smiled faintly. "Is that so."
Lucian looked at the sword. "What are you doing?"
"Training."
His heart jumped. "Can you teach me?"
"You are still too young."
"Then can I just watch?"
"Sure."
Lucian sat close and kept his eyes on every movement. Father's aura shifted with each breath. His feet dug into the ground. His blade cut clean arcs through the air, not fast, but controlled. Efficient. Each strike landed with complete intention.
He tried to memorize everything he saw.
A hand came down hard on his shoulder.
He went still.
"Where do you think you are going, Lucy?" Belle said.
She had him before he could answer. Her grip was ridiculous. He tried pulling her fingers off and got nowhere. She dragged him across the yard like he weighed nothing.
"Help," Lucian said, reaching toward Father.
Father watched with a look of pure pity and gave him a small, helpless wave.
That was the last thing he saw before the yard disappeared behind him.