The village was small, too small to be mentioned on merchants' maps, and too distant for the gods to notice.
A cluster of scattered wooden houses, bordered by fields on one side and forest on the other, and a narrow dirt road used only by the lost traveler or the lazy merchant who chose to take the shortcut.
In one of those houses lived the child with the silver hair.
At first, no one called him by a special name.
He was simply "the child," the orphan found newborn near the edge of the village. No letter, no sign, nothing to indicate his origin. Just an old blanket and a baby crying softly.
The family who adopted him were neither rich nor important.
A middle-aged man who worked as a fisherman and woodcutter, and a quiet woman who took care of the house. They had no children of their own, and perhaps that is why they accepted the child without hesitation, as if fate had filled an old void in their lives.
They named him Bill.
Bill grew up quietly in the village.
He was neither a child who cried much nor one who laughed much. He observed more than he spoke, and listened more than he asked questions. People described him as a "good boy," without any trouble or strange behavior.
And that was exactly what he wanted.
At a young age, his body began to display unusual strength.
He wasn't conspicuously stronger than the other children, but he was more balanced. He fell less, tired less, and learned movements with surprising speed.
His adoptive father noticed this.
"You're strong, Bill… even as a child."
He said it once while teaching him how to carry a light bundle of wood.
Bill didn't reply, only gave a small smile.
He didn't know why yet, but he felt something inside…
as if his body was operating under invisible constraints.
As if there was a layer preventing something bigger from emerging.
The early years passed without much happening.
During the day, he helped with simple chores:
gathering firewood, feeding the poultry, cleaning tools.
And in the evening, he sat by the hearth, listening to the villagers' stories about a distant city called Orario.
The city of the labyrinth.
The city of the gods. City of Adventurers.
He listened silently, but inside he was stirring.
And one ordinary day… everything changed.
Bill was five years old.
He sat alone behind the house, on an old tree stump, staring out into the woods. No reason was obvious, just a strange feeling of heaviness in his head.
Then…
The silence shattered.
Memories that weren't his, but were his.
Pictures, sounds, feelings, decisions, death.
He saw himself as a man.
He saw the bus.
He saw the explosion that never happened.
He saw the light… then the emptiness… then the white room.
He opened his eyes, gasping.
He didn't scream.
He didn't cry.
He sat for a long time, his breathing slowly calming, his mind racing with the alarming speed of a child his age.
"So… this is it."
He didn't speak aloud, but the understanding was clear.
He had his memories back.
He didn't panic.
He didn't go crazy.
He only felt… responsibility.
He knew this world. He knew what awaited him.
And he knew the only mistake now… was to draw attention to himself.
From that day forward, Bill changed… without anyone noticing.
He became more cautious in his movements.
He concealed his speed.
He reduced his strength.
He feigned exhaustion when necessary.
And at night, when everyone else was asleep, he would sit in bed, close his eyes, and concentrate.
And there… deep inside him… he heard a voice.
A quiet, feminine voice, carrying the weight of long experience.
"Finally… you're awake."
He didn't start.
He simply asked himself:
"Who are you?"
"My name is Rita."
"And I'm… your guide."
A long silence followed.
Then Bill said quietly:
"So… let's start from scratch."
Rita gave a soft, barely audible laugh.
"Or rather, from the very foundation."
That night, nothing extraordinary happened.
No light appeared.
The system's windows remained closed.
But in a small, forgotten village,
only one child… began planning a future that would never be ordinary.