The world of Astira did not tremble when I was born.
No heavens split apart. No stars fell from the sky. No prophecy was etched into the fabric of fate.
On a quiet hill overlooking the bustling town of Dawnhaven, a single cry echoed through the grand manor of House Void.
The cry of a newborn child.
The manor itself stood like a silent guardian—ancient stone walls kissed by moonlight, banners of silver and deep blue fluttering gently in the night wind. House Void had long been known for its integrity, intellect, and restraint. Unlike other noble families, they did not chase glory or conquest. They ruled through wisdom, diplomacy, and quiet strength.
And now, a new life had been added to their legacy.
I lay in a cradle of polished oak and golden filigree, my tiny fingers instinctively clutching a silver spoon engraved with the Void family crest. My silver hair shimmered faintly under the soft glow of lanternlight, and my eyes—still unfocused—reflected a pale cyan hue.
I did not know who I was.
I did not know what I had been.
For the first time in countless existences, my mind was blissfully empty.
At the foot of the cradle stood Lord Alistair Void—tall, broad-shouldered, and dignified. His silver hair was tied neatly behind his head, and his piercing cyan blue eyes softened as they rested upon me.
"Welcome to the world, my boy," he said quietly, his deep voice trembling with something dangerously close to emotion. "Welcome to the legacy of Void."
Beside him stood Lady Isolde Void, her beauty refined and gentle rather than overwhelming. She placed a hand on her husband's shoulder, her eyes filled with warmth as she gazed down at me.
"May you grow with wisdom," she whispered, "and kindness. May you never bear burdens heavier than your heart can carry."
Their words wrapped around me like a blessing.
I did not understand them.
But somewhere deep within my fragile human form, something stirred.
They saw a child.
Nothing more.
And that… was perfect.
The days that followed passed quietly.
Servants moved softly through the halls, speaking in hushed tones whenever they entered the nursery. Midwives praised my calmness. Physicians remarked on my steady breathing and strong heartbeat.
"A healthy boy," they said.
No one sensed the remnants of a god sleeping beneath my skin.
And for a time, neither did I.
The world I experienced was simple. Warmth. Hunger. Sleep. The gentle rocking of my cradle. The soft hum of my mother's voice when she sang lullabies late into the night.
It was… peaceful.
Chapter 3 – Awakening of Memories
Then, on the third night, everything changed.
It began as a sensation.
A pressure.
A ripple that spread through my tiny body like a wave crashing against fragile shores.
The air in the nursery thickened. Lantern flames flickered. The shadows along the walls stretched unnaturally long as a faint cyan glow seeped from my skin.
I did not cry.
I did not move.
Inside my mind, doors began to open.
Memories flooded back—not gently, but violently. Cosmic wars. Shattered realms. The screams of dying gods. The weight of omnipotence pressing down upon my consciousness.
I remembered everything.
I was Solaris Void.
And I had once been far more.
The glow intensified, bathing the room in ethereal light. The cradle creaked under unseen pressure. The air itself vibrated, as though reality hesitated in my presence.
Then—
Silence.
My eyes snapped open.
Cyan blue light flared briefly… and vanished.
The nursery returned to normal, bathed once more in moonlight. The tapestries settled. The air grew still.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my infant body utterly incapable of expressing the storm raging within my mind.
So… this is the cost, I realized.
Remembering meant awakening.
Awakening meant danger.
I could feel it.
Power.
Divine essence leaking through the cracks of my mortal vessel.
My human body was far too weak—far too small—to contain even a fraction of what I once was. Every memory that returned strengthened that essence, threatening to tear me apart from the inside.
Careless, I scolded myself. You should have prepared for this.
I focused.
Or rather, I tried to.
Concentration was difficult when my limbs barely responded to thought and my lungs burned with unfamiliar rhythms. Still, I forced my awareness inward, searching for the core of that leaking power.
Pain flared.
My skin glowed faintly cyan as energy bled outward.
If this continues, this body will not survive, I realized calmly.
So I did the only thing I could.
I commanded myself.
"Stop."
My voice was weak. Barely more than a whisper.
But authority did not come from volume.
"I am Solaris Void," I declared, my infant lips trembling. "And I command you… restrain yourself."
The energy resisted.
Then—slowly—it obeyed.
The glow dimmed. The pain receded. A crude seal formed instinctively around the leaking essence, binding it just enough to prevent collapse.
It was imperfect.
Temporary.
But it was enough.
I drifted into uneasy sleep soon after.
When I awoke, warmth surrounded me.
Arms.
Soft fabric.
A heartbeat that was not my own.
Startled, I let out a sharp cry.
My mother gasped softly, tightening her hold. "Shh, shh… Mama is here."
Her voice was gentle. Steady.
Embarrassment—an emotion I had not felt in ages—washed over me.
This is… undignified, I thought bitterly, squirming slightly. I once commanded creation.
And yet…
Her warmth was comforting.
Against my will, my breathing slowed.
Her lullaby wrapped around my thoughts, quieting the echoes of divinity.
Perhaps, I admitted reluctantly, this life will require adjustment.
I resolved then and there:
In this life, I would be ordinary.
No gods.
No cosmic wars.
Just Solaris Void.
A normal boy.
I learned something important in the days that followed.
A human Breathing hurt.
Every breath scraped against lungs that had never existed in my previous life. My heart beat far too loudly, far too fast, as if constantly afraid of stopping. Hunger gnawed at me relentlessly, and sleep came in broken fragments instead of the timeless stillness I once knew.
This body demanded attention.
And worse—
It could not endure me.
The seal I had formed on the third night was unstable.
I felt it constantly now.
A tightness in my chest. A pressure beneath my skin. Divine essence coiled within me like a restrained storm, pressing against the crude bindings I had forced into place.
Every time I remembered more—
Every time a fragment of my former existence surfaced—
The pressure increased.
I began to understand the danger.
Memory itself was poison.
On the fifth night after my birth, the seal cracked.
It happened suddenly.
One moment I was lying quietly in my cradle, listening to the distant rhythm of the manor settling into sleep.
The next—
Agony.
My vision blurred as pain exploded outward from my chest, radiating through my tiny limbs. The air around me warped, bending as though reality itself struggled to remain intact.
I tried to cry.
No sound came out.
My mouth opened, but my lungs seized, overwhelmed by energy they were never meant to circulate.
The nursery darkened.
Moonlight twisted into sharp, unnatural angles as shadows clung to the walls. My skin burned, glowing faintly cyan beneath the thin fabric of my clothes.
Focus, I ordered myself desperately.
But pain shattered concentration.
The seal splintered further.
I felt it then—
Fear.
Not the distant, abstract fear of annihilation.
But the raw, instinctive terror of a child.
I don't want to die.
The thought echoed through my mind, shocking in its simplicity.
I had faced oblivion before.
This was different.
My awareness plunged inward.
Past the fragile organs.
Past the fragile flesh.
Into the core of my being.
There—buried beneath layers of suppression—I found it.
My divinity.
It was vast.
Endless.
Patient.
And utterly indifferent to the weakness of my current form.
You will destroy this body, I realized.
Not out of malice.
But because existence itself bent to its presence.
I had made a fatal miscalculation.
Reincarnating was not enough.
I needed containment.
"Listen to me," I whispered inwardly, my infant voice trembling. "You are no longer free."
The power resisted.
Not violently.
But stubbornly.
It pulsed against the restraints, eager to expand, to express itself, to exist as it once had.
My vision darkened.
I felt my heart falter.
Now, I commanded.
Drawing upon what little authority remained to me, I began constructing a true seal.
Not a patch.
Not a barrier.
A prison.
Symbols etched themselves into my consciousness—ancient runes older than the multiverse itself. I wove them together with precision born of countless epochs.
Pain accompanied every line.
Every symbol burned as it anchored itself to my soul.
I screamed.
This time, sound emerged.
A thin, broken cry tore from my throat, echoing through the manor.
Footsteps thundered toward the nursery.
The door burst open.
"Solaris!" Mother cried, rushing to my cradle.
Father followed close behind, his expression hardening as the air around the room shimmered faintly.
They felt it.
They did not understand it.
But instinct screamed danger.
"Call the physician," Father ordered sharply.
Too late.
The seal finalized.
A sigil flared briefly on my chest—intricate, layered, and unmistakably unnatural.
Then it vanished.
The pressure collapsed inward.
Silence returned.
I gasped, lungs burning as air finally filled them.
My skin cooled.
The glow faded.
I was alive.
Mother lifted me into her arms, shaking slightly as she held me close.
"It's all right," she whispered, though her voice trembled. "You're safe."
Father stood frozen, eyes fixed on the place where the sigil had appeared.
He said nothing.
But I saw it.
Fear.
That night marked the beginning of restraint.
The seal worked.
Mostly.
It bound the vast majority of my power deep within my core, leaving only a thin trickle accessible—just enough to sustain my existence without tearing me apart.
But it came at a cost.
The god I once was had to sleep.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
I grew.
Slowly.