The rain in the modern world always sounded like a symphony of bullets to a man who lived entirely in the dark.
For twenty-eight years, he had existed in a void. Abandoned by his parents before he could even form a memory of their voices, he was left to navigate a world that pitied him. But he despised pity. Instead of succumbing to the dark, he weaponized it. He learned the rhythm of the streets, the microscopic friction of a blade slicing through the air, the exact vibration a human heart makes when it lies, when it fears, and when it prepares to kill.
He became a legend forged in the gutters and shadows. They called him a monster of martial arts. He possessed "Absolute Hearing" and "Absolute Senses." He didn't need to see the trajectory of a sword; he could feel the air molecules part before the steel even moved. He lived like an uncrowned emperor of the underground, sitting on a throne of silence.
But perfection in the dark was still just the dark.
His death was abrupt, shrouded in a bizarre, suffocating silence that shouldn't have been physically possible. A sudden loss of vibration. A vacuum of sound. Then, the undeniable, tearing sensation of his own chest caving in. As the metallic taste of his own blood pooled in his mouth, he didn't feel fear. He felt a profound, exhausting melancholy.
"I just wanted to see the world from my eyes," he choked out, the words vibrating weakly against his own teeth.
Then, the symphony ended.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It wasn't a drum. It was a heart. Not his, but one vastly larger, surrounding him, encasing him in a suffocating, liquid warmth.
Where am I? His consciousness flared to life. The absolute silence of death shattered, replaced by a chaotic, overwhelming surge of sensory data. He tried to move his arms, but they were weak, practically gelatinous, pressed tightly against his sides in a confined, fleshy chamber.
A womb? The realization struck him with the force of a physical blow. He wasn't dead. Or rather, death was merely a doorway.
Before he could process the sheer absurdity of transmigration, the chamber began to contract. A terrifying, crushing pressure seized his fragile new body. He was being pushed, violently expelled toward a destination he couldn't see.
Through the roaring blood in his ears, he heard voices. They were muffled, frantic, speaking a language entirely alien to Earth. Yet, the raw intent behind the syllables vibrated against his "Absolute Hearing." He didn't need a dictionary to understand panic.
"The Duke—tell him it's time!" a woman's voice shrieked, the sound waves laced with pure, agonizing effort.
The pressure intensified until he felt his small skull might crack. And then, he burst into open air.
The immediate shift in temperature was agonizing. Cold, dry air assaulted his wet skin. He instinctively opened his mouth to draw breath, and a sharp, involuntary wail ripped from his throat.
"A boy! My Lord, it is a healthy heir!" a gruff, trembling voice announced.
He felt enormous, calloused hands wrap around his tiny torso. He was lifted. The vibrations of the room painted a chaotic picture in his mind: heavy stone walls, a blazing hearth, the erratic heartbeats of terrified servants, and the slow, mountainous heartbeat of a man standing nearby.
"Give him to me," the man commanded. The voice was like grinding iron.
He was transferred to the man's arms. The moment he made contact, his nascent "Absolute Senses" triggered a warning. This man was exuding an energy that defied the laws of physics. It wasn't heat. It was a dense, metallic pressure that felt like standing at the bottom of the ocean. Magic. Real, palpable magic.
"My son," the man—the Duke—rumbled. "Kaiser Warborn."
Kaiser. The name resonated in his chest. It was a conqueror's name. It fit the regal arrogance he had cultivated in his past life.
"Let me see him," a weak, exhausted voice pleaded from the bed. His new mother.
"Open your eyes, boy," the Duke commanded, turning him toward the light of the hearth. "Show me the fire of the Warborn blood."
Kaiser, retaining the soul of a 28-year-old martial legend, felt a flicker of ancient anticipation. For the first time in two lifetimes, he had the biological capability of sight. He commanded his infantile ocular muscles to work. His eyelids fluttered, then peeled back.
He expected to see the flickering orange flames. He expected to see the rough, weathered face of his new father.
Instead, the world tore itself apart.
The moment his pupils adjusted to the light, a catastrophic surge of energy erupted from his very soul. It wasn't that he was looking at the room; it felt as though the room was being forcibly sucked into his retinas.
A blinding, ethereal purple light blasted from his eyes, illuminating the stone chamber in a horrifying, violet glow.
He didn't see the world. He saw the spaces between the world. He saw the fabric of reality fraying, a maddening, swirling abyss of pure, unfiltered chaos. It was the Void.
"AGH!"
A maid standing near the bed dropped a silver basin. She clutched her head, her eyes rolling back into her skull as white foam spilled from her lips. She began to claw frantically at her own face, her sanity shattered in a fraction of a second simply by catching a peripheral glimpse of his irises.
"Gods above!" the gruff servant screamed, stumbling backward until he hit the stone wall, weeping uncontrollably.
"Althea, close your eyes!" Duke Warborn roared. The monstrous iron energy around the Duke flared, desperately trying to shield himself from the oppressive, maddening weight of his own newborn son's gaze.
Kaiser tried to shut his eyes, but the sheer power of the "Void Eyes" paralyzed his facial muscles. The purple light intensified, vibrating with a frequency that threatened to liquify the brains of everyone in the room. He could feel their minds cracking under the weight of his stare.
"The Void Eyes... the legends were true," the Duke gritted his teeth, his massive hand trembling as he reached into his heavy coat.
With blinding speed, the Duke produced a strip of thick, runic black silk. He slapped it brutally over Kaiser's face, tying it with terrifying force behind the infant's head.
The purple light vanished. The oppressive madness instantly evaporated.
Kaiser was plunged back into total, suffocating darkness. The searing pain in his optic nerves faded into a dull ache.
"Breathe, everyone," the Duke commanded, his chest heaving. "Take the maid to the clerics. Erase her memories if you must."
"My baby..." Althea sobbed from the bed, ignoring the sheer terror of what had just occurred. "Give him to me, please."
Kaiser felt himself being placed against a soft chest. A gentle hand, trembling violently, stroked his tuft of white hair. Through his "Absolute Senses," he could feel his mother's heartbeat stabilizing, radiating an unconditional, desperate warmth that he had never known in his previous life on Earth.
"He is cursed," the Duke said coldly from the foot of the bed. "The Void Eyes bring nothing but madness to the user and the world. Whoever looks into them loses their soul."
"He is our son," Althea snapped back, a fierce, maternal gravity in her frail voice.
"He is a Warborn," the Duke corrected. "If he survives the madness of his own sight, that curse will become the greatest weapon this Duchy has ever possessed. Keep the silk on him. If it slips, he will destroy himself and us."
Lying in his mother's arms, the black silk digging into his skin, Kaiser listened.
He had transmigrated to a world of magic, born as a noble with the highest pedigree. Yet, the irony was a bitter pill that tasted like ash in his mouth. He had been given a second chance at life, a chance to finally see the sky, the faces of people, the color of the world.
Instead, he was given the most beautiful, terrifying eyes in the universe—eyes so destructive he was condemned to wear a blindfold for the rest of his life.
I am blind again, Kaiser thought, a dark, cynical smile curving his infantile lips.
He focused his mind, tuning out the crying of the servants and the stern breathing of his father. He zeroed in on the micro-vibrations of the castle walls, the rustle of the sheets, the flow of the wind outside the heavy oak doors.