Heavy breathing. A leaden body. Pain.
I didn't know how long I'd been walking through the rain, but my legs kept moving on their own. Narrow streets, the smell of wet asphalt, raindrops pounding against the pavement in a steady drumbeat. The world around me blurred like a watercolor washed out by water—soft edges, no clear lines. Every step sent dull pain through my limbs, but I didn't stop. I didn't want to.
Somewhere beyond the curtain of rain stood a house where no one was waiting for me anymore.
A stare. Cold. Empty. There was no anger in it. No sadness. Just final rejection.
"Fucking assholes…" I muttered through clenched teeth.
Rage churned inside, but all that showed on the outside was exhaustion. What the hell? I never asked to be born into that family. I never asked for them to be my parents.
I tried to straighten up, but a cramp shot through my side. The rain grew heavier, cold streams running down my face, soaking me to the skin. Where even was I?
A flash of lightning. I looked around. Tall buildings boxed in the street on all sides, their dark shapes looming like silent guards of a life that wasn't mine. People hurried by, ducking under umbrellas, hopping over puddles. Someone bumped into me with a shoulder.
"Oh—sorry!"
A schoolkid. His face showed a flicker of panic, but he didn't stop. Just kept running.
School... There was a time I went to one of those. I turned my head slowly and spotted a group of kids by a kiosk. Young. Laughing. Whole. Chatting about something trivial, pointless—but their world was full of color. Unlike mine.
I wanted to look away. I wanted to disappear.
I stopped at a crosswalk. Rain trickled down my hair, my face, slid under my collar.
"Because you… if only you'd—god, you're an idiot!"
A loud female voice. I turned and saw a couple arguing. The girl flailed her arms, trying to get through to him, but he wasn't listening. She spun and ran. He chased after.
Something slammed into my back. I staggered forward but stayed upright.
A girl. Black hair, piercing eyes. She didn't even say sorry. Just kept running—straight into the street.
"Sorry about her… she—"
He didn't stop either. Just tore off after her.
"Damn kids…"
I didn't rush. Why would I? I had no home. No destination. Just a void filled with hate.
The screech of tires. Blinding headlights.
I saw his face. A boy, frozen like a deer caught in the beam.
Shit.
A lunge. Wind in my ears. A split second. The girl. The boy. My shoulder slammed into his side, knocking him away.
Pain.
Then nothing.
A white ceiling. White walls. An unfamiliar place with a strangely familiar feeling.
I blinked. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting patterns across the blanket. Warm. Dry.
"Wh-what…"
I was awake.
***
A sharp gasp. My back was soaked with sweat, my heart pounding like I'd just died all over again. My breath came in ragged bursts, lungs burning. But I was alive.
That dream again. That moment again. The headlights. The fall.
"What a fucking stupid way to die…" I muttered, flopping back onto the pillow.
I tried to sit up—immediately regretted it. Every muscle in my body ached like I'd been beaten with sticks all night. Which, to be fair, wasn't that far from the truth. Paul could probably stand to go a little easier on his own son, but subtlety was never really his thing. He'd decided I'd become a swordsman, and now he was drilling me like a madman. Hopefully, it'll be worth something.
I stretched, wincing as the muscles in my back and arms flared with tension.
This is insane.
Not long ago, I lived a normal… well, probably normal life. And now I'm swinging a wooden sword and taking hits to the head. Gods, I really hope I never have to actually use it. The idea of needing this thing to kill someone sends a chill through me. I didn't even know how to throw a punch in my last life. No way I could take anyone down with this body.
In the corner, the sword waited—dark sheath, quietly calling to me. The one they gave me on my fifth birthday.
It looked too heavy. Too much for someone like me. But I was getting used to it.
I didn't want to use it in a fight. But the truth was, if I wanted to survive in this world, I'd better learn how to swing it.
I gripped the hilt and drew the blade from its sheath. Even though I'd never actually used the damn thing, it settled into my hand like it belonged there.
The steel caught the morning light, and the fine mithril lines etched into it shimmered faintly. This wasn't a child's toy. But it was mine.
A sharp blade. A deadly chunk of metal. And yet, its weight in my hand was oddly calming.
"Artifact weapon," I muttered. "Supposed to have some kind of ability."
Paul says the sword will awaken on its own, when the time comes. Weird logic. How the hell is it supposed to do that "on its own"?
Artifact weapons were the backbone of every elite warrior's arsenal. Everyone wanted one. But these things were almost never for sale—most belonged to nobles or the wealthy. They were insanely expensive. Paul told me he'd spent half his savings just to get his hands on this sword.
That made me feel a little guilty.
Weapons like this needed a source of magical energy. They drew it from their wielder, stored it, and released it in moments that mattered. Most artifact weapons had unique abilities—but only when they resonated with their owner. Mine hadn't shown anything yet. Its only talent so far was taking up space in the corner.
"Ugh… I really don't feel like it today."
I sighed, slid the blade back into its sheath, and set it aside. Didn't matter. I still had to get up. My body wasn't happy about it, but quitting wasn't an option.
Careful not to wake the whole house with creaking floorboards, I slipped outside.
The cold morning air bit at my skin, but I drew it in deep. Felt good. Clean and crisp—so different from the stale stink of city streets back in the old world.
Inhale. Exhale.
One step. Then another. I felt my muscles loosen, my body falling into rhythm. Slow at first, cautious—but then faster. More confident.
Inhale. Exhale.
My legs moved faster and faster, carrying me forward. Each day I lasted longer. Each day I ran farther.
I didn't know how many kilometers I covered, but it felt like a lot. Still, that wasn't the hard part. The climb—that's where it got serious. When the hill started to rise, you had to push harder. Every step cost more than the last.
One hundred steps.
Two hundred.
Five hundred.
Seven hundred.
At the top, my blood roared in my ears. My breath came fast and ragged. My vision blurred slightly. I bent over, hands on knees, waiting for the burning in my chest to settle.
The hill. The great tree at its peak. Leaves rustling softly above. Lately, this had become my favorite place. Hard to beat the view.
From here, I could see everything—the village stretched below, fields rolling out toward the horizon, the Buena Forest in the distance like a dark smear against the sky. Just a regular landscape. My new world. My new life.
Every day I wake up at the same time, like a wind-up toy. I go outside, run up here, and then Paul drills me with a wooden sword. It's mind-numbingly boring, and all I want is to just... do nothing. Maybe sit at a computer, open a browser—oh right. None of that exists here. Great.
The only thing I actually cared about—was magic. The kind of magic I never had back in the old world, now real, here. In this one. Practically within reach, and yet…
I'm not allowed to study it.
Zenith had told me the same thing a hundred times, no matter how many ways I asked.
"Magic isn't for children."
Goddammit.
The worst part? She could use it herself. I'd seen her fill cups with water, heal small cuts, light candles without flint. It came to her like breathing—natural, effortless. But the moment I so much as brought up the idea of learning, I'd get the same lecture:
"What I know is too advanced for a child. You can't just start casting spells. It takes preparation."
And where exactly was I supposed to get that preparation, if no one would teach me?
As I walked back toward the house, I remembered the book. There weren't many in the house—mostly children's stories I'd heard a hundred times. But one of them was different.
A grimoire.
A book filled with spells. Zenith never let me near it. Said I wasn't ready.
Fine. Then I'll find a way to read it in secret. If it has what I need…
"She won't teach me? Then I'll teach myself."
Inhale. Exhale.