It had been about four years since I got reincarnated.
Four years of learning to walk, talk, smile, and pretend like everything was normal.
Four years of noble etiquette drills, servants who bowed too low, and books that smelled like polished leather and dust.
Four years of trying to become someone I wasn't—and hoping no one could see it.
And honestly?
I was doing alright.
Maybe too alright.
I'd learned to blend in. To speak only when spoken to. To hold my teacup like it mattered. To nod at nobles who looked down at me like I was already one of them. To breathe in silence and never make too much noise.
I played the role they gave me:
Kaelen Selkareth.
Heir to a noble house.
Polite. Clean. Blank.
Not Takuya Sugino.
Not the bruised kid with a fake smile.
Not the target.
And for a while, I actually thought I'd escaped it.
That I'd finally landed somewhere quiet.
Safe.
But that peace always came with a weight.
Like holding your breath underwater, waiting for the surface to break.
Waiting for the scream.
The boot.
The laugh.
Waiting for someone to realize I didn't belong.
And tear it all away.
It started on an afternoon that felt too perfect.
Warm sunlight poured through the tall hallway windows, the kind of gold light that makes everything look like a memory. I was in the west hall, tucked into a reading nook, flipping through a book I wasn't really reading—something about rare insects in the southern valleys.
I didn't care. It just gave me an excuse to hide.
Mother came looking for me.
Her steps were softer than usual, like she was trying not to alert the house. That alone was weird. Thalira was many things, but secretive wasn't usually one of them. She moved like someone trying not to be heard, which was strange for her. She didn't tiptoe. She walked like she owned the floor.
"Kaelen, sweetheart," she said, smiling like she always did—but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Come with me. There's something important we need to talk about."
Important business.
For a four-year-old.
I nodded. Of course I did.
Because that's what a good son does.
Even if he's terrified.
She led me quietly through the corridors and into my room. The servants didn't follow. That alone set off warning bells in my head.
She sat with me on the edge of my bed, her hand gently resting over mine.
And then, in a voice softer than I'd ever heard her use, she said:
"Kaelen... there's something you need to know. About our family."
My stomach twisted. Not sure why. Instinct, maybe.
"You've probably heard the name Selkareth mentioned in hushed tones. Whispers in the halls. That's because... our bloodline is special. We don't have magic. No aura, no mana, no spiritflow. Not like the other noble houses."
I stayed quiet. Let her keep talking.
"We are what this world calls Ghostborn," she said, the word carrying a strange weight in her voice. "Descendants of a bloodline untouched by the arcane. We don't bond with mana. We don't wield spells. We were born without that gift—or that curse, depending on who you ask."
She squeezed my hand gently, her eyes searching mine for any sign of confusion or fear.
"In a world full of magic, we are the stillness between the storms," she whispered. "That's why our family is trusted by kings and feared by sorcerers. No spell sees us. No enchantment lingers. We are blank."
I nodded.
And said nothing.
Because inside?
I was screaming.
Ghostborn?
Me?
That word echoed through my head like a dropped stone in a deep well. I hadn't even realized the Selkareth name meant something like that—something so specific.
I thought our family was just kind of... cold. Formal.
But no magic? No aura? That was apparently our thing?
How was I supposed to process that?
And if she was right—if the entire bloodline had never had a drop of mana in it—
Then what was this thing inside me?
That flicker in my bones when I got angry.
That pressure behind my eyes when I couldn't sleep.
That heat that rose in my fingertips when I touched flame last winter.
That buzzing hum when the house went still and I was finally alone.
Ghostborns didn't have that.
So why did I?
What the hell was wrong with me?
I didn't say anything.
Just smiled.
"I understand, Mother."
Even though I didn't.
Even though I was lying through my teeth.
She smiled back, kissed my forehead like nothing was wrong, and walked out.
The door clicked shut.
Ghostborn?
No aura. No mana. Just a blank slate in a world full of magic.
Was that supposed to make me feel special?
Because it didn't.
It made me feel like a glitch. A broken piece in someone else's perfect puzzle.
And the thing is—if Ghostborns really aren't supposed to feel anything magical…
Then I'm not one of them.
Because I do feel it. I've felt it for a while now. Not every day, not always… but it's there. In my chest. In my fingertips. Like something humming under my skin, waiting.
And that's not supposed to happen.
And I stayed there, staring at my hands.
Still. Small. Shaking.
What am I?
What if they find out?
What if they throw me away?
What if I end up just like before?
Tobashi's voice crawled through my mind like rot.
"Look at that face. You think someone like you can fight back?"
"What a little freak."
I remembered the fists. The laughter. The nurses who didn't ask. The teachers who looked away.
I remembered learning to flinch before the pain even came.
And now they were calling me blank.
But I didn't feel blank.
I felt like something waiting to happen.
Something dangerous.
Something wrong.
I curled up on the bed and waited for the panic to stop.
It didn't.
I thought I left that behind.
I thought this world was supposed to be a fresh start. Not... this.
I didn't want to be different anymore. I just wanted to belong. I wanted to stay.
And right now?
I was scared shitless.
Days passed. I smiled. I ate. I answered questions.
I played my role.
But inside?
Everything burned.
The more I thought about it, the more I remembered the void.
That endless black.
That cold silence.
The moment before all of this began.
And the voice.
"You've died."
"But you accepted my offer."
"So I gave you a second chance."
Was this it?
This hum inside me? This secret power?
Was that the second chance?
My eyes snapped open.
What if this—whatever's happening inside me—is part of that?
What if I'm not broken?
What if I'm like this because I was meant to be?
Because It made me this way?
Maybe… maybe I'm not just some random soul that lucked into a noble life.
Maybe I was chosen.
And yeah, maybe that's just me trying to make sense of the chaos—but hell, it's better than thinking I'm cursed.
Better than thinking I don't belong.
Maybe the voice in the void didn't just give me another life.
Maybe it gave me a purpose.
I didn't know.
But I needed to.
So I started looking.
A few days passed.
I couldn't stop thinking about it.
Not the Ghostborn talk. Not even the whole "you're not supposed to have magic" thing.
What stuck with me was that voice.
That moment in the void.
Second chance.
Purpose.
It was starting to itch at me.
And when something itches this hard—you scratch.
It was late afternoon when I slipped away.
The house was too quiet. Servants were doing their usual rounds, and Mom was out in the garden pretending to enjoy tea with some boring noble lady.
No one noticed me sneak past the hallway arch and up the servants' stairs.
I'd never been up to the attic before. It wasn't forbidden or anything—it was just one of those places that everyone ignored, like it didn't exist.
But I'd seen a servant carry up a stack of old books once, mumbling something about "archived family records."
Felt like a good place to start.
The door creaked like a horror movie cliché, and the air smelled like dust, old wood, and something... faintly metallic.
The light was dim, the windows small and dirty, but there were trunks, crates, and shelves filled with old junk—armor pieces, scroll tubes, broken portraits.
And then I saw it.
A small leather-bound book, half-tucked under a cracked mirror. It didn't look special. No glowing sigils. No floating runes.
Just a book.
Just waiting.
I opened it on the floor, cross-legged, heart pounding.
I flipped past pages of notes. Diagrams. Scribbles.
A spellbook. Is it?
No title. No author's name. Just a bunch of practical entries.
"Binding Threads", "Cleansing Ray", "Feather Drift"...
That one caught my eye.
Feather Drift — Low-grade aerial spell. Used to slow falling objects or reduce body weight during short descents.
Simple. Safe. No fire. No explosions.
Probably.
I took a deep breath.
This was stupid. Really stupid.
If someone caught me, I'd be grounded for life. Or worse—studied like some cursed creature.
But if I didn't do it, I'd keep spiraling in circles. Doubting myself. Scared.
I was tired of being scared.
I placed the book on the floor in front of me. Steadied my breathing. Focused.
The incantation was short.
"Tolarin vesrul nai."
Three words.
That's it?
I exhaled. My hands trembled.
If I cast this, there's no going back.
If I fail, maybe I imagined everything.
If I succeed…
But the moment the words left my lips, I felt it.
Like a flicker of electricity behind my eyes. Like my breath had briefly synced with something ancient and waiting.
The air shimmered—just slightly. Dust in the attic stirred, lifting gently off the floor like someone had nudged the wind in here.
I felt alive.
Not like a noble's son. Not like a Ghostborn.
Not even like Kaelen.
But like me.
Like Takuya, rebuilt.
Sharper. Quieter. Hidden.
But here.
It worked.
It actually worked.
I cast a spell. There's no turning back now.
I sat there for a long time, just breathing.
The spell faded. The light settled.
But something inside me stayed.
A glow. A whisper. A promise.
This wasn't over.
This was just the beginning.