Soft candlelight flickered across stone walls and carved wooden beams. The room smelled faintly of old parchment, incense, and herbs—an ancient chamber in a grand, timeworn mansion. Heavy velvet curtains muted the outside world, making the room feel suspended in stillness.
The baby opened his eyes.
A vaulted ceiling loomed above, its wooden panels etched with faded arcane runes. But what truly filled his vision was the face of a man—middle-aged, bearded, and regal, eyes wide with emotion.
He tried to speak—to say "I was successful." But only a newborn's cry escaped.
"Congratulations, Marcus," a warm voice said from beside the bed. "Your sixth child is born… and he's a boy."
Marcus laughed, tears welling in his eyes as he cradled the child gently. "He will be called Keshav Garg," he declared, voice steady and full of pride.
The others in the room clapped softly, the midwife stepping back with a reverent bow.
Unseen to all, deep within the newborn's soul, divine power stirred. The will of a world, the mind of a god, the memories of YGGDRASIL—all sealed in silence, waiting to awaken.
The newborn's cries softened as he was gently wrapped in a silken cloth embroidered with protective runes. The midwife stepped aside, allowing Marcus to carry the child toward the grand four-poster bed at the center of the ancient room.
His wife, pale and exhausted but radiant with joy, looked up as Marcus approached.
"Here," he whispered, kneeling beside her. "Our son."
Tears welled in her eyes as she took the infant in trembling arms. She held him close, pressing her lips to his forehead. "Keshav…" she breathed. "He's beautiful."
The room fell into a rare peace, the candlelight dancing softly across the carved ceiling, as if blessing the child's arrival.
But the moment did not last.
A sharp knock echoed from the chamber door. A servant entered, face grave and voice low. "My lord Marcus… you are summoned. By His Majesty, the Emperor. Immediately."
Marcus's jaw tightened. He glanced once more at his newborn son and his wife, then rose. "Tell the rider I will depart at once."
He turned to his wife, resting her hand gently.
"I'll return as soon as I can."
He bent low and kissed the sleeping Keshav's forehead.
--
The royal palace stood like a mountain of marble and stone. Its towers pierced the heavens, draped in banners of a lion crest, fluttering in the wind. Marcus knelt before the Emperor, an aging but formidable man with a sharp gaze and a crown that seemed forged from centuries of war.
"Marcus Garg," the Emperor said, "you are needed on the northern frontier. Reports speak of rising demon beast activity along the Veiled Cliffs. We cannot allow them to breach the barrier. You are to lead ten thousand men and fortify the region."
Marcus gave a short bow. "You believe it's a full-scale incursion?"
"We do. And we need our best on the front lines. You will ride at dawn. Take ten thousand men and hold the line. Until death, if necessary."
There was no room for refusal. Only a sharp nod. "As you command, Your Majesty."
Without hesitation, Marcus bowed.
"It shall be done, Your Majesty."
---
That evening, he returned home for one last time.
In full armor, silver and gold plating gleaming under torchlight, Marcus looked every bit the seasoned warlord he was. He found his wife by the window, holding Keshav, the baby's strange glowing hair catching the dying sun.
"I must go," he said quietly.
Tears welled in her eyes. "I knew you would."
He took them both in his arms, holding them as long as he could, before finally placing a protective amulet around Keshav's neck. "This world is not gentle," he whispered. "But you… you'll survive it."
He turned, without another word, and strode to the courtyard.
Ten thousand armored men awaited him, banners raised and horns sounding.
And then he was gone.
---
Keshav's earliest memories were a strange duality.
He was a baby in a new world—cradled in warmth, swaddled in comfort, and surrounded by loving caretakers. But behind those infant eyes lay a mind centuries old, sharpened by science and sorrow. He remembered the ruined Earth, the brilliance of Soul World Online, the moment of his death… and his rebirth.
He was not confused.
He was watching—recording—waiting.
As he grew, the changes in him became unmistakable.
His hair never stopped shifting.
Even as a baby, it glowed softly in dim candlelight, pulsing with dozens of colors in a rhythm not of this world. It was mesmerizing—strands of deep emerald, sudden flashes of violet, threads of gold like sunlight trapped in silk. The colors weren't random. They shimmered with intent, shifting subtly with his emotions, responding to his environment like living conduits.
At first, the household brushed it off as a quirk of noble blood—perhaps a blessing from a distant ancestor, or a rare magical mutation.
But then came the deeper oddities.
Keshav never cried from hunger.
He never fell ill.
Unbeknownst to them, his body was constantly being nourished.
Just like the leaves of YGGDRASIL, his hair—still inexplicably connected to the soul realm—continued to convert ambient soul essence into matter and energy. From the subtlest dust motes in the air, it wove sustenance. From light and silence, it drew power.
He did eat, of course. He drank tea and tasted pastries and joined family feasts. But that was for show.
To blend in.
To wait.
Keshav's mother was the one person who seemed to understand his silence. She would hold him close and hum soft lullabies, sometimes staring into his shimmering eyes with an almost haunted expression.
"Sometimes," she whispered once, "you look at me as if you already understand the pain of this world."
He did.
And then, one morning, she was simply… gone.
The servants whispered that she had vanished during the night, leaving behind no trace—no note, no blood, no sign of struggle. Just an open window, and the faint scent of lavender in the air.
Keshav remembered the moment vividly.
He had been two years old.
He stood silently at the door to her bedchamber, watching the wind ripple through the curtains, his hair glowing with a somber blue.
She had vanished, and he had no answer.
Not from his memories. Not from the game's rules. Not from soul analysis.
Only a deep sense of wrongness, like a thread in the world had been plucked too soon.
Her disappearance changed everything.
Without her, the estate grew colder. His siblings grew distant, even wary. The servants, who once cooed and praised his odd beauty, began to regard him with hesitation. Whispers of omens, of unnatural bloodlines and ancestral powers, spread like smoke.
"He doesn't eat," one muttered."I saw his hair glow in the dark," said another."He's not normal."
They didn't fear him, not exactly.
But they no longer embraced him.
Only his father, when he wrote from the northern front, expressed unshaken love.
"My son," read one of Marcus's letters, "your uniqueness is your strength. One day, the world will try to bend you—but you must never forget who you are."
Keshav folded those letters carefully and stored them away, even though he didn't need to read them twice.
He remembered everything.
He remembered Earth.
He remembered being YGGDRASIL.
And now, as this new world turned slowly around him, as magic and monsters stirred at its edges, and as kingdoms played their ancient games of war and peace…
He waited.
Watched.
Prepared.
The soul world had birthed him anew.
And this time, he would not fail.