"You were my brother, Kael."
Aras's voice came out cracked and bloody. He was on his knees, barely holding himself up, a blade sunk deep in his side. All around him, smoke rose from burning trees, corpses littered the battlefield, and the sky wept ash instead of rain.
Kael stood over him, armor gleaming, untouched by the chaos. His eyes were cold, empty, the same ones that had once watched Aras's back in countless battles.
"You shouldn't have stood in our way," Kael said flatly.
"We bled for the same banner…" Aras coughed, blood bubbling on his lips. "I trusted you."
Kael sighed, not out of regret, but out of impatience. "The world we fought for is gone. You should have followed me."
"You betrayed everything."
"I chose the future. You chose to die with the past."
Aras's body shook, either from pain or rage — he couldn't tell anymore. "Then finish it."
Kael turned without a word.
Aras fell forward, cheek pressing into blood-soaked dirt. The sounds faded, the light dimmed.
He expected peace. Silence. Darkness.
But instead, he felt a heartbeat.
Not his.
Thump.
Then again.
Thump-thump.
It was muffled, distant — like he was underwater, wrapped in something warm, dense.
Then came the realization: he wasn't dead.
He was… floating?
He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. But he could feel — and he was growing.
His mind, still sharp and adult, was trapped inside something tiny. Helpless.
Time meant nothing. There was only pressure… and sound. Dull voices. Movement.
Then everything tightened. The walls around him began to squeeze.
He was being pushed.
Out.
Light exploded into his world.
He screamed — high-pitched, raw, instinctual.
Hands grabbed him. Warm towels. Cold air. Voices.
"He's breathing!"
"Strong lungs, this one!"
"It's a boy!"
He didn't understand the language completely — but the joy in their tone was clear.
Then another voice — soft, trembling — closer than all the others.
"My son… my little Aras."
That name.
His name.
Again.
Aras blinked.
Everything was blurry, but his mind was wide awake. The pain from the battlefield was gone — replaced by a strange, alien warmth. His limbs were small. His voice nonexistent. He was… a baby.
This is real.
This is happening.
The woman who held him — his new mother — had silver-white hair and deep blue eyes. She looked down at him with a love so pure, it ached.
He wanted to scream again. Not from fear, but from the weight of what this meant.
He had been given a second chance.
Not as a hero. Not as a warrior.
But as a newborn.
Aras's vision faded in and out, but he saw enough. The walls weren't stone and straw — they were metal and crystal. Machines blinked and beeped softly. A floating screen displayed symbols he didn't understand. This was no medieval kingdom.
He had been reborn… in a world that blended magic and technology.
Weeks passed — or so it seemed. He couldn't speak. Couldn't walk. But he watched. Every expression. Every gesture. Every whisper. He absorbed it all.
He learned his mother's name was Elira. Her voice was music, her smile rare but real. She moved with the grace of someone trained to vanish in silence. Her presence calmed him.
His father, Kalen, was the opposite.
Sharp. Stoic. Always armored — even when not in uniform. He rarely spoke, but when he did, every word felt like a command. A man built for war.
Aras began to understand: this world was not peaceful.
He heard the rumble of airships outside the window. Soldiers marching in perfect formation. Newspapers mentioning words like conflict, expansion, Vespera.
This was a kingdom on edge.
And somehow, he was in the center of it.
By the time he could crawl, Aras had mapped out most of the house mentally. The hidden doors. The locked study. The military maps pinned in Kalen's office. The weapons on the walls.
One night, lying in his cradle, he whispered to himself — not out loud, but within:
"I won't waste this life."
"I'll master this world. On my terms."
He didn't know who ruled this place. He didn't care.
All he knew was this:
Kael had walked away.
Aras would rise.
And one day, their paths would cross again.
On his first birthday, Aras was given a leather-bound book — thick, old, and written in a language he barely recognized.
Elira smiled. "For when you're ready."
He was already flipping pages by nightfall.
Maps. History. Politics. The continent of Elarion. Four races. Dozens of kingdoms. One fragile peace.
He devoured it.
He memorized every border, every dynasty, every war.
He wasn't just reborn.
He was preparing.
On the morning of his second birthday, he stood in front of a mirror. White hair, just like Elira. Blue eyes, sharp like Kalen's. A child's body. A general's mind.
"I may be small," he thought, "but I am not weak."
The door creaked.
Kalen stepped inside, holding a wooden training sword.
He said nothing. Just handed it to him.
Aras took it.
He was ready.