I never thought I'd die with a blueprint in my hands.
It was just another day—another long, hot, stressful day on the construction site. The sun was merciless, beating down on the half-finished skyscrapers like it was trying to burn the steel into submission. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and squinted down at the plans for Sector 7. Roads, zoning, drainage—it all had to fit perfectly. A single mistake could mess up the entire city layout.
"Mr. Carter, the concrete pour is behind schedule," one of the interns called out.
"Tell them to fix the mix ratio," I muttered, still tracing lines with my pen. "And double-check the rebar alignment on the east support. If that cracks, we'll have a real problem."
That was me—Nathaniel Carter, head of city planning, perfectionist, and probably the most overworked man in the metro. I'd spent the last fifteen years building dreams into steel and glass, and for what? To collapse from exhaustion at 35?
Because that's what happened.
One moment, I was sketching a bridge redesign. The next, my chest tightened like a steel cable snapping. My vision blurred, my knees gave out, and before I could call for help… everything went black.
I floated.
No pain. No gravity. No sound. Just... silence.
Was this death?
Then came the light. It started as a flicker, then bloomed into brilliance—soft and warm, like a sunrise through morning mist. Shapes emerged: human-like, glowing, majestic. Voices, layered and harmonic, spoke in unison.
"Welcome, Nathaniel Carter."
I turned—if floating in a void could even be called turning. "What… What is this place?"
"You have passed from your previous life," they said, their voices calm but not unkind. "Your death, though tragic, was not in vain."
I blinked. "You mean… I died?"
"Yes. Your heart gave out. It was swift. Peaceful."
I didn't feel peaceful. I felt like a ragdoll who just got tossed into a cosmic washing machine.
"We are the gods and goddesses who govern the cycle of life across the realms," they continued. "To compensate for your untimely death, we offer you a second life."
"A second life?" I echoed.
"In a world different from your own. A world of magic and swords. You will be born anew and granted a gift—an ability that will awaken when you turn twelve."
"Twelve?" I frowned. "What happens when I turn twelve?"
But the voices had already begun to fade.
"Wait! What do you mean twelve? What kind of gift—?!"
Darkness swallowed me once more.
I woke up choking on air that wasn't mine, in a body that wasn't mine.
Everything was massive—the ceiling, the arms holding me, the faces above. A woman with soft features and auburn hair was crying with joy. "He's beautiful… Nathaniel, my son…"
Wait. Did she just say Nathaniel?
I couldn't speak. My limbs didn't respond the way they should. My vision was blurry, my cries pathetic. I was… a baby.
This was real. This was happening.
I'd been reborn.
The years that followed were a strange blend of awe and déjà vu. My name was still Nathaniel, but now I was Nathaniel Carter Wynthorne, son of Duke Aldric Wynthorne, the ruler of the vast Wynthorne Domain—second in power only to the royal family of the Kingdom of Valmaria.
From day one, it was clear this world was different. Magic existed. Nobility wielded it like a birthright. My father, the duke, was a stern, imposing man—muscular, silver-haired, and always draped in a deep red military cloak. He rarely smiled, but his presence commanded attention in any room.
My mother, Lady Seraphina, was a former knight turned duchess—kind, sharp-witted, and endlessly graceful. She read to me daily, books filled with tales of dragons, empires, and magic systems I couldn't even begin to understand… at first.
By the time I was three, I could read on my own. My tutors praised me, calling me a prodigy. I didn't correct them. No one wants to hear a toddler explain reincarnation.
At five, I began sword training. It was brutal—especially under Father's watchful eye. He expected perfection. No excuses. I bled, I bruised, and I kept getting up. It was the only way to earn his respect.
Our family dinners were always formal, full of conversation about border conflicts, trade alliances, and the movement of noble houses. I listened quietly, absorbing everything like a sponge.
Though I was a child in body, my mind remained sharp, older, grounded by the memories of a man who once designed entire cities. I applied that same discipline to everything—magic theory, swordsmanship, etiquette, history. Knowledge was power, and I refused to waste this second chance.
But no matter how much I achieved, my father's eyes still searched for something more.
"Magic," he once said, after watching me dismantle a noble's argument on taxation. "Bloodlines are sacred. When the time comes… I expect nothing less than flame in your veins."
That was the Wynthorne legacy—fire magic, passed down for generations. Powerful. Destructive. Pure.
But me? I wasn't sure what was inside me.
The gods had promised a gift when I turned twelve. That day was coming. Soon.
Until then, all I could do was wait... and prepare.
To be Continued...