Warmth.
That was the first sensation that didn't vanish in a blur.
Not pain. Not confusion. Just... warmth.
He was swaddled in it. It wrapped around his skin, pressed against his cheeks, filled his lungs. It was both internal and external — like he was floating inside something living, something safe.
And he was being held.
His mind, still sharp, still undeniably him, tried to make sense of the sensations.
I'm alive.
His chest rose and fell. Small lungs, but strong. His hearing returned in muffled layers — a heartbeat, faster than his own. Then voices. Laughter. Tears. Applause.
He couldn't speak. Couldn't lift his head.
But he understood.
He was a newborn. Again.
And yet, he was no ordinary infant.
His consciousness, his memories, his reasoning — all of it remained intact. It was surreal, terrifying, miraculous.
But more than anything... it was a second chance.
He was passed from one warm pair of arms to another. His head rested against a broad chest, the rhythmic thrum of a heartbeat pulsing against his cheek. He turned slightly, blinking against the soft light above. The room smelled of sterilized linens, scented oils, and something sweet he couldn't name.
Then he heard her.
A soft voice, trembling with emotion. Gentle, melodic.
"Oh, he's perfect," the woman whispered. "Absolutely perfect."
A hand ran through his dark, silky hair. Small fingers brushed along his cheek.
The voice continued, stronger now. "Welcome to the world, my little miracle."
A pause.
"Welcome, Caelum."
Caelum.
So that's my name, he thought, letting the syllables sink in.
A name born not of papers or bureaucracy. Not assigned out of obligation. It was a gift — warm, personal. A name born from love.
He blinked again, and this time, he focused.
The face above his was youthful, early thirties perhaps, but her eyes were tired from the strain of childbirth. Still, they shone with a kind of brilliance that was almost painful to behold — pure, unfiltered love. Her dark auburn hair was damp with sweat. Her skin glowed in the morning light filtering through the high-tech glass of the birthing chamber.
My mother.
Caelum felt something stir within him, deep and aching.
He hadn't called anyone "mother" in over a decade.
Not since Evelyn.
Not since Earth.
Another face came into view — older, more angular. Blue-gray eyes, sharp and calculating, met Caelum's newborn ones with cautious awe.
He didn't cry. He didn't smile.
He simply studied him.
But there was pride in the man's posture. A quiet strength.
His voice was low. "He has your eyes."
"No," his mother said softly, "he has yours."
They exchanged a glance, thick with meaning. There was history between them — not just romance, but battles fought and endured. Caelum could sense it in their body language. Respect, resilience, and a love carved from hardship, not illusion.
"Should we...?" the father began.
"Give it a moment," the mother interrupted. "Let him settle."
Then she leaned closer, whispering into Caelum's tiny ear.
"You are going to be so loved."
And that, more than anything, made him want to cry.
As the hours passed, Caelum was taken through standard procedures — tests, scans, a gentle check of his vitals. Everything was sleek, seamless. The birthing suite was no rustic hospital room — it was pristine and futuristic, filled with soft automated voices and gliding medical drones.
But none of that held his attention.
What fascinated him was the energy.
He could feel it.
It wasn't Ki as he had once imagined it — abstract, fictional, a trope for fantasy novels. No, this was real. Tangible. Like a pressure, a heat, moving all around and through him.
Within his chest, the Core glowed softly. Still clear, still undetermined in color — like a blank canvas waiting to be filled.
He didn't yet understand how to manipulate it. Not fully. But the instinct was there, thrumming beneath his skin.
And with it, a sense of overwhelming potential.
Later that day, another child entered the room.
Caelum felt her before he saw her — a burst of energy, less refined than the adults, more chaotic. Her steps were light, excited. A child's joy.
She had long black hair tied in twin braids, freckles across her nose, and wide, expressive green eyes that lit up as soon as she saw the bundle in their mother's arms.
"Is that—? Is that him?!"
Her voice was high and fast and full of unfiltered curiosity.
"Yes, Saria," the mother said with a smile. "Come say hello."
The girl ran over and stood on tiptoe beside the bed, staring down with fascination at her baby brother.
He looked back at her, blinking.
So this is my sibling...
She grinned. "He's so small! He's all wrinkly and red. Ew!"
"Saria," the father warned gently.
She laughed. "But he's cute, too! Hi there! I'm your big sister! That means I'm in charge!"
Caelum gurgled — a reflex, not a choice — but Saria gasped.
"He talked to me! Did you hear that?!"
His mother chuckled. "He's listening."
Saria leaned close and whispered conspiratorially, "Don't worry. I'll teach you everything you need to know. Like how to sneak snacks past the nanny droids and which trees in the garden are best for climbing."
Caelum's tiny hand twitched.
This girl... she's a whirlwind, he thought. But she's mine. My sister.
He had never had siblings in his past life. Never known what it meant to be part of a family unit. Just fragments, broken pieces, faded photos and forgotten birthdays.
Now he had this — a mother, a father, a sister.
A beginning.
That evening, after the visitors and attendants left, the family was alone.
The mother rocked him gently in her arms, seated on a curved bench beside the window. The stars were bright outside, thousands of them, like pinpricks in the obsidian sky. Caelum watched their glow, absorbing everything. His infant body was tired, but his mind raced.
Where am I?
Who are these people?
What is this world?
He'd gathered fragments from overheard dialogue. The father had military posture, sharp command in his tone. The mother had referred to some kind of "Core Ceremony" when speaking to the nurses. Saria had mentioned sparring drones and levitating scooters.
This wasn't a medieval fantasy realm.
It was futuristic. Advanced.
But still powered by Ki — or a form of it. The Core within him pulsed softly in time with his breath. Others in the room had cores too — dimmer, different, and far less reactive than his.
That meant something.
He would need to learn the rules of this world. Its hierarchies. Its dangers.
And, more importantly... its limits.
Because he already suspected he would break them.
His mother's voice broke the silence.
"Caelum."
The name again. It grounded him.
"You're going to grow up in a different world than we did," she whispered. "Safer, I hope. Wiser. Stronger."
She stroked his cheek with a trembling finger.
"But it's not perfect. There are still people who fear strength. Who hoard it. Who kill for it."
Caelum's Core throbbed once — faint, but sharp. As if responding.
"And I know," she continued, "one day you'll face those things too. But you won't be alone."
She looked over at Saria, asleep on the floor beside the bed, her head resting on a curled blanket, soft snores filling the quiet.
"You'll have your sister. You'll have us. And maybe... maybe you'll be the one who finally changes things."
Caelum closed his eyes.
He didn't know what this world expected of him. Or what path lay ahead.
But for the first time in either of his lives, he felt like he had a home to begin from.
And that?
That was everything.