Zairen staggered to the table, his body battered from the relentless blamming and accusation of Seressia and Elyra. His hands, scarred and trembling, unwrapped the cloth, revealing the mana stone—a radiant orb glowing with a deep, pulsating blue. It shimmered like a captive star, casting fleeting light across his calloused fingers. A fierce grin split his face, defiant and raw. "Time to start the pain," he growled, his voice thick with determination.
He sank to the floor, gripping the stone tightly. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he exhaled slowly, then inhaled again, grounding himself. His heart thundered, a drumbeat of anticipation and dread. The mana stone hummed, its energy seeping into him, tentative at first, like a stream trickling through parched earth. Zairen shut his eyes, focusing as the mana surged faster, flooding his veins with searing power.
A spark flared in his chest, near his heart—a crackling orb of light, pulsing like a storm. The stone quivered in his grasp, then jolted violently, flashing with a blinding pulse. A brutal suction yanked the mana into Zairen's body, a torrent of raw energy tearing through his core. He screamed, the sound ripping through the silence as blood sprayed from his mouth, hot and metallic, splattering the floor in crimson arcs. His eyes burned, and blood streamed down his cheeks, staining his face like war paint. The pain was unbearable, as if his soul were being shredded by a thousand blades, but Zairen's will held firm. His consciousness clung to clarity, unyielding, even as his body convulsed.
A mana circle flickered into existence before him, swirling chaotically, its turquoise glow unstable. It pulsed—thump, thump, thump—then shattered with a deafening crack, fragments of light scattering like broken glass. Zairen gritted his teeth, sweat mixing with the blood on his face, and forced his focus inward. Another circle formed, steadier this time, its vibrant green hue pulsing with life. With a final thump, it solidified, hovering briefly before collapsing to the ground in a burst of emerald sparks.
Zairen gasped, his chest heaving. "Two circles… done," he rasped, his voice raw and ragged. He dragged himself to his bed, collapsing onto the worn mattress with a groan. "Who knew rebirth would be this brutal?" he muttered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Exhaustion claimed him, and he slipped into a brief, dreamless nap.
When he woke, the weight of his journey lingered, but a flicker of resolve burned within. He grabbed his battered armor and sword and headed outside. The guards at the gate nodded, letting him pass without a word. Zairen braced himself, expecting Elyra to appear, ready to pour out her usual sob story, trying to win him over with her crocodile tears. But she didn't. She hadn't left her room since dinner. For Zairen, it was a relief. He smiled faintly. "Who'd believe those fake tears anyway?" he murmured, his voice laced with bitter amusement. but today, the path was quiet. No Elyra, no Seressia, no interruptions. carriage rolled up, its driver offering a ride, but Zairen waved it off.
Zairen wanted to walk, to feel the peace of solid ground beneath his feet. Since his rebirth, it had been nothing but fighting, bloodshed, broken bones, and narrow escapes—his hands bruised, his legs battered. Even a villain deserved a moment's rest, didn't they? The sounds of the town wrapped around him like a balm—children's laughter, merchants' chatter, the clatter of carts. For the first time since his rebirth, a fleeting sense of calm settled over him.
He reached the blacksmith district, where the air rang with the clang of hammers and the roar of furnaces. The Anvilsworn Guild stood tall, its stone walls scarred with the marks of countless forges. Zairen stepped inside, and a young female attendant approached, her smile polite but cautious. "Yes, sir, how can I help you?"
"I need my armor repaired," Zairen said, his voice steady despite the exhaustion etched into his bones.
"Of course, sir. It'll take two days. Please fill out these forms, and we'll assign a blacksmith when one's available."
"I also need to see Master Haxton," Zairen added.
The attendant's smile wavered. "I'm sorry, sir, Master Haxton doesn't see—"
Zairen cut her off, flashing the Draven sigil, its intricate crest gleaming in the dim light. Her eyes widened, and she stammered, "My lord, I didn't know. Please, follow me." Her tone shifted to deference, tinged with fear. Zairen nodded, following her up a creaking staircase to the guild's upper floor.
A booming voice rattled the walls. "I said no disturbances!" Master Haxton's bellow echoed. The attendant hesitated, then called out, "Someone from the Viscount's side wishes to see you, sir."
Haxton emerged, his burly frame filling the doorway. His scowl melted when he saw Zairen. "Zairen! You're alive!" He clapped Zairen's shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. "How was the journey? Tough, eh?"
Zairen chuckled, though it came out more like a grimace. "Let's just say it's been… eventful. But good."
Haxton laughed, his eyes gleaming with approval. "That's the spirit! Now, what can I do for you?"
"I awakened my mana," Zairen said, his voice steady but proud. "One circle, fully formed. I want my sword and armor integrated with it, so I can channel my mana through them. Make them an extension of my power."
Haxton's eyebrows shot up. "One circle already? Impressive, lad. Alright, give me three or four days. I'll make it happen." He grinned, clapping Zairen's shoulder again. "Anything else?"
Zairen shared a few tales from his raid, the dangers and triumphs, before thanking Haxton and leaving the guild. The walk back to Draven Manor was quiet, his mind buzzing with the day's events. As he climbed the manor's grand staircase, a figure stepped into his path—Elyra.
"Zairen, wait!" Her voice was soft but desperate, a far cry from her usual taunts. He froze, his heart clenching at the sight of her. Her black hair caught the candlelight, and her eyes, usually sharp , were wide with something raw—regret, perhaps, or fear.
He turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm. "Please, Zairen, just listen." Her voice cracked, trembling with emotion. "I know I've been awful to you. Zairen, I've treated you so badly these past years, ever since our parents died. I blamed you, and I'm sorry. I can't forgive myself for it, but please… don't hate me. I'm your sister."
Zairen's chest tightened, but he knew better. Her words were a trap, a façade of sympathy to mask her guilt. People like her never saw their own faults—they'd beg for forgiveness, expecting it to erase everything, only to treat you the same way again. And Zairen? He couldn't forget. In his past life, shehad a hand in his death. The betrayal still burned, a wound that refused to heal. He wanted to walk away, to shield himself from the storm of emotions her words stirred, but her grip on his arm was desperate, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
For a moment, Zairen felt a flicker of emotion—memories of the sister he'd once known, the one he'd laughed with before the world tore them apart. But he steeled himself, refusing to fall for her trickery again. He turned, giving her only a sharp look, his face a mask of cold indifference. Without a word, he walked away, leaving her standing in the flickering candlelight.
Elyra's heart shattered as she watched him go, her sobs catching in her throat. Each step he took felt like a chasm widening between them, her regret a heavy weight crushing her chest. She'd pushed him away for so long, and now, when she needed him most, he was gone. "My birthday's in three days," she whispered to the empty hall, her voice breaking. "I'm leaving after that… for the Royal Mage, then i join the Academy. I might not see you for years, Zairen. Please… come." But he was already gone, and the silence swallowed her words.
Zairen reached his room and collapsed onto his bed, Elyra's plea echoing in his mind. Her tear-streaked face, her trembling voice—it stirred something he wasn't ready to face. He clenched his fists, shoving the emotions down. "Tomorrow," he muttered. "Training starts tomorrow." Sleep came fitfully, haunted by the ghosts of betrayal and the faint, lingering hope of reconciliation.
Meanwhile, in the Central Kingdom
At the sprawling Lionhart Mansion, the courtyard buzzed with energy. A silver-haired boy moved like lightning, his sword clashing against a towering soldier's blade. The maids watching from the sidelines cheered, their voices bright with adoration. "Young Master Adam! So strong! You'll surpass everyone!"
Adam, his silver hair glinting in the sunlight, parried a heavy blow with ease, his movements fluid and precise. With a sudden shift, he channeled mana into his sword, the blade glowing with a faint, icy blue. Clang! The soldier's weapon flew from his hands, and Adam's strike sent him sprawling to the ground. The maids erupted in cheers. "Young Master Adam! Victory!"
Adam's lips curved into a warm, practiced smile as he extended a hand to the fallen soldier. "Good fight," he said, his voice gentle, almost caring. The soldier, breathless but grateful, took his hand and stood. The maids swooned, whispering about Adam's strength, his kindness, his brilliance. At only sixteen, he was a two-circle magus—a prodigy unmatched in the kingdom.
"Give him some water too," Adam said, nodding toward the soldier. The maids hurried to comply, one wiping the sweat from Adam's brow, another pressing a cup into his hands. His smile widened, all charm and grace, but it didn't reach his eyes. To the maids, he was their perfect young master—strong, kind, heroic. But beneath the mask, a darkness festered.
Adam excused himself, striding into the mansion's changing room. The moment the door closed, his smile vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory grin. His eyes gleamed with malice, sharp and cruel. "Zairen," he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "This time, you won't survive." A low, chilling laugh echoed in the empty room, the sound of a predator savoring the hunt. Adam's kindness was a lie, a carefully woven facade to hide the envy and hatred burning in his heart. Zairen, his rival from past life, was a threat he couldn't tolerate—a threat he would destroy, no matter the cost.