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Relife Trials of the Forgotten

demotrace3
7
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 7 chs / week.
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Chapter 1 - a new breath

He woke with a sharp gasp, the cool air filling his lungs with ease — a sensation so unfamiliar it stole his breath again.

His eyes fluttered open to a wooden ceiling, rough and old, painted with streaks of sunlight. The warmth on his face was real, not a memory or a dream.

He moved slowly, limbs strong and steady. No pain twisted his joints, no wheezing rattled his chest. His fingers flexed, inspecting the smooth skin of a young man's hand — unmarked, firm, alive.

The face staring back at him from a cracked mirror was foreign yet undeniably his. Sharp eyes, dark hair, and a complexion untouched by age or sickness.

He swallowed, a mix of wonder and uncertainty swirling within.

Who am I now? The question echoed softly inside.

A knock came at the door. He turned as a young woman appeared in the frame, her eyes wide with concern.

"You're awake," she said, her voice gentle but hurried. She spoke words he didn't understand — strange sounds and rhythms that twisted his tongue when he tried to reply.

The woman realized his confusion and smiled kindly, switching to slow gestures. "You rest. Safe here," she said, pointing to the bed.

He nodded gratefully, managing a soft, "Thank you."

The language barrier weighed heavily on him — a silent reminder that this world was not his own. He had no name, no past he could recall, only the weight of unfamiliarity pressing down.

He rose and opened the door, stepping into a bright, bustling village filled with sights and sounds both wondrous and overwhelming. Villagers passed him by with curious glances but no recognition. No coins clinked in his pockets — he was without resources, without a plan.

Yet, beneath the uncertainty, a quiet resolve stirred.

This body. This life. It's a second chance.

His new goals formed slowly, like dawn breaking over a dark night: to survive, to learn, to live—truly live. The regrets of a past life, hazy and unspoken, whispered faintly at the edge of his mind. But he would not be bound by them now.

He walked toward the village square, ears catching snippets of the foreign language, trying to mimic the sounds, grasping their meaning like a child learning to speak. His steps were hesitant but purposeful.

Hunger gnawed at his stomach. He found a small tavern at the edge of the square. The wooden sign creaked above the door as he pushed it open. Warmth and the scent of fresh bread and stew wrapped around him like a welcome.

Inside, the patrons paused, eyes flickering over the newcomer. He gave a cautious nod, then took a seat near the hearth, hoping to find shelter for the night.

The tavern keeper, a burly man with kind eyes, approached. Words were exchanged — slow, simple — and though he could not fully understand, the meaning was clear enough. A bowl of stew and a place to sleep, no coin expected for now.

As night settled outside, Elias sat by the fire, the warmth seeping into his bones. He stared into the flickering flames, thoughts swirling with questions and possibilities.

Tomorrow, I will begin to understand this world.

Tomorrow, I will find my place.

But tonight, for the first time in his long, fragmented existence, he felt something precious: hope.