The morning sun cast long shadows across the wheat fields. Ren Whitmore woke to the sound of his mother's voice calling from downstairs.
"Ren! The water won't carry itself!"
He sat up in his narrow bed. The straw mattress creaked under his weight. His body ached like he'd been fighting demons all night. But there had been no demons. Only dreams.
Dreams of fire and steel. Dreams of magic that could split mountains. Dreams of a time when his name made kings bow their heads.
But that was ten thousand years ago. In another life. In another world.
Now he was Ren Whitmore, sixteen years old, son of a minor noble family that owned a small farm on the edge of nowhere. Their lands were poor. Their crops were thin. Their name meant nothing.
"Ren!"
"Coming, Mother!"
He pulled on his rough brown tunic and worn boots. The clothes hung loose on his thin frame. This new body was weak. Smaller than the peasants who worked in their fields. His hands were soft where they should be calloused. His arms were thin where they should be strong.
In his past life, he had been tall and broad. His presence alone could silence a room. Warriors twice his size would step aside when he walked by. Now, even the farm dogs ignored him.
He grabbed the wooden buckets by his door and headed downstairs. The house was small but sturdy. Stone walls kept out the cold. A fireplace warmed the main room. It was more than most people had, but less than his family once owned.
His mother, Elena, stood by the kitchen table. She was a thin woman with tired eyes and graying hair. She had been beautiful once. Before the bad harvests. Before his father's debts. Before the shame of watching their fortune slip away year by year.
"The well is running low again," she said without looking at him. "You'll need to go to the stream."
Ren nodded. He had done this every morning for three years. Since he was old enough to carry the buckets without spilling half the water on the way back.
"Where's Father?"
"In the fields. The blight is spreading faster than we thought."
Kael's stomach tightened. The blight was a magical disease that killed crops. It had been moving across the kingdom for months. Small farms like theirs couldn't afford the expensive healing magic needed to stop it.
"How much longer do we have?"
Elena finally looked at him. Her eyes were red with worry. "A few weeks. Maybe less."
In his past life, Ren could have cured the blight with a wave of his hand. He could have made the fields bloom with life. He could have turned barren soil into the richest farmland in the kingdom.
But that power was gone. Sealed away when the gods sent his soul forward through time. He was starting over with nothing. Less than nothing.
He took the buckets and walked outside. The morning air was crisp. Frost covered the grass. Winter was coming early this year.
The stream was a twenty-minute walk through the woods. Ren had made this trip so many times he could do it with his eyes closed. The path wound between oak trees and over fallen logs. Birds sang in the branches above.
It was peaceful. Too peaceful for someone who had once commanded armies.
The stream ran clear and cold over smooth stones. Ren knelt by the water's edge and filled the first bucket. The water was so cold it made his hands ache.
As he reached for the second bucket, he heard footsteps behind him.
"Well, well. Look what we have here."
Ren didn't turn around. He knew that voice. Marcus Aldwin, the blacksmith's son from the nearby village. He was seventeen, tall and strong from working the forge. He liked to remind everyone that his family had real money. Real respect.
"Morning, Marcus," Ren said without looking up.
"Don't you 'morning Marcus' me, you worthless little noble."
Three more boys stepped out from behind the trees. Ren recognized them all. Tom, the baker's son. Will, whose father ran the tavern. And Gareth, who worked in the stables. They were all bigger than Ren. All stronger.
In his past life, Ren had faced down dragons. He had walked through armies like they were wheat in a field. But this weak body would crumble at the first blow.
"We heard about your family's crops," Marcus continued. "Shame about the blight. I guess your father's not such a great farmer after all."
"The blight hits everyone," Ren said. He finished filling the second bucket and stood up slowly. "Even rich families."
Marcus laughed. "Rich families can afford the cure. Poor little nobles like you just have to watch everything rot."
The other boys spread out around Ren. He was trapped between them and the stream. In his past life, this would have been amusing. Four untrained boys against the Great Sage? They would be unconscious before they knew what hit them.
But the Great Sage was dead. Only Ren remained.
"What do you want, Marcus?"
"What I've always wanted. For you and your family to know your place."
Marcus shoved Ren hard in the chest. The impact sent him stumbling backward. His foot slipped on the wet rocks by the stream's edge. He went down hard, landing in the shallow water with a splash.
The cold water soaked through his clothes instantly. The buckets spilled, all his work wasted.
The boys laughed.
"Look at that!" Tom called out. "The little lord takes a bath!"
Ren pushed himself up to his hands and knees. Water dripped from his hair. His clothes clung to his thin frame. He looked pathetic. He knew it. They knew it.
In his past life, his enemies would have died for such an insult. Kings would have sent armies to avenge him. The very ground would have shaken with his rage.
But rage without power was just another kind of weakness.
"Stay down there where you belong," Marcus said. "In the mud with the rest of the worms."
They walked away laughing. Their voices faded into the woods.
Ren sat in the cold water for a long moment. The stream flowed around him, carrying away the warmth from his body. He stared at his reflection in the water. A thin, weak boy stared back. Nothing like the man he had once been.
But the mind was the same. The memories were the same. Somewhere deep inside this frail body, the Great Sage still lived.
He just had to find a way to set him free.
Ren climbed out of the stream and refilled the buckets. The walk home seemed longer than usual. His wet clothes rubbed against his skin. His teeth chattered from the cold.
By the time he reached the house, his mother was waiting by the door.
"What happened to you?" she asked, seeing his soaked clothes.
"I fell by the stream."
She looked at him for a long moment. Elena Whitmore was no fool. She had raised a son in this harsh world for sixteen years. She knew the difference between an accident and something else.
"Go change your clothes," she said quietly. "I'll make you some hot tea."
Ren went upstairs and put on dry clothes. When he came back down, Elena had tea waiting and bread with honey. She sat across from him at the wooden table.
"Was it the Aldwin boy again?"
Ren nodded.
"You can't let them keep doing this to you, Ren. You're a Whitmore. We may be poor, but we have pride."
Pride. Ren almost laughed. He had once been the most powerful being in the world. Dragons had feared his name. Gods had called him friend. And now he was being lectured about pride by his worried mother.
But she was right, in her way. He was letting them treat him like nothing. Like he had no strength at all.
The problem was, in this body, he didn't.
"I'll be more careful," he said.
Elena reached across the table and touched his hand. Her fingers were rough from years of hard work.
"Your father and I, we've been talking. About sending you to the capital."
Ren looked up sharply. "The capital?"
"There's a school there. The Royal Academy of Magic. They take students from noble families, even minor ones like ours. If you could learn magic, real magic, you could help save the farm. Help save our family."
The Royal Academy. Ren had heard of it, of course. It was where the kingdom's young nobles went to learn the basics of magic and combat. It was prestigious. Expensive. And far beyond what his family could afford.
"Mother, we don't have that kind of money."
"We could sell some land. Take out loans. Your uncle in the capital might help." Elena's voice grew stronger as she spoke. "You're smart, Ren. Smarter than any boy in this village. You could make something of yourself there."
Magic school. It wasn't a bad idea, actually. If Ren could learn how magic worked in this new world, he might be able to find a way to unlock his old power. Or at least gain some new power to replace what he had lost.
The only problem was the other students. If Marcus Aldwin and his friends were bad, what would the sons and daughters of real noble houses be like? They would be older, stronger, and trained in combat from childhood.
But it was better than staying here. Better than watching his family's farm die while he hauled water from the stream.
"I'll think about it," he said.
Elena smiled for the first time in weeks. "Good. I'll write to your uncle tonight."
After breakfast, Ren walked out to the fields to find his father. The blight was worse than his mother had said. Black spots covered half the wheat stalks. The air smelled of rot and decay.
His father, Thomas Whitmore, stood at the edge of the infected area. He was a tall man, but years of worry had bent his shoulders. His dark hair was streaked with gray. He looked older than his forty years.
"It's spreading faster," Thomas said without turning around. "We'll lose everything by the end of the month."
Ren stood beside his father and looked out at the dying crops. In his past life, he had seen cities burn. He had watched armies fall. But there was something especially cruel about this slow death. This gradual erosion of everything his family had worked for.
"Mother wants to send me to the capital. To the magic academy."
Thomas nodded slowly. "She told me about her idea. It's not a bad one, if we can manage the cost."
"You think I could learn enough magic to help?"
"Maybe. Or maybe you could find a better life there. Make connections with powerful families. Sometimes that's worth more than magic."
They stood in silence for a while. The wind rustled through the healthy wheat stalks at the far end of the field. It was a peaceful sound. A sound that might not last much longer.
"I had dreams when I was young," Thomas said suddenly. "Dreams of adventure. Of making a name for myself. But life has a way of keeping you where you're born."
"What if I'm different?"
Thomas looked at his son. Really looked at him, perhaps for the first time in months. Ren was small for his age, yes. Weak, yes. But there was something in his eyes that didn't belong in a boy's face. Something old and deep and patient.
"Maybe you are different," Thomas said quietly. "Maybe you're meant for something more than this place."
That afternoon, Ren walked to the village. It was small, just a few dozen houses clustered around a main road. There was a blacksmith, a bakery, a tavern, and a general store. Most of the people were farmers or crafters. Good, simple people who worked hard and minded their own business.
Except for Marcus Aldwin and his friends.
Ren found them outside the tavern, drinking ale and laughing loudly. They saw him coming and their laughter grew louder.
"Look who's back!" Marcus called out. "Did you dry off yet, little lord?"
The other boys snickered. A few adult villagers looked over but said nothing. The Whitmore family had little influence here. Little respect.
Ren walked past them without a word. He had come to the village to buy supplies for his mother, not to fight battles he couldn't win.
But Marcus wasn't content to let him pass.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!"
Ren kept walking.
Marcus jumped up from his seat and grabbed Ren's shoulder, spinning him around. "Don't you dare ignore me!"
"Let go," Ren said calmly.
"Or what? You'll tell your daddy? He's too busy watching his crops die to care about you."
The other boys gathered around again. This was becoming a pattern. And patterns could be broken.
Ren looked into Marcus's eyes. For just a moment, he let some of his true self show through. The patience of centuries. The cold calculation of someone who had ended wars with a gesture.
Marcus actually took a step back.
"There's nothing you can do to me that matters," Ren said quietly. "Nothing you can take from me that I care about. But if you keep pushing, you'll find out what happens when someone with nothing to lose decides to push back."
The words were soft, but something in Ren's voice made the other boys shift nervously. Even drunk on ale and their own perceived power, they could sense something dangerous.
Marcus tried to recover his bluster. "You're all talk. You've never fought anyone in your life."
"You're right," Ren said. "I've never fought anyone in this life."
Before Marcus could puzzle out what that meant, Ren turned and walked away. This time, they didn't follow.
He finished his errands and headed home as the sun was setting. The fields looked golden in the fading light. Even the blighted areas had a certain beauty to them. Like old battlefields where flowers had grown over the bones.
His mother had dinner waiting. Bread and vegetable soup. Simple food, but filling. His father came in from the fields as they were sitting down to eat.
"I've been thinking about the academy," Thomas said as he washed his hands. "If we're going to do this, we need to start now. The application process takes months."
Elena smiled. "I already started a letter to my brother. He has connections in the capital."
"What kind of connections?" Ren asked.
"He works for a merchant guild. They do business with several noble houses. He might be able to get you a recommendation."
A recommendation from a merchant's contact. It wasn't much, but it was something. In his past life, Ren would have walked into the academy and demanded they accept him based on power alone. Now he would have to play by their rules. Follow their procedures.
It was humbling. But humility could be a weapon too, in the right hands.
That night, Ren lay in his narrow bed and stared at the ceiling. Outside, he could hear the wind moving through the wheat. The sound was softer now. Sadder. Like the field itself knew it was dying.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember what it felt like to have real power. Magic that responded to his will like an extension of his body. The ability to reshape reality with a thought.
It was still there, somewhere deep inside him. He could feel it like a distant star. Too far away to warm him, but bright enough to guide his path.
The Royal Academy of Magic. It wasn't where he wanted to go, but it was where he needed to be. Where he could start the long journey back to who he really was.
In his dreams that night, he stood on a mountain top with lightning in his hands and armies at his back. When he woke, he was sixteen-year-old Ren Whitmore again, son of failing farmers, weakest boy in the village.
But dreams had power too. And memory was the strongest magic of all.
He would go to the capital. He would learn what this new world could teach him. And someday, somehow, he would reclaim his rightful place.
The Great Sage was not gone. He was only sleeping.
And it was time to wake up.