Six months had passed since I was born into this new life.
To anyone else, I was just an infant—soft, fragile, a tiny creature dependent on the gentle hands that held me. But inside, I was still Jake Allan: a boy who had lived, suffered, and died once already. I had expected my new existence to be smothered by silence and helplessness, yet those six months revealed something precious.
I could listen.
And when I listened, I learned.
My mother, Christina, treasured books more dearly than gold. She owned only a handful—worn, precious volumes she guarded like relics. Every evening, she lit a small oil lamp, its warm glow filling our modest home. She would gather me into her arms, call Lila to her side, and open one of those treasured books. Wrapped together in that circle of light and warmth, we drifted into other worlds through her voice.
At first, I listened without intention, too busy adapting to this frail body to care about anything else. But one afternoon, something struck me like a thunderbolt.
The words she spoke.
I understood them.
Not in the vague, instinctual way of a baby familiar with tones—but with absolute clarity.
It was English.
The language of my old world.
They had been speaking it from the very beginning, and I had been too overwhelmed or numb to notice. There was no mystical translation, no convenient blessing of comprehension. It was simply English—familiar, grounding, and impossibly strange.
The revelation left me stunned, though outwardly all I could do was blink and drool. Had fate bent the rules of reality for me? Or was this world simply bound by uncanny coincidence?
Either way, it was a gift.
So I listened.
And through my mother's stories, I absorbed everything.
"Long ago," Christina began one evening, her voice warm and steady, "the world trembled under the shadow of demons…"
The story always began the same way. She recited it like a prayer, slow and reverent.
"From the underworld, they came—endless hordes of goblins, orcs, hellhounds, wyverns… creatures of nightmare. Their numbers blotted out the horizon. They burned villages, toppled cities, and devoured all in their path. Humanity was weak then, divided into scattered tribes and warring kingdoms. Against the tide of demons, we were nothing."
Lila, sitting close beside her, tightened her grip on Christina's dress. "And then Garcia came, right, Mama?" she whispered, eyes shining.
Christina smiled, brushing a loose curl from Lila's forehead. "Yes, my dear. Then came Garcia."
Though Lila knew the tale by heart, she always waited with breathless anticipation. And Mother told it each time as though speaking it for the first.
"He was a man without kingdom or noble blood," Christina continued. "No crown, no title. But within him burned a flame brighter than the sun. Some say it was placed there by the gods. Others insist he was simply human—no different from any of us—but with a spirit unbroken by despair."
Her hand drifted gently over my head, her touch soft and soothing.
"Garcia raised his sword, and where others saw the end of the world, he saw a beginning. He gathered people—farmers, hunters, scattered tribes. They followed him, drawn to his courage like moths to flame. And together, they made their stand."
The room seemed to shrink around her words, the lamplight flickering with the weight of the tale.
"The demons descended: a tidal wave of fire and shadow. The earth trembled. The skies darkened with wings. But Garcia did not yield. He drew his blade—no common steel, but one forged from the will of the world itself."
Lila gasped. "The Worldbreaker!"
Christina laughed softly. "Yes. The Worldbreaker."
"Tell the part where he strikes them!" Lila urged.
Mother nodded, her tone deepening.
"With a single blow, Garcia split the skies. His sword carved mountains, opened rivers, and its light banished the demons to the underworld once more. The earth sealed behind them, the gates shattered. And the world was saved."
The lamplight flickered across her face as her voice quieted.
"The people knelt before him—their savior, their shield. And thus Garcia became the first king. Not by birthright or inherited power, but by the will of those who believed in him. From his bloodline came the rulers of the Garcia Empire."
Silence followed. Only the soft crackle of the lamp filled the room.
It was a magnificent story. Inspiring, even. But was it history—or myth swollen by centuries of retelling? Heroes from my old world had suffered the same fate; legends rarely stayed true.
Yet I couldn't deny the warmth that bloomed inside me as I listened.
Hope.
Perhaps Mother read the tale not to teach history, but to kindle something deeper—courage in small hearts.
Lila certainly believed it. Her posture always straightened, fists clenching as if she, too, wished to face demons.
And for a moment… I wanted to believe as well.
But Mother's books weren't only legends—they held knowledge. And I devoured every piece.
I learned that we lived in the Garcia Empire, the mightiest power on the Central Continent. Seven continents shaped this world, but none rivaled the Central in size or influence.
Our home was a small country within the empire's vast borders—a quiet place with few nobles. The empire's authority hung over us like a distant sun: warm at times, scorching at others.
I learned of magic.
It wasn't myth. It was real. I had already seen it when Mother healed Father after the noble's beating. Books gave me words for what I had witnessed.
Magic flowed from mana—an invisible lifeblood within all living beings. Most awakened their mana at six years old, though some awakened later. Not everyone awakened at all. Some lived and died without ever touching the flow.
Capacity mattered. Mana could be trained, expanded, strengthened—but only to a point. Beyond that limit, no amount of effort could push further.
Affinity mattered too. Fire, water, earth, wind. Light and darkness. Some wielded hybrids—rare, powerful combinations.
Mother's healing magic belonged to the light affinity, though she claimed her abilities were modest.
And with magic came monsters.
Goblins, orcs, hellhounds, wyverns—the lingering remnants of the demon invasion. They roamed forests, mountains, ruins. Heroes hunted them. Commoners prayed they never wandered too close.
As Mother read, her voice blended danger and wonder into a tapestry of this world. To Lila, it was thrilling adventure. To me, it was truth.
This world was harsher than my old one. Wilder. More beautiful—and more cruel.
I absorbed its rules, piece by piece.
One evening, after finishing the legend of King Garcia once more, Christina closed the book and smoothed Lila's hair.
"Do you know why I tell this story so often?" she asked gently.
Lila tilted her head. "Because it's the best one?"
Mother laughed—a bright, bell-like sound. "That too. But more than that, it reminds us of hope. Even when we feel small… even when we are powerless… courage can change the world."
Her words lingered in the warm air, settling deep inside me.
I stared at her face—soft, kind, framed by the flickering lamplight. In my old life, my mother had told me stories too, when she still had the strength. Stories to keep me from breaking.
And now, in another life, another world, I was listening to a mother's stories once more.
The memory stung—sharp and bittersweet—but I swallowed it.
Because this time…
maybe I would be strong enough to write my own story.