The days blurred together in the quiet countryside, marked by the rhythm of my father's footsteps in the fields and the warmth of my mother's voice humming lullabies in the kitchen. For a boy reborn, it was strange how quickly I fell into this routine—strange, and yet comforting.
Back then, I had no real friends. My old life had been filled with mockery, fists, and empty hallways where my footsteps echoed alone. Here, though, things were different. Not because I had changed, but because of the little girl who seemed to shine brighter than the sun itself.
Lila.
It was she who tied me to this new world, she who carried me into the laughter I'd once believed would never belong to me.
Lila's Hand
It began in the meadow behind our house, where wildflowers swayed like little dancers in the wind. Lila's voice carried across the grass, sharp and cheerful as always.
"Come on, Xavier!"
I wobbled after her on unsteady legs, still small, still clumsy. She darted ahead, hair bouncing as she ran to a pair of children waiting near the fence.
Darin and Lyra.
I didn't know them then. All I saw were strangers—one boy with a grin too wide for his face, and one quiet girl holding a bundle of daisies like a shield.
Lila, fearless as ever, grabbed my hand and tugged me forward. "This is my brother! He's shy, but he's nice, I promise."
Her words stunned me. Nice. Nobody had ever introduced me like that before. In my past life, I was the freak, the nerd, the one everyone avoided until they wanted someone to hurt. But here, Lila painted me as someone worth knowing.
Darin stepped closer first, holding out a crooked stick. "Wanna play knights?"
I hesitated, staring at it. My heart beat too fast for something so simple. He wasn't jeering, wasn't mocking. He was just… offering.
Before I could answer, Lila nudged me. "Say yes!"
So I did. And with that one nod, something fragile and impossible took root inside me.
A Circle of Friends
Weeks passed, and the circle grew. Darin returned often, dragging Lyra with him, though she was always quieter, her eyes darting nervously. Eventually, even Seraphina began to appear—brought along during Lord Alistair's visits. At first she hovered in the background, her fine dress making her stand out among our worn clothes, but Lila never let her drift away.
"Play with us!" Lila would insist, pulling Sera into our games of tag or make-believe castles.
And she did. Slowly, hesitantly, until her laughter rang out just as loudly as Lila's.
We built forts from logs and branches, hunted "dragons" in the woods that were really shadows of deer, and dueled with sticks until our hands blistered. It was childish. It was messy. But for me, it was everything.
Because each time I heard their laughter, each time I felt their hands tugging me into the game, I felt the cracks in my old, broken self start to heal.
The Books
Yet even in that warmth, I couldn't shake old habits.
When the house grew quiet and Lila was asleep, I would slip from my bed and pull one of Mother's books from the shelf. Words had always been my refuge, and here they became my secret obsession.
The histories of Garcia. The maps of seven continents. The myths of heroes who wielded magic and steel.
But secrets are fragile things.
One afternoon, sunlight spilled across the floor as I sat cross-legged with a heavy tome spread across my lap. My lips moved silently, tracing the words, piecing together sentences I should have been too young to understand.
That was when the shadow fell across me.
"Xavier?"
I jolted. My father stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his face unreadable. Behind him, Mother leaned in, her eyes wide.
The book nearly slipped from my fingers. "I—"
Mother stepped closer, crouching so her face was level with mine. Her expression was soft, but her gaze was piercing. "Were you… reading?"
My heart pounded. At four years old, I shouldn't have been able to do more than stumble through a handful of words. If they pressed me, if they asked me to explain—
So I forced a laugh, high-pitched and clumsy. "Nooo. Just… pretending! Like Lila does with her dolls."
Father raised a brow. "Pretending?"
I bobbed my head quickly. "Uh-huh! The squiggles look funny, so I was making up a story."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Mother's hand lingered on the page as if testing the truth of my words. Father's frown deepened, suspicion flickering in his eyes.
But then Mother smiled faintly, closing the book. "Imagination, then. That's good." She ruffled my hair. "Just don't break my books, little star."
Father grunted, unconvinced, but he let it go.
And just like that, the danger passed.
Whispered Doubts
That night, though, I heard them in the kitchen when they thought I was asleep.
"He's too clever for his age," Father murmured, his voice low. "First his questions about the fields, now this. Christina… where is he learning these things?"
Mother sighed. "He's just curious. Children sometimes surprise us."
"Curious, yes," Father said, but his tone was heavy. "But there's something in his eyes. Like he knows more than he should."
My chest tightened under the blanket.
Mother hushed him gently. "Even if he is clever, is that so bad? Better clever than cruel. Let him be, Brian. Let him grow."
Silence followed, then the creak of chairs as they moved about.
I stared into the darkness, my small fists clenched. They can't know. They must never know.
Because if they did… they would never look at me the same way again.
A Promise in the Dark
The next day, I played with Lila and the others as if nothing had happened. I laughed when Darin tripped, helped Lyra weave flowers into chains, and even dared a duel with Seraphina's stick sword.
But deep down, I carried the weight of the secret.
I wasn't just a child. I wasn't just their brother or their friend. I was a ghost wearing a boy's skin, carrying scars no one here could see.
And yet—when Lila grabbed my hand and declared, "We'll be friends forever!"—I wanted to believe her.
I wanted to believe that this time, I wouldn't lose everything.
Part two
I woke up screaming.
The sound clawed its way out of my throat before I could stop it, sharp and raw, echoing in the small wooden room. My body was damp with sweat, the blanket tangled around me like ropes trying to drag me down. I gasped for breath, my chest heaving as though I had been drowning.
But it wasn't water that had smothered me in the dream.
It was laughter. Cruel, mocking, endless laughter.
"Come on, brainiac!"
"Bet he thinks he's too smart to bleed!"
"Hold him still—haha, look at his face!"
Hands shoved me into walls. Ash burned my scalp where cigarettes had been pressed against my skin. My stomach turned as the dream replayed, every sound, every smell, every strike of the bullies who had made my first life hell. Their faces were blurry, warped by my memory, but their voices were crystal clear.
And then—cold water. A toilet bowl swallowing me, my head forced under, their laughter distorted through the water rushing into my ears.
In the dream, I screamed. In reality, I had woken screaming.
The door to my room banged open, and within moments, warmth enveloped me. My mother's arms, soft yet trembling, wrapped around me as she murmured words meant to soothe. "Shhh… Xavier, it's alright, it's alright. Just a dream, my love."
Her hand rubbed my back in small, steady circles. Her scent—lavender and wheat flour—grounded me, pulling me back into this world, away from the horrors of the last.
Behind her, my father's heavy steps approached, and soon his rough, calloused hand rested on my shoulder. "Bad dream, boy?" His voice was low, gentle despite the strength behind it.
I nodded, my face buried against my mother's shoulder. I couldn't tell them the truth—not yet, maybe not ever. How could a child of barely five summers explain he carried the memories of another life? They would think me cursed, or mad.
So I clung tighter, letting the tears fall silently, and whispered hoarsely, "It… it felt real."
"It always does," Father said softly. His thumb brushed over my arm. "But it's gone now. Dreams can't hurt you."
If only that were true.
When my sobs had quieted, Mother tucked me back into bed, smoothing the damp hair from my forehead. Her smile was tender, though her eyes shimmered with worry she didn't voice. "Try to rest again, Xavier. The morning's already here—you'll want your strength to run around with your sister, won't you?"
At that, a small smile tugged at my lips despite the lingering ache in my chest. Lila. My sister, my anchor. She had been the only light in the shadow of yesterday, and even now, she was my reminder that this world wasn't all cruelty.
Mother kissed my brow, Father squeezed my hand, and then they left me to drift in the fragile quiet.
But sleep did not return.
Instead, I lay staring at the wooden ceiling beams, listening to the birds outside herald the dawn. The dream clung to me like smoke, impossible to shake, a bitter reminder of what I once was: weak, broken, defeated.
I curled my small fists against the blanket. Not again.
Not this time.
By the time the sun had risen fully, painting the fields gold, I slipped from bed and padded quietly to the small kitchen where Mother was kneading dough. She smiled warmly at me, though the shadows under her eyes revealed she hadn't slept much either.
"Good morning, my little bookworm," she teased gently.
I flushed, but grinned shyly. She'd caught me sneaking into her shelves many times, tracing my fingers over parchment, devouring the words with a hunger I couldn't explain. Knowledge was power in this world, just as much as strength.
Father was already outside, his figure visible through the window, bent over the earth with steady hands. Even after all he had endured from Philips, he still worked tirelessly, never once faltering in his duty to provide.
Lila bounded in then, full of life as always, her hair bouncing in messy waves. "Xavier, you're awake! Come on, come on! Let's play outside before Papa needs help!" She grabbed my hand without hesitation, tugging me toward the door.
I let her drag me into the crisp morning air, the dew still clinging to the grass. The nightmares loosened their grip with every step, replaced by the steady rhythm of Lila's laughter.
We chased each other between the rows of crops, the world stretching wide around us. And as I laughed with her, for a moment, I almost forgot the shadows that haunted my sleep.
Almost.
After Lila had her fill of chasing me across the fields—her laughter echoing bright and free—we sat on the small wooden fence that overlooked our crops. She swung her legs back and forth, humming tunelessly, while I caught my breath and let my thoughts drift.
The dream still lingered in the back of my mind, like a shadow hiding in the corner of my eye. I tried to bury it beneath the sound of her laughter, the smell of tilled soil, the warm sun on my face. But deep down, I knew I couldn't run from it forever.
Knowledge, though—knowledge gave me focus. And when my sister ran off to fetch one of her dolls, I slipped quietly back inside, toward the corner of the room that had become my secret world.
My mother's books.
She had gathered them carefully over the years, stacked neatly on a simple shelf, their spines worn from use. Most families in the village didn't even own one book, yet here was a modest collection: tales, histories, and manuals that Christina treasured. She always encouraged me to listen when she read aloud, but when I was alone, I devoured them with a hunger she hadn't expected.
I ran my small hand over the bindings, picking one at random: The Realms of Our World.
Opening it, I felt the words come alive.
The world was vast—far larger than the small farm and fields I knew. The book spoke of seven continents, each with its own people and struggles.
The Central Continent, where we lived, was the heart of civilization and power. Here lay the mighty Garcia Empire, the largest kingdom in the known world. The text praised its fertile lands, its thriving cities, its strong military—and, most of all, its ruling dynasty, descended from the legendary king who once banished demons with a single strike.
Then there was the Western Continent, rich in trade routes and coastal cities. The Southern Continent, known for its jungles and heat. The Northern Continent, however, caught my attention most: it was said to be harsh, bitterly cold, its people speaking a tongue foreign to the rest of the world.
Language…
I frowned as I traced the page. All this time, I hadn't realized it, but every word I'd read, every word spoken to me in this world… it wasn't English. Yet I understood it perfectly. According to the book, it was called Garian—the common tongue of the Garcia Empire, named after its first king. It sounded eerily like English, but more melodic, more precise, as though sharpened by centuries of refinement.
Had my soul adapted to this language? Or had the gods—or whatever force gave me this second chance—ensured I could understand it? I didn't know. But I knew this: words mattered here.
I flipped further. The Southwestern Continent was home to a variety of kingdoms, and something else that made my heart race: Demi-humans. Elves, beastkin, and other races lived there, some in harmony, some at war. The Elvian Kingdom, it said, was renowned for its mastery of magic, their affinity for nature unmatched by any human.
Magic.
The very word hummed with energy.
Mother had told us stories before—how mana was awakened in most children at six years old, though late bloomers sometimes appeared. How training could expand one's capacity, but only to a limit each person was born with. And how, without mana, a person could never touch magic at all.
In my old world, magic was fantasy. Here, it was as real as the earth beneath my feet. And if I wanted to protect my family, I knew—I needed to master it.
As I turned the page, another name caught my eye.
The House of Caeloria.
I stilled.
The book described it briefly: a noble lineage stretching back centuries, renowned for its mastery of swordsmanship fused with elemental magic—a style that bore their name: Caelorian Arcanblade. A technique of blending mana with sword strikes, creating slashes of flame, storms of lightning, or barriers of pure force. It was said that no army could withstand a Caeloria blade when wielded by a master.
Lord Alistair.
The name matched, though I hadn't seen it in print before. That was his family. That was his bloodline. One of the strongest in the entire empire.
So why, then, was he here? Governing a small, humble region, when his family's power could have earned him dominion over entire provinces?
I shut the book slowly, my heart pounding. Secrets. There was more to Lord Alistair than I had imagined. More than the people here even realized.
"Xavier!"
I startled, shoving the book back onto the shelf just as Lila bounded inside, holding two dolls in her hands. She tilted her head suspiciously. "Were you reading again?"
I gave her my most innocent look. "…Maybe."
She puffed her cheeks but smiled anyway. "Well, you promised you'd play with me, remember? And Sera might come later!"
Sera—Seraphina. Lord Alistair's granddaughter. She had visited us a handful of times, always under her grandfather's watchful eye. Though shy at first, she had warmed to Lila quickly. And through her, we had met two other village children, her companions. The five of us had formed a strange little group: noble and commoner, bound not by blood or status, but by play.
For Lila, it was joy. For me, it was a chance to watch, to learn, to prepare.
But still… as I followed her outside again, the weight of the dream pressed against my ribs.
If I don't grow stronger, if I don't master this world's power… it will happen again. My family will suffer. And this time, I refuse to watch helplessly.
The afternoon sun had mellowed by the time a faint rumbling reached us from down the dirt path leading into the village. I already knew that sound—hooves against stone, wheels creaking in rhythm. A carriage.
Lila perked up immediately. "That's Sera!" she chirped, abandoning her dolls and sprinting toward the road. I followed at a slower pace, my small legs not quite as eager, though curiosity burned inside me.
The carriage that came into view was finer than most I'd seen, though not ostentatious. Its wood gleamed, the crest of a silver falcon emblazoned on its side. Two guards rode alongside, their polished breastplates catching the light.
The door opened, and out stepped a girl with golden-blond hair tied neatly with a ribbon. Her dress was simple but clearly well-made, the kind of fabric no commoner could afford. Seraphina Caeloria. Sera.
"Lila!" she called, her voice bright but carrying the faint cadence of nobility.
Lila rushed to her, grabbing her hand, and the two began chatting animatedly about something only children could get excited over. I hung back, watching. Sera had changed since the first time I saw her—less timid, more confident. Her grandfather's visits had clearly taught her to mingle, at least with us.
Behind her trailed two others: a boy with unruly brown hair named Darin, always grinning, and a quiet girl with raven-black hair named Lyra. Together, they made our odd group complete.
Sera's eyes found me, and she smiled. "Xavier, you should come play too."
I nodded, though my mind was elsewhere.
Because at that very moment, Lord Alistair himself dismounted from the carriage.
He looked every inch the warrior his reputation claimed—broad shoulders, scar-lined arms, and eyes that carried the weight of countless battles. His sword hung at his hip, and I could sense something from him, something I couldn't yet name. Power. Authority. But not cruelty, not like Philips.
He exchanged brief words with the guards, then turned to us. His gaze softened at the sight of the children, especially his granddaughter.
"Stay close to the house, Seraphina," he said, voice steady. "I will be patrolling the outer fields. There were reports of goblins sighted near the southern woods."
Sera nodded dutifully. "Yes, Grandfather."
Then he was gone, striding toward the far path, and I couldn't help but watch the way his hand rested lightly on his sword, as if it belonged there more than anywhere else.
Caelorian Arcanblade… that's his style. That's the power I'll need.
"Xavier!"
Lila tugged at my sleeve, breaking my trance. "Come on, let's show Sera the fort we built!"
It wasn't really a fort—just a pile of logs and stones behind the barn, with a sheet draped over the top—but to Lila, it was a castle. She dragged Sera and the others along, their laughter carrying in the warm breeze.
I followed, letting them chatter and play. Darin grabbed a stick and declared himself a knight, Lyra rolled her eyes but joined in, and soon they were dueling with wooden swords and imaginary monsters.
Sera, surprisingly, wasn't shy about joining. She grabbed another stick and faced off against Lila, both of them giggling as they clashed. For a moment, it was nothing but childhood innocence, untouched by the cruelties of the world.
I smiled faintly. So this is what it's like… to grow up with friends, without fear.
But the smile faded quickly.
Because deep inside, I knew reality would come crashing down someday. Nobles and commoners weren't meant to mix. Childhood bonds were fragile against the weight of status and bloodlines. And monsters weren't just lurking in the woods—they lived in human hearts, in people like Philips.
Still, as I watched Lila's face light up, and Sera's laughter ring clear, I allowed myself this fleeting peace.
"Xavier, your turn!" Darin suddenly thrust a stick toward me. "Fight me!"
I hesitated, then took it. My grip was awkward, too small for the length of wood, but I faced him anyway.
He charged, swinging wildly. Instinct guided me more than skill—I sidestepped, jabbed lightly, and he stumbled with a surprised grunt. The others burst out laughing.
"You're good!" Darin admitted, grinning. "We'll make a knight out of you yet."
I forced a small laugh, but inside, a different thought stirred. Not a knight. A warrior. A protector. Strong enough to never let history repeat.
The game continued until dusk began to fall. Christina called us in for supper, and Sera's guards eventually came to fetch her. Before leaving, she turned back, giving Lila and me a shy wave.
"I'll come again soon," she promised.
Lila waved enthusiastically. "You'd better!"
As the carriage rolled away, I lingered at the doorway, watching the last light fade over the horizon.
Father limped slightly as he came in from the fields, wiping sweat from his brow. Mother welcomed him with a tired smile, and together they set the table. It was simple fare—bread, stew, a few vegetables from our garden—but it filled the house with warmth.
I sat between Lila and Father, listening to them talk, watching Mother's face soften in the glow of the lantern. And for a moment, I almost believed this life could stay perfect.
But the dream still clung to me, whispering reminders. Of fists and laughter, of running and never fighting back.
I clenched my small hands in my lap, unseen beneath the table.
Never again. I'll forge myself stronger than anyone. Strong enough to protect them… even from nobles, even from fate itself.