My name is Simon Pentalane. And I was reincarnated in a new world.
The first memories of this second life were strange. Instead of the sterile walls of a hospital or the comfort of a home, I was born into darkness, cold, and fear.
My mother—Linda Pentalane—was running. Her breath came in ragged gasps, chest heaving as she clutched my fragile body close.
Behind us, a figure moved like a phantom: an old man, bent yet terrible, with eyes glinting wet and unnatural. His steps never quickened, but he always seemed too close.
Yet… he never struck. He never reached for us. Even as my mother stumbled over roots and thorns cut into her skin, he only watched. A hunter who had no need to chase.
For reasons I didn't understand, we were spared. Temporarily.
---
After days of wandering—days of hunger gnawing at my mother's stomach and dampness seeping into our bones—we found it: a cabin hidden deep among crooked pines.
It looked abandoned, the roof sagging slightly, moss clinging to the edges of its wood. A stump sat nearby, an axe wedged deep into it, as if the last owner had walked away mid-task.
My mother's eyes narrowed with suspicion. She pulled the axe free, gripping it tightly, and carried me into the cabin.
Inside, the air smelled of ash and old smoke. The fireplace still carried faint traces of use. Dust coated the shelves, but not thick enough to suggest years of emptiness.
"This place…" my mother whispered, adjusting her grip on me. Her eyes darted to the corners, her knuckles white on the axe handle.
Even I was feeling uneasily. Whoever lived here could come back. Whoever lived here might not be friendly.
And then she did something that left me breathless.
She set me on a small, wobbly table, lifted her free hand, and traced symbols in the air.
"SolLa."
Light burst against the wooden doorframe, searing brilliant gold into the grain. The air hummed with power, thick and heavy, before the light settled into a glowing rune. It pulsed faintly, as if breathing with us.
"That should keep the monsters away," she whispered, sagging with relief. "And the dangerous ones too."
Magic. This world had magic.
The word echoed in my mind like a prayer. I didn't know if it was a blessing or a curse, but I knew—my life here would be nothing like the one I had left behind.
---
That night, my mother tended to me with hands both gentle and clumsy. She peeled away the makeshift nappy of torn cloth, cleaning me with water she had fetched from a stream. Her exhaustion showed in every movement, yet she smiled faintly, brushing her fingers against my cheek.
"Time for someone to get clean," she murmured.
Even in this desperate situation, she doted on me.
When the wind howled outside, when unseen creatures cried in the forest, she would hold me close against her chest and hum a lullaby. Her voice trembled, but it carried warmth.
For the first time in my new life, I felt safe.
---
The seasons changed. The forest turned white, snow burying the world outside the cabin.
The rune on the door glowed brighter in winter's nights.
I was too young to help, too small to fight, yet my mind—an adult's mind trapped in an infant's body—watched carefully. I memorized the way my mother stacked firewood, the way she sharpened the axe against stone, the way she whispered that same word, SolLa, whenever danger felt close.
Sometimes I heard scratching on the walls at night. Claws. Heavy, deliberate. The rune flared, and the scratching stopped.
I never saw what waited beyond the door. And perhaps that was mercy.
---
Time blurred. Months became a year. My limbs grew stronger, less clumsy. The first time I pulled myself upright on shaky legs, my mother gasped.
"Simon… you're walking already?" Her voice cracked with laughter and tears.
I took one, two steps, then tumbled into her arms. She kissed my forehead and held me tightly.
The irony wasn't lost on me. In my past life, I had struggled to stand in a figurative sense, crushed under failure and regret. Now, in this fragile body, every step felt like rebellion against the helplessness of before.
---
Talking came slowly, but determination burned in me. The first word I managed was not "Mama," though my mother tried endlessly to coax it from me.
Instead, I pointed to the rune on the door and said, clumsily, "Shine."
Her eyes widened, then softened with pride. "Yes, Simon. Shine. That's what keeps us safe."
From that day, she began teaching me names for everything: fire, axe, bread, water. I repeated them, fumbling at first, but growing steadier. My adult mind processed them quickly, though my baby tongue betrayed me.
Still, each word built a bridge between us.
---
Two Years Later
By the time I reached two years of age, I could walk with confidence and form simple sentences.
My mother marveled at how quickly I learned, never suspecting the truth—that the soul inside me carried more years than she could imagine.
The cabin was no longer just shelter. It was home. My mother taught me small chores: fetching sticks, holding baskets, even carrying little jugs of water from the stream.
And always, I watched. Watched the way her magic worked. I noticed the spells she used was similar to the solfège system words. Maybe that's how their magic works.
Watched the forest, where shadows stretched too long, and sometimes eyes blinked back at me through the trees.
I was growing. Learning. Preparing.
Because deep down, I knew—the night we were spared, the night the old man let us go, it wasn't mercy. It was patience.
And one day, he would continue.