You may wonder, "why was he in jail in his first life?" "What could he have possibly done to end up there?"
My first life wasn't beautiful in the slightest. I didn't know my parents. Most of my teenage years were spent being tossed around different foster homes, never staying long. Every place I went, they eventually found out who my true parents were — and that was enough to send me away. By the time I was eleven, I'd already been through seven foster homes.
One morning, I was sleeping in my room with several others. The place was called Alacrity Foster Care. It wasn't nice. Small, dirty, and crowded — but I couldn't complain. I'd never seen better. There were five people in that bedroom, and I even had to share a bed with someone I'd never spoken to.
That day changed everything. I don't know why, but the years of being abandoned, hated, and passed around… it broke something inside me. The trauma built up until something finally snapped. I blacked out that night — fell asleep and woke up surrounded by bodies.
I didn't know how. I didn't know why. But I had sleepwalked. Went downstairs. Grabbed a knife. And killed every single person in that foster home. Over twenty-three people. I remember the smell before I remember the screams.
I never felt truly sorry. Because it never felt like I did it. How can you condemn yourself for something you never did consciously?
When I saw the bodies and the blood on my hands, I panicked and ran. That only made things worse. The cops — no, the military — found me soon after. They called me the most brutal serial killer of my century.
When I went to court, I didn't expect to ever feel the sun on my skin again. Everything I ever dreamed of — seeing the world, living freely — disappeared.
At eleven years old, I was sentenced to 200 years in prison without parole.
I only lasted until thirty.
Then I died.
And woke up as someone new.
⸻
I'm now exactly one year old. Honestly, I knew my age. From the very first day in this new world, I started keeping count—making sure to remember every day, and not waste even one.
I'd heard stories in my past life about birthdays. I always thought they were made up. Like fairy tales people told themselves to feel special. I used to think, why would someone celebrate another person's age? But that morning, on the first year of my life, I woke up to see my two parents staring down at me with wide smiles, kissing my forehead and cheeks.
"Rainn, happy birthday!" my mother said with a bright grin.
My father laughed softly. "You're growing up too fast, bud."
For one of the first times, I actually smiled. Not just on the inside—but for real. I turned my head down in the crib and saw a small cupcake sitting there. Something I'd never tasted before. Chocolate cake, white frosting, colorful sprinkles, and a single candle in the center. They didn't light it, of course. For a moment, I thought they might—since I'd heard that's what people did—but then I remembered I was only one year old. A burning candle in a baby's hand would've been a disaster.
Still, I pulled the candle out and took the biggest bite I could manage. It wasn't big. Maybe not even impressive. But for me, it was huge. The sweetness hit my tongue, and my eyes lit up. I'd never tasted anything like that before.
My mother laughed, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "I think Rainn likes it."
My father chuckled as frosting smeared across my face. "Looks like he's already a competitive eater."
For a while, I forgot everything else. It was just… warm. Safe. A feeling I hadn't known in my last life.
Throughout this first year, not much has changed. My strength has gotten better—not by much, but enough. I can walk now, not just crawl. My parents seemed shocked that I could do it so early, but they quickly accepted it. They already know I'm different—smarter than I should be.
My mother eventually found out that I sneak into the room where she keeps her books. I thought she'd scold me, maybe even get angry. But she didn't. Instead, she smiled, picked up one of the books, and started reading to me at night. Her voice was gentle—soft, the way only a mother's could be. She never chose books about magic, though. Only ones about the world. She used a baby tone, trying to make it sound simple, but I understood more than she thought.
From what I've gathered, this world runs on money—just like my old one. The rich hold power, the poor get ignored. The difference here is the currency: copper, silver, gold, and platinum. A hundred copper makes a single silver. A hundred silver makes a gold. Then platinum — at the top — something most people will never even see. Getting even one gold coin is already difficult. My parents don't have any, and from what I can tell, we're nowhere near rich.
A bunch of bananas might cost around five copper, while meat or fancy food costs much more. Most poor families spend about one silver a week just to survive. The wealthy? They spend multiple silvers a day.
As for my family—we're somewhere in between. Probably around five silvers a week. Not poor, but definitely not rich either.
As for my gifts that day, I got a couple toys I didn't really need. I started playing with them only because I felt bad that my parents wasted money thinking I was genuinely interested in kid toys. But my mother bought me one thing in particular that made me very excited — a book.
Not just any book. A magic book.
Instead of the usual ones about how the world works, this one was about how to use magic.
See, I've read multiple books explaining mana before, but they never truly explain how to awaken it. They always call it a "natural process," something that happens over years. But I don't have that kind of time. I want to develop early. And I know there's a way.
I opened the book immediately, thanking my parents with small smiles. They looked at each other, smiling softly, probably thinking I couldn't read a single word. Little did they know, I understood this language perfectly. Even as a one-year-old.
The first page talked about meditation — something I'd never tried before. But now that I saw it, I realized I'd seen my mother doing it many times. Was that how she strengthened her magic? Or something else entirely?
The book said meditation could help with many things, including mana restoration. Apparently, when you deplete your mana, you grow tired — but instead of sleeping, if you're truly skilled, meditation can restore it in a few hours.
But what caught my attention most was how it tied to awakening.
It never went too in-depth, but it mentioned "sparkles" — tiny lights you could see while meditating. Mana particles. And that catching them, one by one, increases your capacity. That each successful meditation could help you grow stronger.
I kept reading for hours, learning about the basics of magic. Most people in this world chant to use it — like my mother when she healed my father. She spoke in some alien tongue I didn't understand. But chanting has limits.
If you're in a fight, and someone swings a sword at you, how can you possibly finish a chant before they cut you down? It's too slow. Too risky.
Then I read about a rare group. Those who can use magic without chanting. It's called wordless spellcasting.
They're rare, but not born with it. It's something earned — a skill that comes from mastery.
The thought made my chest tighten with excitement.
Wordless magic.
No chanting.
No delay.
Just pure control.
I wanted it.
As I started my meditation, it wasn't as easy as I thought it would be. At first, I believed I could just slow my heartbeat, close my eyes, and stay still for hours. But it wasn't that simple.
Even closing my eyes for ten minutes felt impossible. My thoughts wandered. My body twitched. The silence made me restless. Still, I kept trying—day after day—pushing through the boredom, the fatigue, the constant distractions.
My parents often checked on me for food or diaper changes, breaking my focus again and again. It was frustrating, but I couldn't blame them. I was still a baby, after all.
Eventually, I managed to meditate for two hours straight without interruption. It felt like forever. My body ached, my legs tingled, and my mind drifted in and out of that strange, quiet place where everything slows down.
But even now, it's difficult. My body is weak, my limbs small and frail. I tire easily. Sometimes I can barely stay awake long enough to even start.
Whatever the book spoke of—the "sparkles" I was supposed to see—weren't there. Every time I closed my eyes, all I found was endless darkness. No light. No glow. Nothing.
It became confusing. I even started questioning what sparkles were supposed to look like. Were they like little dots? I'd never seen anything like that before—not in this life, not in my last.
For six months straight, I kept meditating every day. My body grew, my mind sharpened, but still… nothing. Not a single flicker of light.
Then, one morning—after my bath—I caught my reflection in the mirror.
Until now, I'd never really looked at myself closely. I was too young before to care. But as I stared, I noticed how much I'd changed. My face was still soft, like a baby's, but I could already tell some features would stay with me forever.
My eyes caught my attention first. They weren't like my parents'. They were pale—greyish white, with a faint glimmer that didn't look natural. And my hair… it was white too. Not pure white, but something close, with faint shadows of silver. Long enough to brush over my eyes, slightly wavy, soft.
I remember thinking, how did I get this color? Maybe it was a recessive trait from somewhere down the bloodline. I had some features like my father—his nose, his jaw—but these colors… they didn't belong to either of them.
For a moment, I even wondered if I'd grow up handsome. Maybe even a "lady catcher," as people used to say. Then again, I'd never dated anyone before—so what did I know?
But then, as I kept staring, something changed.
My hair shimmered. My eyes… glowed faintly. Just for a second, but I saw it. A faint, ethereal light flickered within the grey.
And then it hit me—like a heartbeat slamming against my chest.
This was it.
The sparkles I'd been chasing for months weren't out there.
They were inside me.
My hair. My eyes.
They sparkled.
After seeing my hair and eyes sparkle, I instantly sat down to meditate again. Still nothing. Just darkness.
But I didn't stop. I kept trying. Again and again.
And finally—after a few more sessions—I saw them.
The sparkles.
They reminded me of stars. Like the ones that appear in the night sky, scattered and endless. Except these weren't just white. They shimmered in every color imaginable—red, blue, green, gold. Thousands of tiny specks, all swirling together in the dark.
But they weren't still. They moved fast. Almost too fast for my eyes to follow. They darted and twisted like living light, weaving through each other, fading and reappearing in bursts.
Catching one… wasn't easy.
It felt like trying to grab starlight itself.
You had to have perfect reflexes to even get close.