Warmth. That was the first thing he felt.
A strange, gentle warmth pressing against his skin so different from the cold steel and blood he last remembered. His eyes fluttered open to a wooden ceiling, beams polished by years of care. The faint scent of herbs and sunlight drifted through the room.
For a long moment, he simply stared. His body felt lighter. Smaller.
When he finally tried to move, his arms trembled weakly. They were tiny the arms of a child.
"Virel?" a soft, worried voice called.
He turned his head toward the sound. A woman entered the room her light blue hair tied loosely behind her, eyes the color of clear spring water. Her gentle expression wavered between joy and fear.
"Oh, thank the spirits," she whispered, rushing to his bedside. "You're awake."
Her touch was warm real. Too real.
Virel blinked slowly, the name she'd spoken echoing in his mind. Virel… Ludin?
He didn't understand. The last memory he had was of a blade a silver arc slicing through the night and the weight of years of battle on his shoulders. He'd been a swordsman, a master of his craft. And yet, now… he was just a child lying in bed, in an unfamiliar home, being called someone else's son.
The door creaked open again, and a tall man entered broad-shouldered, with short black hair and a faint scar across his cheek. He wore a simple tunic now, but the way he moved screamed of experience, the kind forged through countless fights.
"Selene," he said to the woman softly. "How is he?"
"He just woke up," she said, smiling through tears. "He seems… quiet."
The man approached, kneeling beside the bed. His presence was commanding, like a mountain steady and solid. "Virel," he said. "You gave us quite the scare. How are you feeling?"
My name was Virel Ludin now, by the way. Vir for short, sounded a little too cute, but hey, after getting a glimpse of myself in the metal sheet that looks like a mirror.I looked absolutely adorable.
Virel stared at him blankly. "...Strange," he muttered after a pause. His voice was small, childish but his tone carried an unnatural calmness that made both parents exchange subtle glances.
---
Days passed.
He learned the basics quickly. His name was Virel Ludin, five years old. His father, Darius Ludin, was once an adventurer known for his unmatched swordsmanship. His mother, Selene Ludin, had been a healer, now retired after years in the field.
They lived on the outskirts of a quiet town surrounded by emerald woods a peaceful place, far removed from war or politics. But peace often carried its own kind of silence, one that Virel filled with quiet thought.
At first, he thought this was a dream. That perhaps he was still dying, trapped in a fantasy his mind created to escape pain. But when the days turned to weeks, and the cold wind stung his skin each morning, he knew it was real. He'd been reborn.
And yet… something was wrong.
---
One afternoon, a man dressed in clean robes arrived at their home. He carried a staff engraved with faint runes a doctor, or perhaps a mana specialist.
Selene guided Virel to sit on the stool while Darius stood beside them, arms crossed but worry hidden in his eyes.
"Relax, young man," the doctor said kindly. "This will only take a moment."
He placed his palm over Virel's chest, whispering softly. A faint blue glow emanated between his fingers the light of mana, pure and delicate.
But nothing happened.
The glow sputtered, flickered once, and then vanished as though swallowed by the air itself. The doctor frowned, repeating the process. Again. And again.
Finally, he stepped back, his expression darkening.
"…I see."
Selene's grip tightened on her son's shoulder. "What is it?"
The doctor exhaled slowly. "Your son's mana core is… broken. Completely fractured. It cannot circulate mana, nor absorb it from the atmosphere. He won't be able to use magic nor even sense it. It's a condition that happens once in a million births."
Silence.
Darius's jaw tightened. His hand clenched into a fist, but he said nothing. Selene's eyes welled up, but she bit back her tears, brushing a trembling hand through Virel's hair.
"I'm sorry," the doctor said softly. "There's no known cure. He may grow strong physically, but he will never touch magic."
After he left, the house was quiet. Too quiet.
That night, as moonlight streamed through the window, Virel sat awake, staring at his small hands. He flexed his fingers they trembled slightly, not from weakness, but frustration.
A broken mana core. No magic. No energy.
For most in this world, it would be a death sentence to one's dreams. But for him someone who'd lived and died by the sword it was almost familiar.
He smiled faintly.
How ironic. Even in another life, I'm being told I can't use magic.
He rose from bed, careful not to wake his parents, and stepped outside. The cool night air brushed against his cheeks as he walked to the small shed behind their home. There, an old wooden sword leaned against the wall. He gripped it with both hands it was heavy for a child, but he didn't care.
He swung once. Awkwardly. The balance was off. His body too small, his arms weak.
He swung again. And again.
Each strike was clumsy, but in those crude motions lay a familiar rhythm the same rhythm that once carried him through hundreds of battles.
By the time dawn broke, his arms were shaking. His palms burned with blisters. But when he looked at the rising sun, a strange sense of peace filled him.
"Magic or not…" he murmured, breathing heavily. "A sword still cuts the same."
---
The days that followed were simple. While other children studied letters or practiced mana breathing, Virel trained alone in the fields. His small frame darted between trees, mimicking stances he remembered from another life.
Selene often watched from the porch, worry hidden behind her smile. Darius sometimes joined him, offering corrections, unaware that his son already knew more than any boy should.
At night, Virel would collapse on his bed, muscles aching, but his resolve unshaken.
This world might see him as crippled. But he would prove otherwise.
Because deep within him, beyond the broken mana core, lay something far stronger the heart of a swordmaster who had already conquered death once.
And that, he knew, would never break.