The night was still.
Moonlight poured through the cracks of the wooden roof, falling across Nazeku's motionless form. His breathing was slow, but not calm. Every breath carried the faint echo of something that did not belong to this world, an ancient pulse beneath human flesh.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was old, familiar, warped beams and soot stains.
He recognized it instantly.
"This… my old room."
The realization hit like a blade to the chest.
He had returned.
The last thing he remembered was pain. The battlefield. The roars of beasts. The sky cracking apart.
Then… the void. The dragon's chained form. Its voice, like thunder caged within eternity.
"It was not a dream…"
He lifted his hands.
They were smaller, lighter, the hands of a youth.
A faint tremor ran through his body as he stood, his reflection barely visible in a cracked mirror leaning against the wall.
The face staring back at him was fifteen again.
Eyes dim, but deeper than before, like a beast watching itself.
He reached for his chest.
There, faintly beneath the skin, something pulsed. Not like a heartbeat, slower, heavier, ancient.
"You…"
His whisper barely left his lips.
The crimson-black dragon's voice echoed softly within his mind, distant, yet clear.
"It is to you I bestow my will."
Nazeku exhaled sharply and clenched his fists.
He could feel it, power, quiet and suffocating, buried deep.
It wasn't raw strength; it was presence. Like standing before a storm that hadn't yet begun.
He sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, closing his eyes.
"Focus. Feel your aura."
In his past life, aura was always his limit.
It had taken him years just to control a single thread. His flow was unstable, weak, one of the reasons he never rose above the silver rank.
But this time…
When he reached inward,
The aura moved.
Effortlessly.
Like air responding to his breath.
It flowed through his veins in smooth, rhythmic waves. Controlled. Obedient.
Then something else moved beneath it, deeper, heavier.
The dragon's will.
He opened his eyes. His left pupil flickered, just for a heartbeat, into a thin crimson slit.
A faint hiss echoed in his ears, followed by a rush of heat through his veins.
The wooden floor creaked beneath him. Dust trembled.
"Easy…" He muttered, steadying his breath. "Not now. Control it."
He shut his eyes again and pushed the surge down, forcing the foreign energy to quiet. Slowly, the tremors faded.
Silence returned.
Hours passed.
By dawn, the first light spilled through the window. Nazeku stood, drenched in sweat. His body ached, but not from exhaustion, but from change.
He tested his movements. His balance was sharper. His steps lighter.
Every muscle, every heartbeat felt synchronized.
He picked up a small dagger from the desk, a blade he used for chores as a boy.
He threw it.
The dagger embedded itself cleanly into the far wall, splitting a spiderweb crawling across the wood.
A perfect throw.
He blinked.
"My perception… it's clearer."
He turned his gaze toward the window.
The world outside shimmered faintly, faint traces of aura drifted through the air, visible to his enhanced senses. He could see them now.
Then, faintly, a whisper again, low, restrained.
"Do not resist me, mortal. Learn. Adapt. Survive."
Nazeku's fingers twitched.
"You want me to survive…" he murmured. "Then I'll survive. But not for your sake."
He closed his eyes once more.
"This time… I'll become strong, strong enough that no one can use me. Not the nobles. Not the kingdom. Not even the gods."
The morning light brightened the room.
In the corner of the wall, the dagger still quivered where it had struck, a quiet reminder that the weak boy who once lived here was gone.
A new will now lingered beneath his skin, crimson, black, and patient.