4 YEARS LATER
Jason—now known as Rafael—was born into the Valemont family, a humble and impoverished household in the far eastern reaches of the kingdom. He never imagined his life would unfold in a world ruled by swords and magic, yet fate had other plans. From his mother, Sara Valemont Rafael learned that every person carried within them a spark of aether—an inner energy that made the art of magic possible.
Rafael spent the first four years of his life hunched over the old, dusty spell books his mother kept on a crooked shelf. Day after day, he traced the runes, whispered the incantations, and forced his aether to move—yet nothing happened. Not even a spark. When he finally asked his mother why he couldn't cast even the simplest spell, she only smiled gently and said, "Don't worry, my little one. Magic comes in its own time."
Her words were kind, but they did little to ease the weight on Rafael's heart. Everywhere he looked, envy followed him. His mother wielded water magic with effortless grace, shaping flowing streams from thin air. His older brother, Draven, displayed a natural affinity for fire, conjuring flames as bright as the sun.
But Rafael… Rafael had nothing. All he could do was wait.
As if his struggles weren't enough, Rafael had been born into a brutal era—an age ruled by war and death. Humans and elves clashed in a bloody conflict that only grew worse with time. Peace was nothing but a fading dream.
His father, Arthur, served as a sergeant of a small military squad. He left for the battlefield just before Rafael was born. In fact, Arthur never once held his youngest son in his arms. All Rafael knew of him were stories—whispers of a powerful mage, a respected hero, a man the entire village admired.
Yet despite living in the body of a four-year-old, Rafael carried within him the mind of a twenty-seven-year-old mafia boss. Tears, tantrums, and childish fears were foreign to him. His maturity often worried his mother, but as long as her son seemed healthy, she forced herself not to question it. Rafael, however, cared for only one thing: becoming strong enough to fulfil the mission that had carried him into this new life.
But strength—true strength—was far harder to obtain than he expected.
Draven and Sara treated Rafael like he truly belonged to their family. They cared for him, loved him, and held him close. For the first time—across both this life and the one before—Rafael felt something warm bloom inside him. Comfort. Safety. Tranquility. It was a feeling he grew deeply attached to… a feeling he never wanted to lose.
Not long after, Draven began teaching Rafael the basics of magic. He showed him how to channel the aether within his body and release it as spellcraft. Rafael tried—again and again—but every attempt ended in failure. Still, Draven never scolded him. Whenever he wasn't working at the family shop in town, he spent his free time guiding Rafael patiently.
From Draven, Rafael learned that there were three main branches of magic: Casting, Augmenting, and Divination. Draven didn't know much about augmenters or diviners, but he understood casting well—because he was a caster himself.
Casters were people who could manipulate elemental affinities—water, fire, earth, wind, and lightning. According to Draven, everyone's magic awakened at a certain point in their life. Only then would one learn whether they were a caster, an augmenter, or a diviner. And no one could be more than one. Fate chose for you.
Rafael couldn't wait for the day his own magic finally awakened.
But that day was not today.
Today was the day Rafael's world cracked.
The duke, accompanied by royal guards, stormed the village to draft any capable young men into the war. And Draven—strong, talented, and full of promise—was taken.
"Don't worry, little brother, I'll be back. Take care of Mom."
Those were the last words Rafael heard before the guards escorted Draven away.
As Rafael watched his brother disappear through the village gates, an uncontrollable anger surged through him. Draven had treated him with a kindness he never knew existed. He loved him, teased him, protected him—everything a true older brother should do. And now, that warmth was being ripped away, and Rafael was powerless to stop it.
Sara wept for days. She feared for her son, for she knew the battlefield was no place for a seventeen-year-old boy—especially not in a war this merciless.
Rafael could only wait.
Hours turned into days. Days into weeks. Weeks into months. Months into years. Still, no sign of Draven's return.
Since the day her son was taken, Sara rarely smiled the way she once did. The light in her eyes had dimmed. And every time Rafael saw that emptiness, rage twisted inside him. He questioned why the goddess had reincarnated him into a family doomed to suffer.
But it was far too late for complaints or self-pity. He had to endure. He had to grow. He had to make do with the hand he'd been dealt.
Because if fate refused to show mercy, then Rafael would carve his own path—with his own hands.
10 years later
Rafael was now fourteen.Fourteen—and already far too familiar with poverty.
He and his mother were barely scraping by. The war, relentless and unforgiving, had choked the kingdom dry. Food was scarce. Work was scarce. Hope was even scarcer. The elves suffered just as much; their kingdom bordered the human lands, and both nations were bleeding each other to the brink of collapse. One side would eventually fall… but neither showed any sign of surrender.
In this harsh world, Rafael had carved out what strength he could. He had become a competent wind caster, learning everything his mother knew and everything her battered old books could offer. But even with all his progress, it wasn't enough. Her teachings—loving as they were—were limited.
And Rafael feared time was slipping through his fingers. He still hadn't found the Key to Hell, the very purpose behind his reincarnation.
But survival came first. He couldn't chase destiny on an empty stomach.
So each day he focused on earning whatever coin he could, making sure he and Sara had something—anything to eat.
Then, one afternoon as he walked through the dusty market street, he saw it:
A wanted poster.
Pinned crookedly to a wooden post, its ink slightly smudged, but clear enough.
The sketch showed the face of a boy, no older than Rafael. Under the portrait, one number stood out like a beacon:
10,000 silver coins.
Rafael's heart thumped.That amount of money could keep him and his mother fed for months—maybe even a full year. More than that, it could buy him time. Time to train. Time to search. Time to prepare.
He stared at the poster for a long moment. Then he exhaled slowly."I know what I must do," It was time to put his strength to use.
Time for Rafael Valemont to stop surviving…and start hunting.