All I could hear was noise crashing in from every direction. The air was thick with dust and a metallic stench mixed with the smell of decay, a sour weight that clung to the inside of my nose. Broken stone and twisted steel scattered with lifeless bodies surrounded me.
Boom. Boom. Bang. Bang.
A sudden shockwave hit me. I felt dizzy and lost my sense of direction, but I forced myself to stay on my feet.
"Arghh!" "Help!"
Another chain of explosions erupted in the distance, each blast rolling closer, louder, until it felt like the ground itself was splitting apart.
Something slammed into the side of my head. A hot, wet trickle slid down my skin. Pain flared and my knees buckled. I hit the ground. I tried to stand, but the world tilted and spun.
My vision blurred. Blood pooled in my eyes until the world turned into a red haze. Shadows flickered. Shapes moved, too fast or too slow, nothing making sense.
A voice cut through the ringing in my ears.
"Hey, stay with us! You hear me? Stay with us!"
"Open your eyes! Come on, man, open your eyes! Shit!"
"Over here! We need a med—"
A cold numbness spread through my body, making my arms and legs heavy and hard to move. My fingers twitched once against the dirt, then went still. Regrets, pain, and a few small happy moments flashed through my head. I remembered reading that the brain tried to find a way out when death was close.
So this was what dying felt like.
Light faded. Sound weakened. My body grew lighter, as if sinking and floating at the same time. Soon, everything turned dark.
. . .
Something warm wrapped around me.
A strange sensation washed over me, like floating through water, pulling me upward toward a soft, glowing light. My thoughts slipped away as I drifted.
Three small orbs floated behind me, their colors shifting like tiny flames. They flickered gently as I rose.
As I neared the light, a silhouette took shape.
Words echoed inside my mind, broken and distorted.
"WL%&@ %#."
My eyes cracked open. A blurry woman hovered over me, panting, exhausted. Her breath came fast. Her heartbeat thudded heavily against my cheek.
She was holding me.
What? Holding me?
My head felt unbearably heavy. My limbs refused to move.
Am I dreaming?
I could not tell, but the warmth of her arms felt real, as did the faint trace of sweat across her skin.
I tried to move again, but my body wouldn't respond.
What is happening?
Voices quarreled around me. Someone shouted, weak but sharp.
"Ha&#@> &%fL."
"h#%i $&% @fc."
"G@&$k."
The words made no sense. The sounds is like a foreign language spoken in frustration. Mouths moved above me, but I could not tell who was shouting or what they wanted.
. . .
Six months passed. Most of that time was spent in confusion, helplessness, and slowly realizing this really was a new life. I tried to deny it at first, telling myself it was a dream or some strange coma. But the days kept coming, and the truth became harder to ignore. In the end, whatever I believed before just broke apart.
This world was not Earth. People dressed like they had stepped out of history books or fantasy novels. No phones, no cars, no wires in the streets. Instead, glowing stones lit the rooms and powered tools in ways I still could not explain.
The language had been a mess of sounds at first, and twisted on my tongue. I stumbled through words, guessing more than speaking, but little by little, meaning began to settle in. Faces, tones, and repeated phrases slowly turned into something I could understand.
Most mornings began the same way. My face pressed gently against my mother's warm skin while she rocked me in her arms. Her heartbeat hummed steadily beneath my ear. A faint sweetness lingered on my lips. Her long blonde hair brushed against my cheek whenever she looked down, she smiles at me.
Being held by her felt strangely safe, a kind of safety I had never experienced in my previous life.
"Mama. Say it again," she whispered, voice gentle and patient.
The door creaked open. A tall man with jet-black hair stepped inside and crossed the room quietly. He lifted me with ease and wrapped both my mother and me in a warm embrace. He smelled faintly of steel and sweat.
"How is our little boy?" he asked.
"We were just playing," my mother replied, her voice filled with affection.
They talked for a while, slipping easily into small touches and soft laughter, completely forgetting I was there. I kicked my feet helplessly. Watching someone flirt while I was trapped in an infant's body was unbearable. All I could do was lie there and endure the embarrassment.
. . .
A year passed.
I took my first steps, each one shaky and unsteady across the floor. My sister clapped excitedly, jumping up and down as I struggled to balance. Their words slowly started to make sense to me.
It seems My name was Lucian Vi Lockewood, the son of an aristocratic family.
The person looking at me with interest, the one with black hair and emerald-like eyes, was my older sister, Isabelle.
"Father, Lucy's face looks scary," she said, staring at me with curiosity.
"He is admiring your cuteness, sweetie," Father said with a warm grin.
"Really?" Isabelle asked, her eyes brightening.
"Of course. You are an adorable big sister."
"I knew it," she said proudly, lifting her chin.
Father picked me up as they kept talking. For a while, I shut my eyes and pretended to sleep, letting the soft rhythm of their voices fade. When they left, I quietly crawled out of the cradle.
I crept toward the room across the hall, the one I had noticed days earlier. Its door had been left open with a crack.
Inside, shelves of books and curious objects line on the walls. Strange tools, parchment scrolls, carved stones. My heart raced.
I reached out toward the nearest book.
"Young master? What are you doing in that room?" a maid gasped behind me.
She hurried over and carried me gently. "Lady Arian will worry if you wander like this."
As she carried me away, I reached toward the door, my fingers brushing the air as the room disappeared behind the closing door.
. . .
Two more years passed. I could now understand the language clearly and had begun studying various subjects.
However, my five-year-old sister, Isabelle, wouldn't leave me alone.
"Stop resisting. If you skip church again, Mother will scold me," she said, dragging me by the arm.
"I would rather stay home and read," I muttered.
"Too bad. You are coming."
"Why do you even care?"
She glared at me. "Because I like living. Now walk."
I sighed and followed.
This world worshipped more than one god. In Valeria, the most revered was the Mighty Sovereign, a literal god of war, as I had read in the holy scriptures of this kingdom.
I had lived through war before. I wanted nothing to do with it again. But being a noble's son meant certain things were mandatory. With my mother present and watching me, all I could do was stay quiet and play the good child.
Inside, we sat next to Mother. The air was heavy with incense. Walls and pillars were carved with symbols and faded runes. Colored light from stained glass washed over the polished stone floor. Rows of believers knelt in silence.
A stone statue stood at the front. A shield with a raised fist was carved on it, and a sword behind it was marked with ancient runes. Candles burned around it, their steady flames giving the figure an imposing presence.
"Let us begin," the priest said.
He wore traditional robes, but heavy armor covered his shoulders. A sword hung at his hip. Scars traced along his arms. His movements were disciplined, his gaze sharp, like a soldier who had seen real battles.
Isabelle leaned close and whispered, "I still do not know what that rune means."
"That is the symbol of the Mighty Sovereign," I replied quietly.
She blinked. "How do you know that?"
"Books."
"Boring."
"You asked."
Mother glanced our way, and we fell silent.
. . .
Months passed, and I found myself hiding in one of the back rooms of the manor, doing everything I could to escape my sister's constant dragging around.
"Finally, some peace," I muttered as I closed the door behind me.
I sat by the window and opened the book I had been reading. There are three main languages in this world. First, Western, my native tongue and the most common language spoken by nearly everyone on the continent. Elvian, from the northern countries, which I had already learned. And finally, Arkian, the oldest language, found in ancient ruins and monuments, which I was still trying to read.
Swish.
Boom.
A heavy sound echoed from outside, shaking the window slightly. I paused and peeked through the small opening.
Father was in the training yard, slashing his sword through the air. Every swing sent out a shockwave that cut across the ground, leaving marks behind. A smoke-like mist flowed from his body, and around his right arm I could see a faint glow. Combat in this world wasn't like anything I had ever known.
From what I had learned, people here preferred swords and fists over guns, which always felt strange to me at first. However, some individuals wielded strange powers that defied my understanding. But watching Father now, I began to understand why. Each swing carried a force that felt like the pressure wave from a grenade going off nearby. It was fascinating to watch.
As he paused, his gaze shifted directly toward my hiding spot.
I ducked, but it was too late.
"Lucian?" he called out.
I slipped out of the room and stepped into the yard with an awkward smile. "Hello, Father."
He sheathed his sword halfway and asked. "What are you doing back there?"
"Belle keeps trying to make me play with her dolls," I replied tiredly.
"Is that so," he said, faint amusement in his voice.
I looked at the sword in his hand and asked, as if I didn't already know, "What are you doing?"
"Training, since I have the time."
My heart sped up. "Can you teach me?"
He chuckled lightly. "You are still too young."
"Then… can I just watch?"
"Sure."
I sat closer and watched carefully as he resumed his movements. His aura shifted with each breath. His steps dug into the ground, his blade cutting clean arcs through the air. Every strike carried weight and intention. It wasn't very fast. It was controlled, efficient, and powerful.
I tried to memorize every detail.
A hand suddenly pressed down on my shoulder.
I stiffened.
"Where do you think you are going, Lucy?" Belle said, glared at me.
"W-wait," I replied as she tightened her grip.
I tried prying her fingers off, but her strength was ridiculous. She dragged me across the yard with ease.
"Help," I said, reaching out pathetically toward father.
Father only watched with a look of pity before giving me a small, helpless wave as Belle dragged me away.