Time flowed quietly, yet every passing hour weighed heavily on Evan's mind.
His awakening was close.
Too close.
Only one day remained.
The Jade estate had already made preparations, just as they had for Austin. Though Evan was not a Jade by blood, Victor Jade treated the matter seriously. Awakening was never something to be taken lightly—especially for someone standing at the edge of fate.
That evening, Evan was escorted to a secluded chamber.
Isolation.
A simple room. Reinforced walls. Formation arrays carved faintly into the stone. The space was meant to protect the one awakening—and protect the world from what might emerge.
Before the doors closed, Austin stood in front of him.
He scratched the back of his head awkwardly.
"So… tomorrow's the day, huh?"
Evan nodded.
Austin grinned, though there was tension in his eyes.
"Don't die," he said. "Or awaken something weird."
Evan smirked faintly.
"I'll try."
The doors shut.
Silence descended.
Evan sat alone.
He closed his eyes.
At first, there was nothing.
Then—he felt it.
A gentle current brushing against his skin.
Wind.
It flowed naturally, familiarly, like an old friend. It circled around him, whispering softly, responding to his breath.
This feels… right, Evan thought.
The Wind affinity.
It was the most common elemental affinity in his family. Even their surname carried traces of it, passed down through generations. His father. His brothers. Most of them had awakened Wind in varying degrees. After all he was a windback.
Evan could feel the resonance.
Strong.
Clean.
Comfortable.
At least I won't be talentless, he thought quietly.
But then—
Something else stirred.
Evan frowned.
This feeling was different.
He felt… pulled.
Not by the wind.
By something distant.
Something vast.
His breathing slowed.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling was there—stone, solid, unmoving.
And yet—
Evan felt as if he was looking beyond it.
As if the room itself had become transparent.
Stars.
He could feel them.
Not light.
Not heat.
But presence.
An invisible thread tugged at his soul, drawing his awareness upward. His chest tightened.
At the same time, the wind surged around him.
Two forces.
Two calls.
Evan's heart pounded.
"Why…?" he whispered.
Confusion flooded him.
Why do I feel attraction from two different sources?
The wind was close, tangible.
The stars were distant—yet overwhelming.
Minutes passed.
Then clarity struck him like lightning.
An epiphany.
"…I see," Evan murmured.
His soul trembled.
He was not just Evan of this world.
He was a transmigrator.
His soul did not originate here.
It had crossed worlds.
Crossed lives.
And souls—remembered.
One affinity belonged to this life.
The Wind.
Inherited. Familiar. Bound to blood.
The other—
Belonged to his previous life.
The stars.
The cosmos.
Something ancient and endless that had followed his soul across death.
That's why… Evan thought.
Dual attraction.
Dual affinity.
Not because he was special—
But because his soul carried history.
As the realization settled, the wind responded eagerly, swirling faster, brushing against his skin like it welcomed him.
Evan smiled faintly.
"I understand," he whispered.
The wind answered.
But then—
A pressure descended.
Not hostile.
Not gentle.
Absolute.
It was as if a celestial gaze had fallen upon him.
Evan's breath caught.
Slowly, instinctively, he raised his head.
The ceiling was gone.
In its place—
An endless starfield.
Countless stars shimmered, vast and silent.
And Evan felt it clearly.
They were looking back at him.
Not eyes.
Not consciousness as humans knew it.
But awareness.
Existence.
Evan's heart pounded violently.
A supreme presence pressed down on him, not crushing—but overwhelming.
His body felt heavy.
His thoughts slowed.
Drowsiness crept in.
"…So this is…" Evan murmured faintly.
The stars pulsed once.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
He dreamed.
But it was not a dream.
It was memory.
He was small again.
Too small.
A child sitting alone near a window in an orphanage.
The sky outside was dark.
Clear.
Filled with stars.
The child—him—pressed his face against the glass, eyes shining.
He loved the stars.
Loved how they didn't judge.
Didn't speak.
Didn't mock.
They just… existed.
It was his birthday.
The caretaker had allowed him to choose a gift.
Other children shouted.
"I want shoes!"
"A phone!"
"Something expensive!"
They laughed when it was his turn.
He walked past the shelves of toys.
Past the clothes.
Past the gadgets.
And stopped at a small, worn book in the corner.
"Really?" one child sneered. "A book?"
The caretaker raised an eyebrow.
"You're sure?"
The boy nodded eagerly.
The book was old.
Its cover faded.
The title read:
'Stars and Their Journey'
That night, the laughter followed him.
"Idiot."
"Who chooses a book?"
They waited until the lights were out.
Hands grabbed him.
Pushed him to the ground.
Fists struck his arms, his ribs, his back.
"Think you're special?"
"Star-gazing freak."
He curled up, silent.
Did not cry.
Did not scream.
He only tightened his grip.
Even as pain exploded through his body—
The book remained clutched in his hands.
They kicked him once more and left.
Breathing ragged, bruised and shaking, the boy lay still.
The others didn't notice.
Didn't care.
The book was intact.
The boy slowly opened it.
Even through blurred vision, the pages glowed with wonder.
Stars.
Nebulae.
Galaxies.
Endless journeys across infinite darkness.
The boy smiled weakly.
"This is enough," he whispered.