Rain dripped steadily through the ancient canopy above.
It struck broad leaves, rolled along their veins, and fell in cold drops upon the soft forest floor. Mud, moss, and roots tangled beneath towering trees whose trunks were so vast they could have swallowed castles whole.
In the middle of this forbidden forest, a newborn lay crying.
But the cry was an act.
Inside that fragile body, a mind older than kingdoms remained painfully awake.
So this is rebirth, Arin thought.
His lungs burned with every breath. His limbs were weak, barely responding to his will. Each movement felt sluggish, disconnected, like trying to control a body through thick water.
Yet beneath the frailty—
Power slept.
It coiled within him, vast and endless, like a sea compressed into a single drop.
Mana did not flow through his body.
It existed as him.
Arin forced his crying to fade. Instincts—both mortal and something deeper—told him that noise in a forest like this was an invitation to death.
The rain masked him for now.
Slowly, painfully, he shifted his tiny fingers.
Mana responded.
Not explosively. Not violently.
It listened.
Arin froze.
In his previous life, mana had been a tool—something he commanded through years of discipline, formulas, and exhaustion. Even at his peak, mana had resisted him like a wild horse.
Now?
It moved at the faintest whisper of intent.
Infinite, the god had said.
Arin did not test it further.
Survival came first.
This forest was not empty.
Even without sensing magic directly, Arin could feel it—countless presences lurking just beyond perception. Some were curious. Some indifferent.
Some… ancient.
A pressure rolled through the air.
Something enormous shifted deep within the woods, causing birds to flee in a screaming wave. Branches creaked. Leaves trembled.
Arin felt it then.
A gaze.
Not hostile.
Evaluating.
A dragon, he realized calmly.
Not fear. Not excitement.
Acceptance.
If he was to die again, it would not be by panicking like a child.
The pressure lingered for several heartbeats—then withdrew.
The forest exhaled.
Arin relaxed his body fully, allowing exhaustion to pull him toward unconsciousness for the first time since rebirth.
I will live, he promised silently.
Quietly. On my own terms.
Darkness claimed him.
Arin woke to hunger.
A raw, desperate ache that overpowered thought.
Instinct took over, and he cried.
Moments later, warmth surrounded him.
Arin stiffened internally.
Hands.
Rough. Calloused. Mortal.
A woman's voice whispered softly in a language he did not recognize—but somehow understood.
Magic.
Not spellwork.
World-language.
He was lifted, cradled against a beating heart. The scent of leather, herbs, and smoke filled his senses.
A human, Arin noted.
No—humans.
He sensed more nearby. Three. Armed. Nervous.
"This forest is cursed," a man muttered. "We should leave it."
"We can't leave a baby here," the woman replied. "The spirits would never forgive us."
Spirits.
So that belief existed here too.
Arin drank in the information along with warm milk, his mind cataloging every sound, every word.
They were hunters. Refugees perhaps. Simple people foolish or brave enough to skirt the forest's edge.
They argued.
In the end, fate bent quietly.
"He lives," the woman said firmly. "That means the forest allowed it."
Allowed.
Arin almost smiled.
They named him Aerin.
Close enough.
He was raised on the fringe of the forbidden forest, in a small wooden settlement that feared what lay beyond the trees. Hunters returned with trembling hands and half-filled packs, whispering of glowing eyes and moving shadows.
No one ventured deep.
Except him.
As a child, Aerin was quiet.
Too quiet.
He learned early how to pretend—how to dull his gaze, how to stumble, how to cry at the right times. The world watched children closely. Power revealed too early was hunted.
At night, while others slept, he listened.
The forest spoke.
Not in words, but in presence.
And something else listened back.
On his fifth winter, when frost coated the leaves and breath turned white in the air, Aerin slipped beyond the village boundary alone.
He stopped beneath an ancient tree whose bark shimmered faintly under moonlight.
"I know you're there," he whispered.
Silence.
Then—
Reality folded.
Light condensed in his palm, forming an object that did not yet have shape.
The tool, Arin realized.
Not summoned.
Acknowledged.
It felt neither hot nor cold, heavy nor light. It existed as potential.
"Become," he murmured.
The light shifted—lengthening, solidifying—
A simple farming knife rested in his hand.
Perfectly balanced.
No divine radiance. No overwhelming aura.
Just a tool.
Aerin smiled.
"This will do."
Far above, unseen by mortal eyes, a god watched.
And for the first time in a very long while—
Hesitated.