The blade went through my chest.
Not a sword. Not a dagger. A spear of crystallized mana—my own technique, perfected over three hundred years, now buried in my heart by the hands of those I had trusted.
"Did you really think we'd let you reach the Tenth Circle?"
Verath. My first disciple. The one I had raised from a street orphan.
He twisted the spear.
"The Council decided," he said. "You were getting too close."
I laughed. Blood bubbled from my lips, but I laughed anyway.
"You're all fools."
With the last of my strength, I reached into the core of my being. They could kill my body. They could not erase what I knew.
If I cannot complete my work in this life—
I poured everything I was into a single desperate act.
—then I will find another.
The world went white.
---
Year Zero
I opened my eyes to a ceiling I didn't recognize.
I tried to move. Nothing responded. My arms, my legs, my neck—nothing.
What—
A face loomed over me. Massive. Blurry. A woman, exhausted, drenched in sweat, smiling down at me with tears in her eyes.
A boy," someone said. "A healthy boy, my lady.
A boy?
I tried to speak. What came out was a wail—high-pitched, pathetic, completely beyond my control.
No. No, no, no—
I was a baby.
A baby.
The woman—my mother, I realized with dawning horror—gathered me against her chest. I could feel her heartbeat, impossibly loud. I could smell milk and blood and something floral.
And I could do absolutely nothing about any of it.
This is my new life.
The thought should have brought relief. Instead, I felt the first stirrings of a very different emotion.
Humiliation.
---
Year Zero — Month Three
Being an infant was torture.
Not physical torture—though the constant need for sleep and food came close. No, the torture was mental. I had three hundred years of memories, decades of magical research, and the accumulated wisdom of a near-archmage.
And I spent my days crying, sleeping, and shitting myself.
This is undignified.
I had just finished soiling yet another cloth when the wet nurse arrived. She cooed at me—cooed, as if I were some mindless creature—and began the process of cleaning me up.
I was a mage who touched the threshold of godhood.
She lifted my legs and wiped.
I could have incinerated armies.
She powdered my backside.
I debated philosophy with scholars who are now dust.
She swaddled me like a sausage and set me in the crib.
And now I can't even control my own bowels.
I stared at the ceiling and contemplated the cruelty of the universe.
---
Year One
My first word was supposed to be "mama" or "papa."
Instead, it was "no."
I had been trying for weeks to form coherent sounds. My tongue was clumsy, my throat uncooperative, my lungs frustratingly weak. But I had centuries of practice with precise pronunciation—magic required exact verbal components—and eventually, muscle memory began to translate.
"No," I said clearly, when the wet nurse tried to feed me mashed vegetables I despised.
She froze.
"Did he just—"
"No," I repeated, pushing the spoon away.
They called me a prodigy. They celebrated my "early development." My mother—Lady Valdric, I had learned, wife of Lord Valdric of the Northern March—wept with joy.
I smiled and pretended to be a clever baby.
Inside, I was screaming.
Eighteen more years of this. At minimum.
---
Year Three
I took my first real steps—not the stumbling attempts of a toddler learning to walk, but actual *steps*—at eighteen months. By age two, I could speak in full sentences, though I deliberately simplified my vocabulary to avoid suspicion.
"More please," instead of "I request additional sustenance."
"Why?" instead of "Explain the underlying logic of this restriction."
It was exhausting. But necessary.
By three, I had mapped out my situation.
I was Aren of Valdric, third son of Lord Valdric, born into one of the great knight houses of the realm. My older brothers—Calder and Theron—were already training in the family's martial traditions. They would inherit titles, lands, respect.
Me? I was the spare. The afterthought. Barely worth attention.
Perfect.
No one watched the third son. No one expected anything from him. And when the time came for my own "awakening"—whatever that meant in this world—I could fail spectacularly without consequence.
Because I had figured out something else. Something that made me smile every time I thought about it.
This world had mana.
Faint. Slow. Almost stagnant compared to what I remembered. But it was there, flowing through everything, waiting for someone who knew how to use it.
Magic wasn't dead here.
It was just... forgotten.
---
Year Six
The day of my awakening arrived.
In knight families, children were tested at age six to see if they could sense aura—the lifeforce that powered their martial techniques. Those who awakened early were celebrated. Those who failed were given second chances. Those who failed repeatedly...
Well. I intended to find out.
They brought me to the training hall. My father was there—a massive man with cold eyes, the sigil of House Valdric embroidered on his chest. Sword crossed over shield. Lion rampant. "Steel Endures."
He barely looked at me.
"Begin," he said.
The instructor—an older knight with scars on his hands—placed his palm on my chest. I felt a pulse of *something* push into me, searching for resonance.
Aura. Knight power. A crude system compared to proper magic, but effective in its own way.
The pulse found... nothing.
Or rather, it found my mana channels—which I had been carefully cultivating in secret for three years—and recoiled in confusion. Mana and aura didn't mix. The pathways were different.
Incompatible.
"I... don't understand," the instructor muttered. "His channels are... blocked? Damaged?"
My father's expression didn't change. But I saw the flicker of disappointment. The quiet resignation.
Another failure.
"Continue his education," he said. "Perhaps next year."
He left without another word.
The instructor patted my shoulder. "Don't worry, young master. Many children awaken late."
I nodded sadly, playing the role of a dejected child.
Inside, I was grinning.
They have no idea what's growing inside me.
---
That night, I sat alone in my room. Cold stone beneath me. A single candle flickering in the darkness.
I closed my eyes and reached inward.
Hello, old friend.
The mana stirred. Three years of careful cultivation, hidden behind the mask of a disappointing third son. Three years of rebuilding foundations this world had forgotten.
They think I'm a failure.
I began the Breath of Gathering. Slow. Controlled. The true technique, not whatever corrupted scraps might still exist in this age.
They have no idea.
The mana responded. Thin, weak, barely a trickle—but mine.
Verath. The Council. Everyone who killed me.
Another breath. The mana swelled, just slightly.
They thought they won.
The candle flickered.
They made one mistake.
The flame died.
In the darkness, I smiled.
They left me alone.