The first thing Erwin felt was not pain. It was cold. A dry, biting cold, unlike the snow that had been falling endlessly over his ruined kingdom just moments before. The air felt frozen, devoid of the smell of smoke and blood he had grown accustomed to.
His ears throbbed violently, producing a dull ringing that kept him from clearly perceiving his surroundings. Distant voices seemed to call him through a thick veil, only to fade like smoke carried away by the wind.
"My king…"
"You must leave… leave…"
These were the voices of his generals, his most loyal companions in arms. Men of honor he had seen fall one by one, struck down by enemy blades to give him time to escape. But Erwin had not fled. True to his oath, he had remained on his stone throne, waiting for the devouring flames to complete their destruction. He was ready to die. He wanted it with all his being. He had failed in his sacred duty, and for a king, failure was paid for with eternal rest.
Yet, as he sank into darkness, a strange voice ruined everything. A voice neither male nor female, speaking of a "second chance" with a supernatural resonance. Erwin laughed inwardly, despite the death approaching. "What chance? To watch people die all over again? No thanks… I just want to rest… I can feel Father scolding me for being a poor king, one who failed to protect his kingdom." A bitter smile formed on his face, a reflection of endless sorrow.
The voice laughed, echoing through the entire universe. Finally, Erwin died, seated on his throne, his left hand clenched on the hilt of his sword. In the absolute silence that followed, one last voice spoke: "Go, Erwin Marff, this world needs someone like you."
Yet his eyes opened again. The white light that greeted him struck his brain like a brutal dagger. Erwin grimaced in pain and tried to lift a hand to shield himself from the unbearable glare, but his arm felt like a ton of lead. His muscles seemed made of wet cotton, unable to obey his will.
"Mr. Ethan? Can you hear me? Look here."
Erwin blinked, struggling to focus on the figure before him. A man dressed entirely in white stood above him, observing him carefully. He wore no metal armor, no mage's robe with intricate embroidery. Just a strange tunic and a white mask over his mouth. The man held a small metallic device that shot a piercing light straight into his eyes.
Erwin wanted to ask, "Who are you, sorcerer?" but no sound came out. His throat was on fire, dry as a desert after battle. He managed only a muffled growl, a faint complaint that quickly faded.
"Everything is fine, Ethan. You've come back from afar. Try to breathe calmly. The monitor shows your heart racing."
Ethan? Who was this Ethan? Erwin tried to focus despite the chaos in his mind. He looked around warily. The room was strange, almost unreal. The walls were perfectly white, without a single crack, without decoration. Above him, panels attached to the ceiling glowed on their own, without fire, without candles, illuminating the space with artificial light. To his right, a black box emitted rhythmic, obsessive sounds: Beep… Beep… Beep…
It was too many sensations at once. Too many unknown noises, too many harsh lights, too many things he did not understand. Panic rose within Erwin, cold sweat dripping down his forehead. In his world, waking up in an unknown place with strange people meant imprisonment or death.
"Where… is… my sword?" he finally stammered with superhuman effort. His voice was high, fragile, almost childlike. Not the deep, commanding voice of a sovereign, the one that led armies. The doctor let out a small, sad laugh, full of compassion.
"Your sword? Your mind is still a little muddled from the shock. You attempted suicide, Ethan. You threw yourself into the river. It's a miracle we got you out in time."
Erwin froze, his gaze empty. Suicide? Jumping? He closed his eyes, trying to reject such insane words. Suddenly, like a dam breaking under water pressure, images exploded in his mind, invading it with unprecedented violence.
These were not his memories. They were another life, an existence he had never lived. He saw cars, those iron carriages that moved without horses with a roar of engines. He saw phones, pocket mirrors that spoke and glowed. He saw a school, classrooms filled with students, and above all… he saw the mocking faces of others.
In these stolen memories, he was Ethan Bargan. A sixteen-year-old boy with a broken fate. A boy openly ridiculed by everyone. His family was powerful, wealthy, filled with geniuses capable of manipulating "mana," the mysterious energy powering this technological world. But Ethan was born empty, without any connection to this force.
Erwin felt Ethan's pain in his own chest, a deep tearing. He relived the cruel mockery at school, the disappointed and cold stares of his father, the heavy silence of his mother. He was called "the waste." The only human among millions without a drop of magic, a mistake of nature.
Overwhelmed by the weight of his solitude, young Ethan had abandoned all hope. He had chosen the icy river to no longer hear the laughter and insults that marked his days. "So, that voice… it wasn't a hallucination?" Erwin wondered, beginning to grasp the reality of his situation.
Yet a cold anger, born from his warrior blood, began to burn in Erwin's stomach. He had led thousands to glory. He had faced terrifying demons on the battlefield. To see this body, so frail, so despised by its own, infuriated him beyond measure. A king remains a king, even trapped in the body of a beggar or an outcast.
The doctor finally left after checking some numbers on a glowing glass tablet in his hands. Erwin was alone in the small, silent room.
When the doctor departed, Erwin remained, staring at the white ceiling. He did not cry. His suffering was too ancient, too deep for mere tears. It was a heavy stone, an unbearable weight lodged in his stomach. He looked closely at his hands. They were thin, fragile, devoid of the war scars he had once carried. Ethan's body was an empty shell, just as he felt empty from the loss of his kingdom.
He rose painfully and approached the mirror in the small adjoining bathroom. The white-haired boy staring back had dead, lifeless eyes. Erwin touched the cold glass with his fingertips, brushing his own reflection. "You too… wanted it to end," he murmured to himself.
He did not feel like a king before a humble subject. He felt like a fellow victim. Ethan had failed to live in this cruel world, and Erwin had failed to save his own from the flames. Two failures united in a single sixteen-year-old body. He let out a silent laugh, a hoarse sound more like a choke than joy.
Erwin did not want to stay one second longer. The incessant beeping of the machines painfully reminded him of his soldiers' last agonized breaths on the battlefield. Without hesitation, he tore out the wires in his arm without even flinching. Physical pain meant nothing. It was almost comforting it proved he was still alive and capable of feeling.
He dressed without hurry, each gesture deliberate. A black hoodie, loose and comfortable pants. He pulled the hood over his white hair to hide his face. He simply wanted to disappear, blend into the walls, escape all eyes. Exiting the room, he encountered a nurse in the immaculate corridor.
"Mr. Ethan! Where are you going?" she exclaimed, surprised to see him standing.
Erwin stopped cold. He did not look at her with the authority of a sovereign. He looked at her with eyes so empty, so laden with a millennia of fatigue, that the young woman fell silent immediately. It was not fear she saw it was a deep, inexplicable unease. She felt as if she were confronting a ghost returned from the dead.
"Let me," he said simply, in a voice devoid of timbre.
His voice was extinguished, stripped of all emotion. He did not issue a royal order; he expressed a vital necessity. He no longer had the strength to argue, no strength to pretend to belong to this world. He passed her without a glance, shoulders slightly hunched, dragging behind him the invisible weight of two broken lives.
"Wait… call security!" shouted the nurse, but it was already too late. He was gone.
Outside, the modern world roared with engines and harsh lights. Erwin stopped on the sidewalk, observing the urban chaos. The cars streaming by, the giant advertising screens, people running after time… Ethan's memories explained everything he saw, but his kingly heart was crushed by the senseless bustle. All this noise for what? Money? A fleeting prestige?
He was not a king in exile. He was a castaway on a foreign land. He looked at his trembling hands, weak from shock and fatigue. He had no purpose. No mission to fulfill. Only this teenage body refusing to die, and a mind filled with corpses and betrayals.
"Why me?" he asked the loud, indifferent city. "Why force me to watch this world when I've already lost everything?"
He did not seek to conquer new lands. He did not seek to shine under the spotlights. He walked simply, unaware where his steps would lead, carrying within him the eternal silence of a vanished kingdom and the despair of a boy never loved by his own. Erwin Marff, king of nothing, had just begun his second life. And for now, it was agony; for him, this second life was more a punishment than a chance, a punishment he accepted in silence.