Chapter 1 Death And Rebirth
Consciousness returned in fragments. Pain had claimed him first, searing through his skull and ringing in his ears, dragging his mind through a void of fractured thought.
There was no ground beneath him, no air to grasp, only the slow recognition that something irreversible had occurred.
What… happened? Jordan's thoughts were slow, tangled in fog.
Where am I? Was that… was that me just now?
He tried to summon memory. Flickers appeared: a scream, the flash of lights, the sensation of falling. Each fragment slipped through his fingers.
Death was not meant to be gradual. It was usually abrupt, silent, merciful. Yet here, he lingered, caught between worlds.
I died.
He reached for the details. Days blurred together. Wednesday or Thursday—it no longer mattered. His own name felt distant, a word borrowed from someone else. Then clarity struck, sudden and sharp:
Jordan Smith. I died on a Thursday.
The memory of university life returned. A stressed-out computer science student, a mind buzzing with exams and deadlines. His body had been heavy, weighted by fatigue and frustration.
Bags of responsibilities piled upon him classes, assignments, life
And then on his way home from school.
A red cement truck barreled toward a mother and her child.
Instinct took over.
Move! Watch out! He shouted but his screams couldn't reach them on time in the last few seconds his body moved on instincts rushing towards the mother and child. Jordan didn't question the impulse; his legs obeyed without consulting the rest of him. He shoved the mother and child clear but his own path ended against metal.
Pain tore through him like fire. Bones shattered, skin lacerated, every sense screaming. People screamed around him, though their sounds barely reached him, muffled by ringing ears.
He watched the mother and child. The child's eyes were wide with horror. He could not speak, could not cry out. Agony consumed him, and then something familiar stirred in the back of his mind—a memory from age seven, a tragedy he had survived only because others had intervened.
That's why, he realized, I moved because I didn't want any child to suffer as I did.
The thought brought a strange smile amidst the torment.
Consciousness waned, slipping again.
Pain receded only to return with renewed intensity. Hospital lights flickered overhead. Machines beeped. Doctors fought against inevitable death—but he was already beyond the threshold.
The void swallowed him once more.
When he opened his eyes again, the world was no longer human. Colors impossible to name stretched across the abyss. The air was thick with silence, Empty and yet strangely beautiful he thought.
Then a figure emerged: tall, slow, wearing a black-and-purple suit. A mask hid its mouth. Eyes glimmered like shimmers of starlight. As he took the opportunity to observe the figure before him Pressure began to weigh upon him as if his soul were being crushed and compressed while his eyes gave a burning sensation which quickly subsidized after he averted his gaze.
Fantastic, he thought. Just what I needed.
The figure raised its hand. The air froze. A sigil appeared, glowing faintly blue, pulsing like a heartbeat. Before Jordan could react, it pierced his chest.
Pain beyond comprehension. Agony without relief. And then blissful release.
He blacked out again.
When consciousness returned this time, it came with a strange realization.
He felt… small.
Not merely weak or insignificant, but genuinely reduced, as though the world had expanded overnight while he had been left behind. His body felt stiff and upright, unresponsive to intent.
His mind issued commands, but his limbs refused to answer.
I can't move.
His gaze shifted slowly, inch by inch, until it settled on a bright blur suspended above him.
As his vision sharpened, the blur resolved into a chandelier grand, ornate, its crystal pieces catching the light and scattering it across the ceiling.
It was far larger than anything he remembered, delicate in detail yet overwhelming in scale.
That's… a chandelier, he realized. Why does it look so big?
His eyes drifted downward. A bed came into view beneath him, its wooden frame polished smooth and warm in color.
Cream-colored wallpaper stretched across the walls, patterned with curling floral vines. The room felt refined, carefully maintained, the sort of place meant to be gentle rather than imposing.
This place looks… expensive.
A faint breeze brushed against his skin, making his small body shiver. Purple curtains swayed softly by a window, their fabric catching the light. He watched them move, mesmerized, imagining what they might feel like to the touch even though his body remained stubbornly uncooperative.
Nearby, a red armchair sat beside a wooden rocking chair, both positioned as if waiting for someone who had momentarily stepped away.
Then the door creaked open.
Instinct tightened around what little control he had. A young woman entered, red-haired and light-skinned, dressed in what appeared to be a maid's uniform. Her movements were careful, practiced. She approached the bed, bent down, and gently lifted him into her arms.
Her hands were warm. Steady.
She spoke softly, her voice calm and soothing, though the words themselves were meaningless to him.
I can't understand her.
Cradled against her forearm, his tiny head supported with ease, he noticed the faint scent of wood and fabric as she carried him out of the room. They descended a staircase slowly.
Each step caused a gentle sway, rocking him in a way that felt unfamiliar but not unpleasant.
Portraits lined the walls—paintings of landscapes, vases, and people. His eyes searched them instinctively.
Are those… my parents?
But the movement made it impossible to see clearly. All he caught were fragments: dark hair on one figure, blue on another. The details slipped away before he could grasp them.
At the foot of the stairs, a girl rushed toward them. She looked to be around thirteen, with long dark hair and a neatly tailored dress adorned with blue ribbons. The skirt puffed outward, exaggerated by its design.
She smiled brightly when she saw him.
Carefully, she took him into her arms. Her touch was gentle, almost reverent. She poked his nose playfully, laughing as she did so.
Without thinking, he laughed back.
The sound surprised him.
That was… automatic.
She spoke again in that strange, lilting language. He strained to catch meaning, but the words slipped through his thoughts like mist.
Then pain flared suddenly in his chest.
Sharp. Immediate.
He cried out, his small hands instinctively clutching at himself as panic surged.
The mark
Did it come with me?
The pain pulsed once more, then slowly faded. His breathing steadied. The girl's voice returned, calmer now, closer.
"Caelum… it's alright. Don't cry. Are you hungry?"
Caelum.
The name settled into place with unsettling ease.
So that's who I am here.
She held him closer and carried him deeper into the house. His eyes moved constantly, absorbing everything colors, light, motion. The world was overwhelming, but not hostile.
Another door opened.
Warm light spilled into the hallway.
Inside the room sat a woman with long, bright blue hair cascading past her shoulders. She radiated a quiet presence, one that made the space feel still, anchored. Her breathing was slow, measured.
Something about her made his racing thoughts ease.
He was placed gently into her arms. Almost immediately, a deep, instinctive hunger made itself known. His body reacted before his mind could fully process it.
This… is my mother.
She fed him without ceremony, without hesitation—an act of care as natural as breathing. Warmth, comfort, and safety blended together until the edges of the world softened.
His thoughts dimmed, dulled by fullness and fatigue.
Afterward, she held him close, rubbing her nose lightly against his forehead.
She whispered something he couldn't understand. The mark on his chest remained silent.
So it doesn't grant understanding after all…
She began to cough.
The sound was restrained but violent enough to draw attention. A few maids entered hurriedly, speaking in hushed urgency. They reached for him, but she shook her head.
They hesitated—then withdrew, lingering just beyond the door.
When the coughing subsided, she searched beneath a pillow near his crib. Her movements were practiced, almost routine. She retrieved a small packet of powder, poured some into her mouth, and drank from a glass of water left nearby.
After resting, she leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.
She closed the door. Opened the window.
The gas lamp was turned low, its flame reduced until shadows retreated politely into the corners of the room. She draped a thin veil over her hair.
Then she knelt.
Near the window stood a small statue, dark and indistinct from his vantage point. Tall. Cloaked. Its features refused to resolve clearly.
She folded her hands.
And began to sing.
Her voice was quiet, steady, woven with restraint. He couldn't understand the words, but he felt their weight. Occasionally, her song faltered as a cough broke through. Each time, she paused, steadied herself, and continued.
The light flickered once.
Then settled.
His thoughts drifted, pulled toward sleep by the rhythm of her voice.
Whatever she was asking for.
Whatever she feared.
She offered it willingly.
His eyes closed.
Her song lingered at the edge of his consciousness soft, solemn, and unresolved he said with his last bit of strength before sleep took him
If this is my second life…
I hoped I can protect this family too.