He drifts in nothingness. No weight. No edges. No breath. Only a vast, echoing quiet that reaches into the bones.
Then—light. A pinprick of white, slicing through the void. Sharp and insistent, it pulls him forward. He doesn't know why he obeys, but he obeys. He feels himself stretch, like smoke drawn into a lantern.
Air rushes in. It stings his lungs.
A second later, he realizes he has lungs.
Pain follows: a burning coil in his chest, a fire in his throat. He coughs—but no sound escapes. He tries again. Nothing. Just an emptiness where his voice should be.
Above him, flames dance against carved stone. The ceiling is too low, the chamber too small. Flickers of torchlight cast giant, tremulous shadows on walls etched with unfamiliar symbols. Heat brushes his skin—warm and sudden after the void.
He forces his eyes open. Blurs clear into shapes: a wooden cradle draped in white linen, standing at the center of a ring of anxious faces. He tries to lift his arm. It's heavy, disconnected. He flails once, twice, and feels a tug of fear deep within.
A woman kneels beside him, breath ragged. Her hair is damp, her robes stained. She leans close, pressing his small body against her chest. He tastes sweat and candlewax. Strange voices swirl around him, speaking in a language he can't decode—but the emotion is clear: panic.
He looks down. At his palm.
So small. Fragile as a fallen leaf.
In that instant, a memory flashes:
Fluorescent lights humming overhead. The sterile smell of antiseptic. A hospital bed that felt like a cage. A man who stared at him with pity, then shame, when the monitors flatlined. The silence after the doctors spoke the word "dead."
He'd never felt so alone.
Now, here, in this carved chamber, the irony bites: he is alive again—yet he is as helpless as any newborn. A terror bubbles up, but before it can break free, he feels the woman's heartbeat against his cheek. Strong. Steady. Insistent.
He doesn't know her, yet the rhythm grounds him. He doesn't cry.
He cannot.
One of the midwives—a young girl with worry etched on her face—glances at the door and hurries off. Moments later, heavy boots thud in the corridor. A hush falls.
A man enters, draped in robes ornamented with gilded runes. He carries a staff, its tip glowing faintly blue. A hush ripples across the assembled attendants. He is the Royal Mage.
The woman tightens her hold around him. He senses her fear: fear of what he is, and what he might become.
She breathes his name into his ear—though it sounds like a plea rather than a christening.
He wonders what he will call himself.
The mage approaches and murmurs an incantation. His fingertips brush the child's forehead. A pulse of magic ripples across the cradle, like moonlight over water. For a heartbeat, the chamber is still.
Then the mage pulls back, expression unreadable. He turns to the waiting nobles—pale-faced men and women who wear fine silks yet tremble as if standing before death itself.
"He is physically sound," the mage says, voice low and clear. "But his mana signature… is nearly nonexistent. We have no measure of power within him."
A tremor runs through the mother's arms. She presses him tighter, as though her grip could force magic into his veins.
The nearest noble—a tall man with a crown of silver hair—leans forward. "Explain."
The mage bows his head. "According to the records, no child born to the noble lines of Masrth has ever registered so faintly. This… is the weakest birth on record."
Silence crashes against the silent walls. The woman's breath hitches. The midwives avert their eyes. Somewhere, a candle guttered, as if the flame itself recoiled.
In that hush, the child hears something else: a cold judgment, a ripple of shame spreading through the assembled family. The word cursed hangs unspoken, yet everyone feels its weight.
Then the family withdraws, leaving the chamber quiet but for the mother's soft sobs. The attendants close the doors. The torches flicker. Only she remains, rocked on a wave of grief and love.
She cradles him, head bent low. Her tears fall onto his swaddling cloth, warm and wet.
"Heaven knows," she whispers, voice raw, "I did my best. But they think you're nothing. They think you're weak. Disgrace. A mistake."
The child feels her sorrow like a shiver down his bones. He remembers absence, fatigue, and the ache of never measuring up. In his other life, he knew what it meant to be powerless. He vowed, then, that he would never be forgotten.
He doesn't cry now—because tears meant nothing in that life. They ushered in sympathy that faded by morning. He's watched the world move on without him. He won't repeat that mistake.
The mother presses her forehead to his. Her hair brushes his cheek—softer than any cradle. Her heart pounds with a fierce, unshakable promise.
"I don't know your name," she says, voice quivering, "but I know that whoever you become, you'll do it on your own. And if the world turns its back… I will stand with you."
He feels the warmth of her words, seeping into him. Something primal stirs—a spark beneath the emptiness.
The candlelight dims once more. The room grows quieter, as if the very stones are listening.
Then, deep inside his mind, a whisper:
[Initializing…]
[Host Identity: Unnamed]
[Soul Signature: Echo of Another World]
[Power Level: 0.0]
[Social Standing: Weakest Noble Lineage]
[Assigned Title: The Forgotten Heir]
Welcome, Crownless Anomaly.
No light flickers to announce this. No voice speaks the words aloud. But something—like an echo of thunder in a collapsed cavern—resonates behind his eyes.
He blinks once.
In the hush, he hears only his mother's steady heartbeat and the distant drip of wax from the torches.
And somewhere, far beneath the cradle, a quiet vow takes root:
This life, he will not waste.
This world, he will reshape.
End of Chapter 2