The silence around him broke like shattered glass.
His eyes opened—not with fear, not confusion, but certainty. The dimly lit ceiling above him was unfamiliar, and yet... he knew. He knew this was not a dream. Not anymore.
He was alive.
Or rather, reborn.
A quiet energy surged through his small body—dense, alive, divine. His limbs were light, brimming with something he had never felt before in that cursed life.
Strength.
Real, untamed, unfiltered strength.
There was no celebration in his expression, no wonder. Just a quiet shift of the eyes, a sharp inhale, and a stillness that came only with those who had seen too much to be surprised anymore.
The memories of hell still echoed faintly—flickers of fire and frost, twisted landscapes shaped by his own buried nightmares. He hadn't even known his name when he fell into that abyss. The gods, or whatever they were, had given him a choice:
"Remain here, and be forgotten. Or go back—start from the beginning. But you will remember nothing."
He had chosen.
And now, here he was, three months old, not even at the age when most children knew their own strength—but already a beginner of the First Rank.
His divine energy churned beneath the surface of his skin, cool and vast.
Resistance to poison, enhanced regeneration, sharpened senses—gifts he didn't recall earning, but instinctively understood as his own.
But there was something more.
Something dangerous.
A core.
Too early, too soon—normally, children would form one only at eight. But Elarion had already begun. He sat cross-legged, drawing in the raw spiritual threads within his veins, condensing them, forming a core the size of a pearl—small, but fiercely compact.
Carefully, he wrapped it in divine energy, sealing it completely.
Nobody could ever know.
The door creaked.
He paused, eyelids lowering to feign sleep.
Footsteps approached softly—the head of Crimsonveil.
The head stood at the doorway, gaze warm, proud. Elarion didn't move.
He stepped closer, knelt beside the bed, and brushed his fingers gently through his son's silver hair.
"You're growing fast... aren't you?" he whispered.
A smile.
He stood up and left.
The moment the footsteps faded, Elarion's eyes opened. Cold. Flat.
Damn, he ruined it.
He sat up, brushed his hand over the strands that had been touched, realigning each as if restoring some lost order.
He would look flawless. Always.
Because in this life—this second chance—he would be beautiful. Untouched. Worshipped. Not like before. Not like the burned corpse that had been his former self.
Pretty things deserved protection.
That was what the world believed.
Let it believe that.
Let them all fall for that mask.
But behind it, Elarion had no interest in being protected. He would never again be the one shielding others with broken bones and shattered faith. This time—
He would protect them.
Those who deserved it.
Especially her.
He didn't forget, just because he don't care doesn't mean that he will forget.
No matter what had taken from his mind, his heart remembered the feeling. A shadow of someone who had once stood beside him, hands bleeding, eyes determined.
She had remained. Even when the world had burned.
They would meet again. He didn't need it to be dramatic. Just a greeting.
Nothing too genuine, nothing too cold.
But it would be enough.
This time, he wouldn't be the broken one.
He would be the hand they all reached for—and the hand that never let go.
Because now, he remembered his name.
Elarion.
And this time, he would make sure the world remembered it too.
--
In the days that followed, Elarion trained.
Secretly. Quietly. Each night, after the servants dimmed the lamps.
He sharpened his poison resistance. Strengthened his regeneration. Compressed divine energy into every joint, every breath.
No cries. No whines. No failure.
Just him. Alone. Forging strength in silence.
---
Then came the announcement.
The record.
The trial chamber had seen geniuses push themselves for years. The longest time spent inside was four hours and fifteen minutes. Most crumbled in two.
Rior had made it to four.
Sirus, too.
And now—Elarion. Three months old.
Four hours. Thirty-one minutes.
The household shook.
---
Rior burst into his room like a thunderclap, his energy chaotic with joy.
> "YOU LITTLE MONSTER!" he bellowed, lifting Elarion like a doll. "Three months!? Do you even know what you just did!?"
Elarion squirmed with annoyance, his tiny fists pushing against Rior's face.
> "Nope. You're mine now," Rior grinned. "Sirus! Come look at this goblin!"
The elder brother entered calmly, his silver eyes measured as always. But even he cracked a rare grin.
He knelt and placed a hand on Elarion's soft head.
> "You'll protect yourself now, won't you?" Sirus said quietly. "We'll still protect you… but I'm proud of you."
Rior laughed. "You'll be terrifying when you grow up."
Elarion stared at them.
Expression unreadable.
But his eyes… softened, just slightly.
Not warmth. Not yet.
But recognition.
Maybe even… comfort.
---
Sirus lifted him into his arms. Elarion looked annoyed again—until something sparkled.
A brooch.
Gold, polished and glinting like a captured sun on Sirus's collar.
His eyes lit up.
He reached for it instinctively, tiny fingers curling toward the light.
Sirus didn't move. Just watched.
And smiled.
Rior leaned closer, grinning ear to ear. "He's just like before. Shiny things and sweets."
Both older brothers laughed.
Not at him.
With him.
---
Elarion didn't laugh back.
But his fingers curled around the brooch and held it like a secret.
Something warm flickered in his chest—something even divine energy couldn't touch.
---
The world saw a beautiful boy with mismatched eyes.
But those who looked longer saw something far more dangerous.
A crown in the making.
A storm behind a quiet smile.
And beneath it all—
A child with no memory,
Forging himself into a god.
----
The Next Morning:-
Elarion's room was blinding.
Boxes. Ribbons. Crystals. Coins. Golden instruments. Shimmering fabrics. Glass birds. Perfumed oils. Magical toys.
Everything glittered.
A child in Crimsonveil wasn't raised with comfort. They were forged. Hardened.
But Sirus and Rior had broken the rules.
They had spent their coin — their privilege as direct heirs of House Crimsonveil — on beauty. On joy. On Elarion.
He was sitting on his bed in the middle of it all. He crawled down. Silent.
There was no smile. But his fingers trailed across a jeweled dagger, glinting like moonlight, and paused.
He allowed the warmth to settle in his chest. Quiet. Unspoken.
One day, he would earn the middle name too.
But not because someone gave it.
Because he took it — with power no one could ever take from him again.
'They doesn't seem that annoying any more' he thoight with a satisfied grin after seeing all the beauty in the room again...
---