The mountain air was thin.
My chest burned with every breath as I climbed the hill carrying two heavy wooden buckets filled with water. The handles dug deep into my small palms, turning the skin raw and red.
I was five.
Or at least… this body was.
But the soul inside me?
That soul had already lived. Had already died. Had already been betrayed, crushed, discarded like trash and left to rot in the rain.
And now, it had been reborn.
"You're slow," Master said from the top of the slope, his arms folded behind his back. His long robe fluttered in the breeze like a banner of judgment.
I said nothing.
Words were useless. In my first life, I had begged. Explained. Pleaded for understanding—and still been cast aside. This time, I would prove myself with actions, not noise.
Step by step, I forced my legs to keep moving.
My shoulders screamed. My spine ached. But I didn't stop.
Not until the buckets were placed at his feet.
Master didn't praise me. He didn't nod or smile. He simply turned and walked away.
"Again," he said, voice like stone.
I didn't complain. I picked up the buckets and went back down the path.
Because I knew: this was only the beginning.
---
The days turned into weeks.
I woke before the sun. I trained until the sky bled orange. I memorized hundreds of herbs, learned to crush, boil, distill. I studied acupuncture, pressure points, ancient texts on internal balance and qi flow.
My body screamed with exhaustion. My fingers bled from writing scrolls and grinding herbs. But I never asked for rest.
There was no softness in my master. No comfort. Only cold instruction.
Yet I didn't hate him.
Because I saw it in his eyes—he wasn't cruel. He was preparing me. For what, I still didn't know.
At night, when he thought I was asleep, I would lie beneath the old wooden roof, staring at the stars through a crack in the ceiling.
And I would feel it again—that strange pull inside my chest.
A whisper, faint but persistent.
Someone… is waiting for you.
---
"Drink this," Master said one morning, sliding a bowl of bitter, black liquid across the table.
I didn't flinch. I drank.
My throat burned instantly. My vision swam. My muscles spasmed.
I collapsed onto the floor, gasping.
But I didn't cry out. I bit down hard on my lip until the pain passed.
He crouched beside me, watching carefully. "Good."
I stared up at him. "What was that?"
"A test," he said. "And a treatment. You were born with a body too weak to carry the burden you'll one day face. So I'm changing that."
He stood again, turning his back. "Piece by piece. Pain by pain."
I sat up slowly, wiping the sweat from my forehead. "Why are you helping me?"
For a moment, he paused.
Then, without turning around, he said:
"Because I know what's coming."
My blood ran cold.
He never explained more than that. But it was enough to know—this wasn't a coincidence. He hadn't just found me in that field. He'd been waiting.
---
One evening, months later, as I arranged dried herbs on the porch, I found a bird struggling near the edge of the path.
Its wing was broken. Blood soaked its feathers. It wouldn't survive the night.
I picked it up gently and brought it inside.
Using everything Master had taught me—splints, salves, herbs—I treated it. My hands trembled, but I moved with care. Focused. Determined.
Days passed.
The bird lived.
When it finally flew again, something inside me stirred.
I had saved a life.
Not with pleas or apologies.
But with knowledge. With strength. With my own hands.
For the first time, I smiled.
And I understood—
I didn't need to be powerful to be feared.
I needed to be powerful… to protect.
---
On my sixth birthday, Master placed a scroll in front of me.
It was blank.
"Your past is gone," he said. "What you were no longer matters. From now on, you choose what you become."
I looked up at him. "Even if what I become… isn't who they want me to be?"
He smirked, eyes narrowing. "Especially then."
So I picked up the brush and wrote one name.
Elara.
It wasn't the name I was born with. It was the name I chose.
The name I would carry into my third life.
The name that would one day strike fear into those who once called me worthless.