That night, the rain draped the city like a sombre veil. The sky churned with black clouds, occasionally rent apart by jagged lightning that tore through the darkness. The wet streets glimmered under neon reflections, casting fleeting shadows of people sprinting through the downpour. Yet, in a quiet corner of the city, an old building stood with its windows fogged and opaque. Within, a pulsating blue light throbbed, as if a colossal heart were beating behind the concrete walls.
This was my laboratory. My second home—or perhaps, the only home I had ever known.
I stood amidst the chaos of twisted cables, massive glass tubes brimming with coolant, and aged monitors flickering dimly. The clamor of machinery merged with the relentless patter of rain on the tin roof. The scent of scorching metal mingled with the sharp tang of ozone, searing through my lungs and making them shiver in sympathy with the machines.
Before me stood the culmination of years of obsession—a prototype energy reactor, a dream forged in solitude. A metal cylinder rose to human height, its core glowing blue, pulsing like a caged miniature star. Thick steel cables anchored it to the instruments around, siphoning and channeling energy with precise purpose.
I stared at it with bloodshot eyes, worn and hollowed by sleepless nights. My body was thin, my face pale, my hair a tangled mass mirroring the cables strewn across the floor. I could not remember the last time I had eaten in peace. Yet none of that mattered. Tonight was the final test—the moment that would determine everything.
"If this works…" I whispered to myself, "the world will never be the same again."
My hands trembled as I pressed the calibration button. A soft click resounded. The monitor came alive with a rising energy graph. The reactor's core flared brighter, its glow weaving across the glass chamber like living fire. I held my breath, heart hammering, mind racing.
Memories flickered—fragile, distant, yet vivid.
A young boy perched atop a roof, gazing at the stars above. In his hands, a science book lay open, pages filled with sketches of perpetual motion machines. His eyes sparkled with untainted hope.
"I want to create a light that will never die. A light that can ignite hope in everyone," whispered that boy—me, years ago.
That vow became the fuel of my life. I studied relentlessly, refused stable work, and ignored the worried calls of family. I poured every cent, every moment, even my own health into one purpose: to birth an eternal machine. Beyond my laboratory walls, the world rotted—strangled by energy crises, torn apart by wars waged over dwindling resources. I believed that if this machine succeeded, humanity would no longer need to fight for oil, coal, or nuclear power. There would be no more reason for bloodshed.
The reactor's hum deepened. The needle climbed steadily, the energy graph rising in quiet triumph. A faint, fragile smile crept onto my lips.
"Yes… this is it. Almost… stable."
I fixed my gaze on the screen, unblinking. Sweat traced paths down my temples, mingling anxiety with triumph. I had come this far. A few more moments, and the dream would be real.
But fate, as always, had its own cruel jest.
The needle jolted violently into the red. Alarms screamed, monitors flooded with errors: Overload detected. Core instability. Critical failure.
"No… no, not now!" I shouted, panic clawing at me as I hammered the control panel.
The buttons were dead. The coolant system unresponsive. The stabilizers silent. The core shuddered violently, its blue light erupting into blinding white. The steady hum became a deafening roar.
My chest constricted. I knew what was coming. But surrender was not an option. I lunged toward the machine, gripping the manual valve. Flames of metal seared my palms, yet I pressed on.
"Hold on! Just a little longer!" I screamed.
The machine answered with a minor explosion. A wave of energy hurled me backward. Glass shattered, lights fractured. Sparks danced like serpents across the room.
I froze, breath ragged. A bitter whisper crept into my mind: Have I failed?
And yet, in that instant, time slowed. The world blurred, sound fading into void. Only the swelling, blinding white light remained.
On the brink of annihilation, more memories surfaced. My mother's smile cradling me as a child. Friends who once stood by my side, now gone, wearied by my obsession. Faces flashed past, fleeting as frames of a hastily run film.
Then—the voice.
Not the machine's. Not the rain's. Not even my own.
It was deep, resonant, reverberating from every direction, as if both past and future spoke at once.
"Welcome, seeker of eternity. Your death marks the dawn of a new destiny."
I froze. Words caught in my throat. My body betrayed me, paralyzed. I wanted to ask who, what—but the world had already surrendered to the light.
Pain vanished. Fear dissolved. Only silent emptiness remained.
And within that emptiness, I fell.
When I opened my eyes, the world before me had changed entirely. There were no alarms, no sparks of electricity, not even the rain from that night—it had vanished as if it had never existed. Instead, a heavy silence filled a vast room lined with towering bookshelves reaching toward the ceiling, each brimming with manuscripts, scrolls, and dusty leather-bound tomes. The scent of ink and aged paper hung in the air, stirring a peculiar mix of curiosity and caution.
I tried to move my hands. They felt… light. Too light. The small hands moved with grace, yet every motion felt foreign to muscles accustomed to the strength and endurance of an adult. As I stared at them, my chest nearly froze.
These hands were not mine.
Confused, I glanced down at my body. It was small, that of a child—just over a meter tall, slender arms and legs, a face innocent and unmarked by years of toil in a laboratory. Dark hair framed my face, and dull blue eyes stared back at me, mirroring the same confusion I felt.
"What… is this?" I whispered, my voice higher and lighter than I had ever known.
My steps wavered as I tried to stand. This body was pliant, yet every movement felt strange, unlike the adult form I had always known. I walked toward a large mirror in the corner, holding my breath.
The reflection staring back was not the one I had known. A child's face gazed at me, blue eyes dull, black hair messy, thin lips tracing an expression of confusion. I searched for familiarity, but found only the alien self.
"Am I… reincarnated?" I murmured, my tongue still clumsy in this new mouth.
The question came wrapped in a surge of panic. Everything I knew—the lab, the city drowned in last night's rain, my work—had vanished. Even this body was unfamiliar.
I looked down at the simple dark robe clinging to me, adorned with symbols I did not recognize. My small hand brushed the fabric, feeling its texture. No scent of machinery, no trace of chemicals—just cloth, skin, and the cool air.
Then, a memory surfaced—strange yet vivid, as if it belonged to someone else, yet demanded belief.
I remembered… a grand house filled with books, shelves that scraped the ceiling, a study desk cluttered with writing tools and parchment rolls. I remembered names I had never heard, family members with stern faces, clad in long robes, clutching wands or thick books. I remembered spells, symbols, rituals, and words imbued with unseen power. This was not the scientific world I knew. This was a world of magic—a world that could only exist in fiction.
And a single name echoed in my mind: Nasuverse. A world of magi, of legendary Servants, a realm full of wonders yet rife with danger.
I pressed my hand to my forehead, trying to steady myself. This could not be real, could it? Yet the evidence before me—books, symbols, even this unfamiliar body—spoke otherwise.
Through the window, morning light streamed in, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. Each particle seemed to shimmer with magical energy, reminding me that I now inhabited a place alive with a different force.
My steps led me to the tallest shelf. I grasped a scroll, and as I unfurled it, strange symbols swirled before my eyes, evoking a mix of awe, fear, and curiosity. The language was foreign, yet I could comprehend its essence—as if my mind had been synchronized with this world.
"So… I am no longer a scientist," I muttered, my small voice echoing in the silent room. "I… am a magus?"
Curiosity eclipsed fear. I wandered from shelf to shelf, leafing through ancient tomes and parchment rolls. Amidst them, I found a large dark leather-bound book, the diary of a magus. The handwriting was meticulous, the symbols precise. Somehow, it felt familiar—as though I had once read or even written it, even though in my past life I had never studied magic.
I opened the book, reading the first line:
"True energy is not born of instruments, but of will. A true magus ignites the world with conviction, not with machines."
The words pierced my mind, like a whisper from the future—or perhaps from a lost part of my own soul.
I gazed out the window at the tranquil blue sky. This world was far removed from the city drenched in rain and lightning I had known. Yet one thing remained unchanged: I still had a purpose.
"In this world… I will continue my dream," I whispered, staring at my small hands that now felt like instruments of a new kind. "Not through technology, but through magic. And this time… I will not fail."
That thought filled me with newfound resolve, stronger than ever. This unfamiliar world offered possibilities I had never imagined. The eternal machine I had sought with wires, tubes, and electricity might now be realized through spells, rituals, and the power of a true magus.
I sat on the cold wooden floor, closing my eyes for a moment, letting memories of the old world and this new one intertwine. The rain in the laboratory, the sparks, the scent of heated metal—all were now shadows. And yet the smell of paper, the silence, the symbols dancing in my mind—these were my new reality.
I knew the journey ahead would be far from easy. The Nasuverse was filled with intrigue, battles between magi, legendary Servants, and layered secrets. Danger could come from anywhere, even from my own family, who might hide truths capable of shattering my life.
But my determination was unwavering. I had lost everything in the old world—my machine, my laboratory, even my body. This time, I would rebuild my dream, but in ways I had never conceived.
And in the corner of my mind, I heard the faint whisper—the same voice I had heard before the explosion:
"Your death is the beginning of a new destiny."
Now I understood. I had indeed died, but not to cease. I had died to be given a second chance. A new life, in a new body, in a world far larger and more intricate than the old.
I exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the ceiling laden with towering shelves.
"Alright… let's begin," I said, a faint smile tracing my lips—part excitement, part tension. "This world… will be my new laboratory. And this time, I will find a way to ignite hope, even in the heart of darkness."
I rose, glancing out the window. The magical city stretched before me with glittering towers, winding streets filled with oddly robed pedestrians, and lights dancing in the air, as if infused with energy. All seemed peaceful, yet I knew appearances were deceptive. This world was fraught with mystery and danger, and I had to be prepared.
With firm steps, I turned back, eyes on the towering bookshelves, the faintly glowing symbols, and the scrolls in my hands.
This was a new beginning.A beginning far more thrilling… and far more perilous.