Six months had passed since I was born into this new life.
To anyone else, I was just an infant, soft and fragile, my tiny body dependent on the gentle care of others. But inside, I was still Jake Allan—a boy who had lived, suffered, and died once already. I thought my new existence would be nothing but silence and helplessness, yet those six months taught me something precious.
I could listen.
And when I listened, I learned.
My mother, Christina, had a fondness for books. She didn't own many—just a small collection she treated like sacred treasures—but she read them often. Every evening, she would light a lamp, gather me into her arms, and call for my sister, Lila. The three of us would sit close, wrapped in warmth, as her voice carried us to other worlds.
At first, I listened lazily, too busy adjusting to this fragile body to care. But one afternoon, something struck me like lightning.
The words she spoke.
I understood them.
Not with the vague sense of a baby recognizing tone, but with absolute clarity.
They were English.
The language of my old life.
They had been speaking it from the beginning, and I had been too overwhelmed, too numb to notice. It wasn't some mystical translation—no spell whispered into my mind. It was the same English I had spoken all my life.
I was stunned, though I could only stare dumbly at the ceiling and gurgle like any infant. Had fate bent the rules of reality for me? Or was it coincidence—that across two worlds, two civilizations, the same language ruled?
Whatever the reason, it was a gift. And I resolved to take advantage of it.
So I listened.
And through my mother's stories, I learned.
"Long ago," Christina began one evening, her voice warm and steady, "the world trembled under the shadow of demons…"
The story always began the same way. She spoke it like ritual, her words slow and deliberate, her eyes full of reverence.
"From the underworld, they came. Endless hordes—goblins, orcs, hellhounds, wyverns, creatures of nightmare. Their numbers blackened the horizon. They burned villages, toppled cities, and devoured all in their path. Humanity was weak and scattered, divided among petty tribes and kingdoms. Against the tide of demons, we were nothing."
Lila sat at her side, eyes wide with wonder, her small hands clutching the edge of Christina's dress. "And then Garcia came, right, Mama?" she asked eagerly.
Christina smiled softly. "Yes, my dear. Then came Garcia."
Even at her age, Lila knew the story by heart. But that never stopped her from begging for it again and again. And each time, Mother told it as though it were the very first.
"He was a man born of no kingdom, no noble blood, no crown," Christina said, her voice lowering into something almost secretive. "But in his chest burned a flame brighter than the sun itself. Some say the gods themselves placed it there. Others say he was merely human, no different from you or me—but with a spirit unbroken by despair."
Her hand brushed over my head gently as she spoke, her fingers running through my thin hair. I could feel her warmth, the sincerity in her words.
"Garcia raised his sword, and where others saw the end of the world, he saw a beginning. He gathered the people. The farmers. The hunters. The scattered tribes. They flocked to him, drawn to his courage like moths to flame. And together, they made a stand."
The air in the little room grew heavy as Christina's voice wove the picture.
"The demons came, a wave of fire and shadow. The earth itself shook beneath their steps. The skies turned black with their wings. But Garcia did not falter. He drew his blade—no common steel, but one forged from the will of the world itself."
Lila gasped, leaning forward. "The Worldbreaker!"
Mother laughed softly. "Yes. The Worldbreaker."
"Tell the part, Mama," Lila urged, her eyes shining, "the part where he struck them!"
Christina nodded, and her tone deepened, carrying weight and power.
"With one blow, Garcia split the skies. His sword cleaved mountains, carved rivers, and with its light he banished the demons back to their underworld. The ground itself sealed, the gates broken, and the world was saved."
Her voice lingered on the words, almost reverent.
"The people knelt before him, their savior, their shield. And in that moment, Garcia became the first king. Not by birthright. Not by inheritance. But by the will of the people who believed in him. Thus began the Garcia Empire, and from his bloodline, kings and queens have ruled ever since."
Silence followed. The crackle of the lamp filled the room, soft and steady.
I stared at my mother, my tiny body still, my mind restless.
It was a good story. A great one, even. But was it history? Or was it myth?
In my old world, we had legends too—stories of heroes who conquered impossible odds. Over time, those stories twisted, exaggerated, turned to myth until no one knew where truth ended and fiction began. Was Garcia truly a man who split mountains with a sword? Or was he a warrior whose victories grew with every retelling?
Yet I couldn't deny something stirred inside me as I listened.
Hope.
Maybe this was why Christina read it so often. Not to teach us the details of history, but to remind us of something deeper—that even in the darkest hour, one person's courage could change everything.
Lila certainly believed it. Her little eyes glowed with determination each time Garcia's name was spoken. She would sit up straighter, clench her fists, and whisper, "I'll be strong like him one day."
And for just a moment, even I wanted to believe too.
But Christina's books weren't only legends. They carried knowledge too. And I devoured every drop of it.
I learned that we lived in the Garcia Empire, the mightiest kingdom on the Central Continent. Seven continents shaped the world, but none matched the Central's size, wealth, or power.
Our home lay in a small country within the empire's borders—a place with few nobles, ruled on behalf of the distant king. To us commoners, the empire was less a beacon of strength and more a shadow, its presence looming but distant, like the sun that warmed and burned in equal measure.
I learned of magic.
It wasn't just legend. It was real. I had already seen it with my own eyes when Mother healed Father after the noble's beating. But now, I understood the words for it.
Magic flowed from mana, the invisible lifeblood within all living things. Most people awakened their mana at the age of six, though some awakened later—late bloomers, Mother called them. Not everyone did. Some lived and died without ever touching the flow of magic.
Capacity mattered. How much mana one possessed determined how much magic they could wield. It could be trained, stretched, grown to a point—but each person had their limit. And beyond that limit, no amount of effort could push further.
There were affinities too. Fire, water, earth, wind. Light and darkness. Rarely, people could wield hybrids, bending two elements into one. Healing magic, like Mother's, was tied to light, though she confessed her abilities were modest.
And with magic came monsters.
Goblins, orcs, hellhounds, wyverns. Creatures born of chaos, scattered remnants of the demons that Garcia had once vanquished. They roamed forests, mountains, and ruins, ever a threat to humanity. Heroes fought them, and commoners prayed they never strayed too close.
As Mother read, her voice
took on warmth, weaving danger and wonder together. To Lila, it was adventure. To me, it was truth.
This world was not my old one.
It was harsher. Wilder. More beautiful, and more cruel.
And as her words sank into me, I understood more and more of the rules that governed this place.
One evening, after she finished telling the legend of King Garcia again, Christina set the book down gently and smoothed Lila's hair.
"Do you know why I tell you this story so often?" she asked softly.
Lila tilted her head. "Because it's the best one?"
Mother laughed, her voice like bells. "That too. But more than that—it reminds us of hope. Of what people can do when they refuse to give in. Even when we are small, even when we feel powerless, we can carry courage in our hearts. And sometimes, courage is enough to change the world."
Her words lingered, sinking deep into the quiet.
I stared at her face, her gentle smile framed by the flicker of lamplight.
In my old life, my mother had told me stories too, when she still had the strength. Stories to keep me from breaking under the cruelty of the world.
And here I was again, in another world, another life—listening to another mother's stories.
The pain of memory swelled inside me, sharp and bittersweet. But I swallowed it down.
Because this time… maybe I would be strong enough to write my own story.