Five months had passed since his birth, and although time seemed to flow slowly in the peaceful Ashfield mansion, Reinhard's consciousness never rested. Inside, he was no mere infant: he was a fallen king, a demon from ancient ages, a being whose soul had gazed upon eternity… and yet, there he was, observing the world through tiny eyes, trapped in a body that could barely hold itself up.
That day, rays of sunlight filtered through the sky-blue curtains, and the soft song of birds accompanied the aroma of freshly served tea. Reinhard sat on a wool rug, silently staring at his own feet. His legs felt steadier. They no longer trembled as much. It wasn't destiny, but the result of his indomitable will.
—Just one more step… —he murmured, though his mouth made no sound; it all happened within his mind.
He inhaled deeply, placed both hands on the floor, and pushed himself up with effort. His balance was fragile, but the fire of his determination burned bright. He took one step… then another… and finally a third, before falling face-first to the floor. He didn't cry, didn't whimper, only clenched his teeth.
A high, excited voice broke his concentration:
—My king! My son has walked! I saw it! I SAW IT! —Homen Ashfield burst into the room with his arms raised as if he had witnessed a miracle.
—What is it, Homen?! —Ramona exclaimed, rushing in from the dining room, her hair disheveled and her dress half-buttoned.
—He walked! Our son took steps on his own! Barely five months old and already standing like a little warrior!
—By all the heavens! —she cried with a radiant smile. She ran to Reinhard, lifted him from the floor, and hugged him tightly—. My precious boy! So brave, so strong!
Reinhard, trapped in his mother's embrace, only sighed inwardly.
—It's nothing —he thought—. In my past life, I climbed towers of bone and crossed fields of corpses to conquer empires. But of course, here a few steps are cause for national celebration…
Not long after, while the news spread throughout the mansion, Reinhard sat in his room on his small bed, gazing at the moon through the window. Then he heard the sweet, calm voice he was growing used to:
—Do you feel proud? —asked Lili, his caretaker, entering with a folded blanket in her arms.
The child looked at her without expression. Though his face was small, his eyes held an unusual depth.
—I would be proud —Lili continued as she knelt by his side and placed the blanket over his legs—. Not every baby walks so soon. You're strong, little Reinhard.
Reinhard tilted his head. A silence stretched between them, soft, almost warm. Finally, with a clumsy voice, he said:
—Lili… good.
She smiled, surprised. It was the first time he had called her by name.
—Did you say my name? —she asked, her eyes shining.
—Lili… always here. Lili… cares.
—And you… think too much for someone so little —she replied, laughing softly.
The first words of Reinhard Ashfield were Lili. Normally, a child's first word would be the name of their mother or father, but Reinhard Ashfield was the exception.
Reinhard lowered his gaze, thoughtful.
—Not everyone deserves to be exterminated —he murmured within—. Perhaps you don't…
The days passed with steady progress. Reinhard improved his motor skills, began to babble more words, and even mimicked phrases he often heard. One cloudy afternoon, he overheard his father speaking with a noble visitor about "the pure bloodline of the Ashfields."
—My son will be the heir of the family, I have no doubt —Homen said, pouring himself a cup of liquor—. There is no blood nobler than ours. His strength already proves it!
—And what if he isn't what you expect? —the visitor asked with a calm voice.
Homen laughed, somewhat forced.
—Then I'll make him strong. By force if I must. I will not raise a useless child. And I know he will never become one.
Reinhard listened from the hallway, his brow slightly furrowed.
—Typical —he thought—. Humans trying to forge warriors out of poisoned expectations. If only they knew who I really am.
By the time he was nine months old, Reinhard could already walk unaided and spoke with greater clarity. Ramona still carried him as if he were a newborn, which irritated him deeply.
—Can mommy give you kisses on the nose? Hmm? —she asked in a sugary tone.
—No —he replied, turning his face away—. I don't want to.
—Oh, what a spoiled child! I know you want kisses —she said, laughing—. Where did he get that attitude from?
—From his old soul —Lili said one day from the kitchen.
—What did you say?
—Nothing, my lady. Just thinking out loud.
But not everything was comfort. At night, Reinhard couldn't sleep because of the noises coming from his parents' room. The wood creaked, the bed thumped against the wall, and Ramona's laughter mixed with muffled moans.
—Ahhh! Love, I can't take it anymore —Ramona moaned, panting.
—But I've only just started, love, don't scream too loud or Reinhard will hear us —Homen replied, also panting with pleasure.
—But I've been hearing you since the very beginning —Reinhard retorted inwardly.
—Pathetic —he muttered one night, lying in his bed with eyes wide open—. And they call me the child?
The night would turn silent again. And in that silence, he thought. He remembered wars, thrones, and betrayals. Sometimes he dreamed of fire… other times, of ice.
And so, a year passed. Reinhard Ashfield was already recognized as a "prodigy child" by the servants, though no one imagined that within that small body resided the soul of an ancient demonic monarch. One autumn day, he stood before a full-length mirror. He stared at himself for a long time.
—Little by little… I will rise again. Not as a king, nor as a demon. Not yet. But I will —he whispered.
It was then that Lili entered without knocking.
—Are you talking to yourself again, little Reinhard? —said Lili.
Reinhard slowly turned, and with the most innocent smile he could muster, replied:
—No. Just… practicing speaking.
Lili stared at him for a few seconds, one eyebrow raised. Then she smiled, crossed her arms, and murmured:
—You're a mystery, little Ashfield. A very interesting mystery…
Days passed, and with them, words began to flow from Reinhard's lips with greater clarity. They were no longer just scattered sounds or automatic responses. No. Now they were complete phrases, sentences charged with intent.
—The sky is... clear today —he murmured one day, sitting by the window as the sun bathed the gardens with its gentle glow.
Lili, who was knitting beside him, dropped her needle.
—What did you say, Reinhard?
The boy didn't repeat the phrase. He only smiled, his gaze fixed on the clouds. He had said it because he felt it. Because he wanted to say it. It was time to reclaim his voice, not just as a means of communication, but as an instrument of dominion.
Little by little, the servants stopped treating him like an ordinary child. Some looked at him with strangeness. Others with fear. His way of speaking was… adult. Not completely, but enough to unsettle. Even Ramona noticed.
—This child of mine speaks like a little court noble —she would say proudly, though she didn't understand why some of her son's phrases made her feel watched—. Who knows! Perhaps he'll be a poet in the future.
But beyond his parents' relations, beyond the childish games they tried to impose on him, something within Reinhard was beginning to awaken. Something more than memory, more than will. It was… hunger.
A hunger for knowledge.
One day, when the clock struck five in the afternoon and the mansion's halls began to fill with the scent of fresh bread, Reinhard slipped away from Lili's watch and walked alone. He did so without hesitation, as if guided by an invisible compass through the carpeted corridors. He descended the marble stairs, turned toward the west wing, and finally opened a carved wooden door.
The library.
It was a sanctuary of silence and warm shadows. The walls were lined with shelves that rose to the ceiling, filled with ancient tomes, leather-bound volumes, dusty treatises, and illustrated books. The air smelled of aged paper and mystery, with countless books waiting there.
Reinhard advanced among the shelves, observing each spine with a mixture of reverence and possession.
—This… this does belong to me —he thought solemnly.
His small hands caressed the edges of a book titled Arcane History of the Eastern Continent. He pulled it out with effort, fell backward from the weight, but didn't complain. He only laughed inwardly, as if a forgotten part of his soul celebrated that instant.
He dragged the book to a low table. Climbed onto a wooden chair and, with difficulty, opened it. The letters were large, with colorful illustrations of kingdoms, creatures, and ancient heroes. Some pages were stained with ink, others bore seals from unknown authors. Reinhard devoured them with his gaze.
And as he read—or at least, deciphered symbols he once knew by nature—something vibrated within him. It wasn't nostalgia. It was human curiosity.
—Humans write what they fear… and what they forget —he murmured softly—. Everything is here, exposed… like an open wound waiting to heal.
He turned page after page. He stopped at an image of a crowned demon, with black wings spread wide, seated on a throne of skulls. It didn't state his name, only a phrase: The Fallen King of the Black Abyss.
Reinhard froze.
—That is me —he whispered with a faint shiver—. Or… it was.
He closed the book, not with fear, but with respect. He caressed it as though stroking an ancient grave.
Then he heard footsteps.
—Reinhard?
It was Lili. Her voice didn't sound angry. It sounded worried.
The boy climbed down from the chair without a single complaint. He walked toward her with a calm expression.
—You were reading —she said, surprised, noticing the massive tome on the table—. That book weighs more than you. How did you open it?
—I like that book —he answered, without thinking.
Lili frowned, then crouched to look him in the eyes.
—You like it? And you can already read! But you're only one year old!!
Reinhard looked away, uncomfortable. Not because of her, but because of his own honesty. He shouldn't be so direct. Not yet.
—I don't know how to read completely. But I want to learn, Lili. To know things. Many things.
She remained silent. Then she took his hand.
—Then we'll come every afternoon, alright? But promise me you won't come alone again.
—I promise —Reinhard replied, feigning innocent sincerity.
But both of them knew it was a lie, or rather not entirely a lie, as Lili thought of Reinhard.
Three years had passed since that day when Reinhard Ashfield walked normally through the luxurious corridors of the mansion. Over time, and despite Lilia and his parents' constant attempts to keep him under their watch, young Reinhard began to slip away with the stealth and skill worthy of a master thief.
That routine became his habit: hiding in the hallways when no one was watching, sliding between curtains and walls covered with noble tapestries, until his small legs once again carried him to the only place where he truly felt free… the library.
That temple of knowledge, lined with towering shelves and adorned with stained glass windows filtering light in soft shades of gold and emerald, had now become his refuge. There he spent countless hours among ancient tomes, magical encyclopedias, tales of forgotten kingdoms, and legends as absurd as they were intriguing.
But among all those pages, there was one in particular that began to disturb his peace: the story of the Six Heroes who defeated the Demon King Azrael Noctem Cael'Zar.
Reinhard, sitting on a high cushion and surrounded by open books, flipped through one of the golden manuscripts with a furrowed brow. His eyes, no longer so childish, quickly scanned each word written on the reinforced papyrus pages. Every line that spoke of the "cruel Demon King" and "his easy downfall before the brave" stirred within him a silent rage, hidden beneath a sarcastic smirk.
—Weak? Me? —Reinhard murmured as an ironic smile crossed his face—. What a shameless lie…
Those words were not only insulting. They were a mockery of the legacy he had once embodied as Azrael Noctem Cael'Zar, the infernal monarch who had ruled the dark realms with wisdom, power, and a code of balance.
He knew that in war, unforgivable acts are committed, but he had never been the blind monster of cruelty that these books described.
It was then, as his small finger traced the ancient ink, that he realized he had reincarnated in the same world, not in another. This was his world… only nine thousand years later.
—Then, if I reincarnated in this future… I can't even imagine how much the world has changed… —Reinhard whispered, gazing out the window as the sun slid across the sky.
It was there, in that instant of contemplation, that a forgotten fragment of his death resurfaced in his memories: the face of the Hero of the Holy Sword. His gaze was radiant, his voice calm, and his last words echoed like a buried refrain: The dawn is for everyone, don't you think, Azrael?
Reinhard closed his eyes, pressing his lips as that memory vibrated within his mind.
—That bastard… he told me he would reincarnate too… thanks to the blessing of the Goddess of Souls. —He opened his eyes, staring at the floor as if he could find hidden answers beneath the marble—. I don't know if he has already been reborn before… or if he lives right now in this same era.
He sighed with a hint of resignation, leaning slightly against the back of the chair as the books surrounded him like a crown of knowledge.
—I don't know… but one thing is certain. When I meet him again… I will defeat him. That was my promise, and I will fulfill it.
The silence of the library was almost spiritual. Broken only by the occasional creak of the wood or the murmur of the wind brushing the windows. But Reinhard did not stop. It was as if an uncontrollable hunger drove him to read every word, every symbol, every idea printed in those volumes.
He had a natural thirst for knowledge, inherited from his past life, when he wielded the Authority of Knowledge, nearly omniscient. Though his new body was not the same, his memories persisted… and with them, his identity.
Suddenly, as he turned the page of a new tome on rudimentary alchemy, his mind drifted toward a more recent memory. That time, while playing in the back garden, he tripped on a stone and scraped his knee. The pain was sharp, but he didn't feel much despite his age. His mother cried out from afar.
—My little Reinhard! Wait, I'll take you to the doctor.
Lili, always calm and serene, intervened with a sweet voice:
—Lady Ramona, allow me —expressed the maid with perfect manners before the infant.
She knelt beside him, placed her hand over the wounded knee, and a green light, warm and soft, flowed from her palm. Within seconds, the wound vanished.
—You're fine now, Reinhard. Good as new —she said with a smile.
Reinhard, now back in the library, rubbed his chin with his fingers as he muttered to himself:
—Exactly… Magic. I haven't used it since I reincarnated into this body. I hadn't thought about it… but that was healing magic Lili used on me.
With renewed interest, he rose from the chair and began to wander among the shelves, searching for a section he had not explored much: that of ancient magic.
Soon he found a book bound in dark blue leather, decorated with silver filigree and a shining gem on its cover. As he held it, a faint shiver of excitement coursed through his body. Opening its pages, a wave of familiarity washed over him.
—Of course I know them… —he whispered as he observed the spells drawn in runic strokes—. I remember them perfectly from my past life…
His fingers traced one of the elemental manipulation spells. His eyes lit up.
—It won't hurt to try again… I want to see how magic works with this small human body.
His lips curved into a dangerous smile. His gaze was not that of a curious child, but of an ancient king about to return to one of his greatest qualities.
MAGIC.