The rain hammered against the windshield like a thousand tiny fists, each drop a reminder of the storm's fury. Alex Thorne gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles white against the black leather. It was late—too late to be driving these winding country roads after a 12-hour coding marathon at the office. But deadlines didn't care about weather or exhaustion. "Just a few more miles," he muttered to himself, blinking away the fatigue that blurred the edges of his vision.
His phone buzzed on the passenger seat, the screen lighting up with a text from his sister: You home yet? Mom's worried. Drive safe. He reached for it instinctively, a split-second decision born of habit. The car hydroplaned on a slick patch, tires screeching in protest as the world spun. Headlights from an oncoming truck pierced the night, blinding him. Time slowed. Alex's mind raced—not with fear, but with a strange clarity. Regrets flashed: the startup he never launched, the trips he postponed, the relationships he let fade. Then, impact.
Metal crumpled. Glass shattered. Pain exploded in a white-hot burst, then... nothing. Darkness swallowed him whole.
But death, it seemed, was not the end.
A cry pierced the void—not his own, but a baby's wail. Alex's consciousness stirred, disoriented. What the hell? He tried to move, but his body felt wrong—tiny, helpless, wrapped in something warm and scratchy. Voices murmured around him, muffled and foreign, yet somehow understandable.
"By the gods, it's a boy! Healthy and strong," a woman's voice said, laced with exhaustion and joy.
"Hand him to me, midwife. Let me see my son." A deeper voice, rough but tender.
Alex's eyes—infant eyes—fluttered open. Blurry shapes resolved into faces: a bearded man with calloused hands, a woman with sweat-matted hair smiling through tears. They weren't speaking English, but he understood every word. This can't be real. Am I... reincarnated? Like in those isekai novels I binge-read?
Panic surged, but his new body could only respond with another cry. The midwife swaddled him tighter and placed him in the woman's arms—his mother, apparently. The room was dimly lit by flickering candlelight, walls of rough-hewn wood and thatch. No electricity, no beeping machines. This was no hospital; it was a hut, straight out of a medieval fantasy game.
As the initial shock faded, memories flooded in—not just fragments, but everything. His life as Alex: growing up in suburban Chicago, majoring in computer science, grinding away at a tech firm debugging AI algorithms. He remembered the car accident in vivid detail—the screech, the crunch, the final thought: I should've pulled over.
But now? He was Elias Voss, son of Garrick and Mira Voss, born in the village of Eldridge in the Kingdom of Aetheria. How did he know that? It was as if the knowledge had been imprinted, a tutorial popup in his mind's eye.
Status: Reincarnated Soul. Memories: Intact. Perks: Enhanced Learning, Arcane Affinity, Eternal Recall.
What the—? Is this a system? Like in litRPG? Alex—Elias now—tested it mentally. Show stats.
Nothing. Maybe it wasn't that straightforward. Or perhaps it unlocked later. For now, he was stuck in baby mode, observing the world through helpless eyes.
Days blurred into weeks. Elias learned quickly—too quickly for a newborn. His parents marveled at how he focused on objects, tracking movements with unnatural precision. Mira, his mother, was a herbalist, tending a small garden of glowing flowers that hummed with faint magic. Garrick, his father, was a blacksmith, forging tools and weapons for the village militia. Eldridge sat on the edge of the Whispering Woods, a dense forest teeming with beasts and ruins from an ancient era.
Elias absorbed it all. He couldn't speak yet, but his mind raced. Magic is real here. Those flowers—mana-infused? Dad's hammer strikes sparks that aren't just from metal. I need to experiment.
By month three, he was crawling, exploring the dirt floor of their cottage. He watched Mira brew potions, noting the ratios: three pinches of eldroot for healing, a dash of moonbloom for potency. It reminded him of chemistry class, but with a supernatural twist. If I can remember Earth's science, I could revolutionize this place. Gunpowder? Black powder basics: charcoal, sulfur, saltpeter. But where to source?
Nights were for reflection. Lying in his cradle, Elias pieced together the world's lore from overheard conversations. Aetheria was one of five kingdoms in Elyria, ruled by King Harlan the Just. To the north, the frozen tundras of Frostveil harbored ice trolls and nomadic shamans. South lay the scorching deserts of Sunscar, home to genie-bound nomads. East: the oceanic realms of Aquilon, with merfolk traders. West: the shadowed mountains of Nightforge, dwarven strongholds riddled with undead.
But dangers loomed. Whispers of a "Darkening"—a prophetic eclipse that would unleash ancient evils. Bandit raids increased, and strange beasts prowled closer to the village. Elias's family was poor but content, unaware their son harbored secrets that could upend the world.
At six months, Elias spoke his first word—not "mama," but "fire." Pointing at the hearth, he willed a spark. Nothing happened, but the intent was there. Garrick laughed it off as coincidence, but Mira's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
As seasons turned, Elias grew. By age two, he walked steadily, helping in the garden. He "accidentally" mixed a potion that healed a neighbor's fever faster than usual, earning Mira praise. Basic antibiotics knowledge—boil certain herbs for antiseptics. Easy win.
But isolation bred curiosity. Elias sneaked peeks at his father's forge, memorizing hammer techniques. If I introduce bellows or better alloys, we could make superior steel. Earth history flooded back: Roman aqueducts, Greek fire, even simple machines like pulleys.
One evening, as thunder rumbled—reminding him of that fateful night—Elias sat by the window, staring at the rain. Why me? Was it random, or chosen? A voice echoed in his mind, faint but clear: You were selected, Traveler. To balance the scales.
Who are you?
Call me the Weaver. Your guide, in time.
The voice faded, leaving Elias stunned. A system? A god? He tested again: Status.
This time, a ethereal panel shimmered in his vision:
Name: Elias Voss (Alex Thorne)
Age: 2
Level: 1
Class: Unassigned
Skills: Memory Retention (Max), Basic Herbalism (Novice), Observation (Adept)
Mana: 50/50
Health: 100/100
Perks: Reincarnated Insight – +50% learning speed for all skills.
Holy crap, it's real. Excitement surged. This world had game-like elements, quantifiable progress. He could grind levels, unlock classes. Programmer mindset: optimize, iterate, dominate.
But danger struck soon after. A wolf pack, larger than usual, attacked the village outskirts. Howls pierced the night as villagers grabbed pitchforks and torches. Garrick donned his armor—a simple chainmail he forged himself—and kissed Mira goodbye. "Stay inside, love. Protect the boy."
Elias, hidden under the bed, fumed at his helplessness. If I were older... But he wasn't. He heard the clash: snarls, screams, the ring of steel. Then, silence.
Garrick returned bloodied, carrying a wounded neighbor. "The alpha was massive—tainted by shadow magic. We drove them off, but lost two good men."
Mira tended the injuries, her potions glowing. Elias watched, committing every step to memory. I need power. Fast.
By age four, Elias was a prodigy in the villagers' eyes. He read runes from old tomes Mira kept—self-taught, claiming "dreams showed me." In truth, his Earth literacy adapted quickly to the phonetic script. He sketched diagrams: simple levers for lifting heavy stones, irrigation channels for the fields.
The village elder, Old Thorne (ironic name), noticed. "The boy's got the spark of the ancients. Perhaps send him to the capital's academy when he's of age."
But Elias had bigger plans. During a festival, he witnessed a traveling mage conjure illusions—dancing lights, phantom beasts. Particle effects? No, mana manipulation. He approached the mage afterward. "How do you do that?"
The man, robed in shimmering silk, chuckled. "Curious lad. It starts with sensing the flow—the aether in all things."
That night, Elias meditated, focusing inward. Warmth bloomed in his chest: mana. He shaped it into a tiny spark, igniting a candle from afar. Level up: Basic Magic Unlocked.
The system dinged: Skill Acquired: Mana Manipulation (Novice). +1 Level.
Progress.
Years passed in a montage of growth. At age seven, Elias faced his first real trial: a goblin raid. The greenskins, scavenging pests from the woods, ambushed a foraging party—including Mira.
Elias, sneaking along against orders, hid in the bushes. He saw them: squat, vicious, armed with rusty blades. Mira fought back with herbal bombs—explosive pouches of volatile plants.
But she was outnumbered. Elias's heart pounded. Think like code: input threat, output solution. He grabbed a stick, infused it with mana (crude but effective), and hurled it like a spear. It pierced a goblin's eye, buying time.
Villagers arrived, repelling the raid. Mira hugged him fiercely. "You saved me, my brave boy."
Level Up: 5. New Skill: Improvised Weaponry.
Elias's reputation grew. Whispers of "the gifted child" spread. But with fame came envy. A rival family accused him of dark sorcery. "No child commands magic without a pact!"
The elder mediated, but tension simmered.
At age ten, Elias delved deeper. He explored the woods' edge, finding a ruined shrine. Inside: a glowing orb, pulsing with energy.
Artifact Detected: Orb of Recollection. Absorb?
Yes.
Memories—not his—flooded in: ancient wars, lost spells, blueprints for enchanted machines. Steampunk fantasy? Hell yes. He envisioned golems powered by steam and mana, airships defying gravity.
Returning home, he shared fragments with Garrick. "Father, what if we built a forge that runs on water power?"
Garrick's eyes widened. "Madness... but intriguing."
Together, they prototyped: a waterwheel hammer, tripling output. The village prospered.
But shadows lengthened. Scouts reported orc hordes massing in the mountains—precursors to the Darkening. King Harlan called for levies.
Elias, now twelve, knew his time in Eldridge waned. I need allies, training. The capital awaits.
One fateful night, as stars aligned in a rare constellation, the Weaver spoke again: The path forks, Traveler. Choose wisely, for echoes of your past will shape eternities.
Elias packed a satchel: herbs, a forged dagger, the orb. He bid farewell at dawn. "I'll return stronger, to protect you all."
Mira wept; Garrick nodded proudly. "Go forge your legend, son."
As Elias stepped into the Whispering Woods, the world expanded. Beasts lurked, secrets beckoned. With Earth's ingenuity and Elyria's magic, he would rise.
But unknown to him, eyes watched—divine, malevolent. The game had just begun.