Death was not an explosion. It was a fading note.
One moment, Arthur was crossing a street, raindrops slicking the asphalt, the mundane theme song of his twenty-something time through his earbuds.
The next, a blare of a horn, a flash of white, and then… quiet. The world didn't go black. It just… dissolved. The feeling of his body, the weight of his clothes, the chill of the rain—it all thinned out, becoming abstract and meaningless. He was a wisp of thought in a sea of nothing, and soon, even the thought began to fade. The silence was absolute, a cold, starless void where time had no meaning. He was gone.
And then, he was not.
The first sensation was light.
It was not the rude, invasive light of a hospital room or the harsh glare of the sun. This was a light that was also warmth, a light that felt like music, a light that seemed to be the source of life itself. It pressed against his eyelids, not with force, but with a gentle, insistent presence that promised warmth and safety. It was silver and gold, liquid and soft, and it was the single most beautiful thing his soul had ever witnessed, even through the frustrating, blurry filter of eyes that wouldn't yet focus.
The second sensation was sound. A voice, melodic and impossibly pure, was humming a tune that resonated deep within his chest. It was a lullaby sung by an angel, a sound of pure love and comfort that fought against the rising tide of panic in his mind.
Panic, because the third sensation was imprisonment.
His mind was awake, the memories of his twenty-something years, of college, of Harry Potter books and rainy Tuesday afternoons, all present and accounted for. But his body was a useless, fleshy prison. He tried to lift a hand to shield his eyes and could only manage a twitchy, pathetic jerk. He tried to speak, to ask the thousand questions screaming in his head—Where am I? What happened? Who are you?—but all that escaped his lips was a weak, gurgling cry.
His adult consciousness was trapped inside the uncooperative, feeble body of a newborn baby. The horror of it was so profound, so absolute, that his mind threatened to break. He was helpless. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't even properly see. The world was a kaleidoscope of blurry light and echoing sound.
It was in this moment of pure, untethered panic that a fourth sensation appeared. It was not external, like the light or the sound. It was inside him, a cool, quiet line of order in the chaos of his mind.
Text. Sharp, clean, and impossibly clear against the back of his eyelids.
[𝐒𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦 𝐈𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠...]
[𝐁𝐢𝐨-𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐞... 𝐒𝐮𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐟𝐮𝐥.]
[𝐃𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐬... 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞.]
[𝐁𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠-𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐚 𝐚𝐜𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞...]
[𝐄𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 3years.]
The words were a lifeline. He didn't understand what they meant, not fully, but they were logical. They were structured. They were a piece of the world he remembered, a world of computers and systems, and it was enough to anchor his fraying sanity. A system. An AI? Was this some kind of game? A second chance?
He felt himself being lifted by gentle hands that were impossibly strong. The melodic voice spoke, the words strange and flowing, a language he couldn't comprehend but understood on a primal level as soothing. He was brought close to a source of warmth that smelled of mountain flowers and starlight. He forced his useless eyes to try and focus, to see the owner of the voice.
He saw a blur of silver and gold. A face framed by hair the color of spun moonlight, and eyes that shone with an inner light of their own, the color of a deep summer sky. It was a face of such perfect, heartbreaking beauty that it couldn't possibly be human. This was his mother. The realization hit him not as a thought, but as a deep, instinctual knowledge.
Another presence loomed over him, larger and brighter. This one was a figure of pure gold. Hair like a cascade of molten sunlight, and a presence that felt as vast and steady as a mountain. The figure spoke, and his voice was deeper, a resonant harmony that made the very air hum. This was his father.
These beings, radiant and god-like, were his parents. His newborn mind, terrified and confused, could only latch onto one, simple thought.
I am not on Earth anymore.
The first year was a slow, agonizing crawl through a beautiful prison. His days were a gentle routine. He would wake, not to a sun, but to the ever-present, shifting light of two colossal trees he could sometimes glimpse from his window. One glowed with the soft, calming light of the moon, and the other with the brilliant, life-giving warmth of the sun. He didn't understand what they were, but he knew they were the source of the light that defined his entire existence.
His mother would sing to him, and his father would hold him, their voices weaving stories and songs in their strange, beautiful language. He was a sponge, absorbing everything. While he couldn't understand the words, his mind, guided by the silent system working in the background, began to pick out patterns, repetitions, and tones.
[𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 7% 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞]
[𝐕𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐈𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝: '𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫', '𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫']
He learned faces. His mother, whose name he eventually parsed as Ilwen. His father, a king among these people, whose name was a powerful, two-syllable word that everyone said with reverence: Ingwë. There were others, tall and luminous beings with pointed ears and graceful movements who were his siblings, but his world was primarily his parents and the ornate, beautiful room that was his nursery.
The Nexus, as he had decided to call the system in his head, was a quiet companion. It never spoke to him directly, but its presence was a constant, cool hum in the back of his mind. Occasionally, a line of text would drift through his consciousness, a progress report on its slow, methodical work.
[𝐄𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐧: 19% 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞. 𝐀𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐀𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐭𝐡.]
He was growing at an incredible rate. His elven body was far more robust than a human infant's. Within months, he could hold his head up, his eyes could focus, and he could see the world with breathtaking clarity.
His home wasn't just a room; it was a palace of white stone that seemed to drink in the light, carved with designs of flowing leaves and elegant beasts. Everything was beautiful. Everything was perfect. It was a paradise.
And he was bored out of his mind.
He had the mind of an adult, filled with a desire to learn, to explore, to do something.
But he was trapped in a body that was still learning how to roll over. The frustration was a physical ache. He would lie in his crib, watching motes of dust dance in a golden sunbeam, and remember his past life. He remembered the feeling of typing on a keyboard, of turning the page of a book, of running for a bus. Now, his greatest physical challenge was trying to grasp a silver rattle. It was humbling in the most infuriating way possible.
The second year brought the gift of movement. He learned to crawl, and the world expanded from his crib to the floor of his room. It was a victory. He spent hours exploring the texture of the woven carpets, the cool smoothness of the marble floors, and the intricately carved legs of the furniture.
[𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐲: 41%]
[𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐍𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐝𝐣𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐝.]
His family was delighted. His first crawl was met with joyous laughter and songs. They saw a baby learning his limits. He saw a prisoner finally able to map out his cell.
With movement came a new purpose: investigation. He was a scientist in a strange new land. He touched everything, tasted everything (much to the gentle disapproval of his mother), and listened to everything. He began to understand that the "magic" of this world was not like the spells he'd read about in Harry Potter. There were no wands, no shouted words of Latin-esque gibberish.
Magic here was in the very fabric of reality. It was in the way the light of the Trees made the plants in the gardens grow with impossible vibrancy. It was in the songs his mother sang, which could soothe his frustrations and lull him into a peaceful sleep. It was in the craft of the objects around him; even a simple wooden toy felt warm and alive in his hands, imbued with the intent and spirit of its maker.
He tried to replicate it. One afternoon, sitting in a patch of golden light from Laurelin, he focused on a small, fallen leaf on the floor. He remembered the concept of magic from his books, of will, of intent. He stared at the leaf, pouring all his focus, all his desire, into a single command: move.
Nothing happened. The leaf lay perfectly still. He tried again, scrunching up his toddler's face with effort, trying to feel for some inner well of power. He felt nothing but a growing headache.
[𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞. 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐭.]
He slumped back onto the carpet, defeated. The rules were different here. It wasn't about wanting something to happen. It was about something deeper, something he didn't yet have the framework to understand. He was missing a piece of the puzzle.
His siblings were a source of endless data. They were all older, impossibly graceful and radiant. They would sometimes play with him, their movements like a dance, their speech like a flowing river. He watched them practice with bows in the gardens, their arrows flying with an accuracy that defied physics. He watched them play harps that seemed to weep with sorrow or sing with joy. He was the youngest, the baby brother, a curiosity. To him, they were advanced subjects for his study, windows into what he might one day become.
The third year was the breakthrough. His mind, which had been a chaotic library of disconnected sounds, patterns, and tones, finally found the key. Like a switch being flipped, the language clicked into place. The flowing river of sounds that was Quenya suddenly resolved into distinct words, sentences, and meanings.
He was lying in his bed, listening to his father tell his mother about a meeting with the Noldorin elves in the city below their mountain. For two years, it would have been pleasant background noise. But now, he understood.
"...Fëanor grows ever more proud," Ingwë's voice rumbled, a note of concern in its perfect harmony. "He values the work of his hands more than the wisdom of the Valar. Aulë is pleased with his craft, but Manwë is troubled by his spirit."
Arthur's mind reeled. Fëanor. Valar. Manwë. The names meant nothing to him, but the context, the gossip, the political and social undertones, he understood it all. It was like being deaf your whole life and suddenly being able to hear. The world opened up in a way that was more profound than learning to crawl or walk. He could finally understand.
The Nexus registered the change immediately.
[𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐞: 𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐲𝐚 - 𝐁𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲 𝐀𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐝.]
[𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬-𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐚...]
[𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝.]
[𝐒𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞.]
[𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧...]
Over the next few days, a cascade of information flooded Arthur's mind as the Nexus processed the last three years of passive data collection through the new lens of language. He learned he was in a place called Valinor, in the land of Aman. His father, Ingwë, was the High King of all Elves. His people were the Vanyar. The Two Trees were Telperion and Laurelin. The god-like beings his father spoke of were the Valar.
It was an avalanche of lore that would have made the fantasy nerd in his past life weep with joy. For him, it was simply reality.
On the day that marked his third year since his rebirth, as he sat on a balcony watching the eternal, beautiful light wash over the perfect city of Tirion, the final message appeared. It was different from all the others. It was not a status update. It was a greeting.
[𝐒𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦 𝐈𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞.]
[𝐂𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐬: 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥.]
A pause, and then a new line of text, directed, personal, and shockingly clear.
[𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐫𝐲.]
The voice was not audible, but he felt it in his mind—calm, flat, and perfectly logical. It was the voice of the system, his companion in the silence for three long years. And it was finally talking to him.
He was no longer a helpless baby. He was a toddler, yes, small and physically weak. But his mind was his own, he understood the language, and his greatest tool was now online. He could do more than just observe. He could analyze.
A slow smile spread across his three-year-old face. He looked out at the two colossal trees, the source of all life and magic in this land, the first thing he had ever seen. He knew what his first question had to be. He had been waiting three years to ask it.
Okay, Nexus, he thought, focusing his will with a clarity he'd never had before. Analyze the light.