They said that when you turned eighteen, the Cycle welcomed you home.
The priest would touch your head, and then—memories. Not your own, but someone else's. A thousand years gone, or a single century, it didn't matter. The gods had decreed that no soul be wasted, no death without birth, no birth without death.
It was the law of the world.
The law of the Cycle.
And for as long as anyone could remember, it had never failed.
"Shiro, are you still asleep?!"
The voice of his younger sister, Mirielle, pierced through his thin wooden door. Shiro groaned, sitting up on his straw mattress. Dust floated lazily in the morning light cutting through the shutters.
"I'm up," he muttered, dragging a hand through his messy hair. "Barely."
The door creaked open anyway, and Mirielle poked her head in, her brown braid swinging over her shoulder. She was only nine, but her scowl had all the authority of someone twice her age.
"You're late," she said, arms crossed. "Of all days to be late, it has to be today? Gods, you're hopeless."
He smirked as he pulled on his worn jacket. "Relax. It's not like they'll start the ceremony without me."
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't joke about that."
The smell of stew drifted in from the kitchen. His mother was there, ladling broth into clay bowls, but her hands shook so badly she nearly spilled it. His father sat by the window, sharpening a knife that had lost its edge long ago, his expression unreadable.
"You'll be fine, son," his father said without looking up. His voice was rough, but steady. "Whatever life you're given, it'll be more than we ever had."
That was the truth. The Ashvale family were nobodies. Farmers and laborers, bound to the dirt. The Awakening ceremony was their only chance to rise above it. If Shiro inherited a noble, or a knight, or even a skilled craftsman—then maybe, just maybe, their family's future could change.
His mother wiped her hands nervously on her apron. "Eat something before you go. You'll need your strength."
Shiro forced a smile, though his stomach churned. "I'll make you proud."
The streets of Ardenthal were alive.
Children ran laughing through the alleys, wooden masks strapped to their faces—wolves, stags, even crude carvings of ancient heroes. Merchants shouted over one another, waving bone-carved charms and pendants that promised fortune in the next life. Banners painted with the ouroboros—the serpent devouring its own tail—fluttered in the morning wind.
The Day of Awakening always brought celebration.
Families lined the streets as the chosen eighteen-year-olds made their way toward the temple. Cheers followed them, along with whispered speculation. Whose soul will he inherit? What hero slumbers inside her?
Shiro walked quietly in their midst. His jacket was plain, patched at the elbows, nothing like the silk and gold worn by others. He tried not to notice, but the weight of every glance pressed against him.
For most, the Awakening was a promise. For him, it felt like a judgment.
Still, he couldn't help noticing the cracks in the celebration. Beggars huddled in doorways, eyes hollow, too poor to ever secure their next rebirth. Nobles paraded openly, certain their wealth would guarantee a life of wealth again. Everyone pretended to love the system, but the lies were as clear as the banners overhead.
And yet, the Cycle rolled on.
The temple bells rang, heavy and resonant, silencing the crowd. The chosen few filed through the gates, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
The temple of Ardenthal was vast, its marble pillars stretching higher than any tree. Sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, painting the floor in shades of gold and crimson. Incense hung thick in the air, a haze that clung to Shiro's throat.
The priest stood at the altar, his white robes dusted with ash, his expression bored from repetition. Dozens had already been Awakened this morning, each one celebrated, each one welcomed back into the Cycle.
One by one, they stepped forward.
One by one, light flared.
One by one, names of past lives were shouted into the air.
A knight general of the Eastern Wars.
A healer from the Sapphire Coast.
A scholar of the Old Tongue.
The crowd gasped, cheered, wept. Parents embraced children. Strangers congratulated strangers. The Cycle continued, flawless, eternal.
Until—
"Shiro Ashvale."
His name echoed through the chamber. His stomach twisted, but his feet moved anyway. Each step across the marble floor sounded too loud, too final.
The priest barely looked at him as he placed a hand on his head. "May the Cycle reveal who you are."
Light stirred. A faint glow sparked against Shiro's skin.
And then—nothing.
The glow vanished instantly, leaving only silence. The priest froze, his hand trembling. His lips parted, but no words came.
Whispers rippled through the crowd like fire through dry grass.
"No past life?"
"Impossible."
"Is he cursed?" Uh wa
Heat rushed to Shiro's face. His chest felt hollow, empty.
No lives. No anchors. No chain.
The priest stumbled back, eyes wide with horror. "This boy… has no past life."
The words struck like thunder.
And in the hollow where a thousand memories should have been, a single voice whispered. Deep, sharp, and filled with laughter.
"Finally. After centuries of waiting… I've found you."
Shiro staggered, clutching his head. No one else heard it. No one else could.
The crowd recoiled in fear. The priest whispered a single word.
"Anomaly."
And for the first time in centuries, the Cycle shuddered.
The walk home felt longer than ever.
Every lantern-lit street looked the same, yet different, as though the whole city had learned a secret he hadn't. The whispers from the temple still clung to Shiro's ears — "Nothing happened… he's empty…"
By the time he reached his house, his chest ached like he'd been running. The wooden door creaked open before he even touched it.
"Shiro!"
His little sister, Elira, flung herself into him with all the force her twelve-year-old body could muster. He stumbled, caught her, and blinked at the sight of her red-rimmed eyes.
"You're late," she sniffled. "I was worried."
Behind her, their parents stood waiting. His mother rushed to take his face in both hands, worry softening into relief. His father simply folded his arms and let out a heavy sigh, but the warmth in his eyes was undeniable.
They gathered around the dinner table as if nothing unusual had happened. A simple meal of stewed vegetables and bread sat steaming between them. Elira refused to let go of his sleeve, even as she ate. His mother busied herself pouring tea, her gentle smile forcing a fragile normalcy into the air.
Finally, his father spoke.
"So. The ceremony."
Shiro froze. His hand trembled around his spoon. "I… I don't know what went wrong. Everyone else—"
His father's voice cut him off, firm but steady.
"Not all destinies are written the same way."
The words sank into Shiro's chest, heavier than stone. He wanted to believe them. He wanted to believe there wasn't something broken inside him.
His mother reached across the table, placing her hand on his. "You're our son. That's enough."
And Elira, her eyes shining with a child's fierce loyalty, leaned against him. "Even if you don't have a past life, you'll make this one amazing."
Shiro managed a smile, faint but real. For the first time since the temple, the tightness in his chest loosened.
That night, he lay in bed staring at the wooden ceiling beams, Elira's words echoing in his ears. This one amazing…
Sleep took him slowly, like sinking into water.
The dream was fire.
A battlefield stretched beneath a sky as black as ink. Armies clashed in endless waves, steel ringing, magic exploding in violent bursts of light.
And in the center stood a figure. A woman cloaked in shadows, her staff raised high. Power poured from her hands in rivers of flame and thunder, each spell shaking the earth itself.
Shiro's perspective swayed strangely — not as if he were watching, but as if he were there, the heat on his skin, the taste of ash in his mouth.
Chains of light fell from the heavens, the same chains he'd seen in the temple's murals. They wrapped around her, burning, binding. But she screamed, not in fear, but in defiance.
The wheel of souls spun above her, a colossal disk of blinding light. With one final surge of power, she struck it. The chains shattered like glass, fragments scattering into the void.
Her voice reached him, ringing through the dream, sharp as a blade and soft as a whisper all at once.
"Find me… Free us…"
"Shiro!"
He jerked awake. Morning sunlight spilled across his bed, but it was Elira's urgent hands shaking his shoulders that dragged him fully into reality. Her face was pale, her wide eyes brimming with panic.
"Come quick! Something's happened in the square!"
The words slammed into him like cold water. He barely had time to sit up before she tugged at his arm again, desperate, terrified.
And just like that, the world gave him no chance to breathe.