The world ended for him in fire.
Sparks rained from the ceiling as fluorescent lights burst one by one, plunging the underground laboratory into a haze of smoke and flame. The alarms screamed, shrill and merciless, while the acrid stench of burning wires clawed at his lungs. He staggered, blueprint still clutched in his oil-stained hands, blood dripping from a gash across his forehead.
His colleagues had fled. The investors had abandoned the project weeks ago. All that remained were half-finished machines, skeletal frames of what could have been revolutionary.
His vision blurred, but the outlines of his unfinished work burned into his mind. Towers of steel that could have supported thousands, engines that could have turned deserts fertile, circuits designed to harness energy with minimal loss—dreams too far ahead of their time.
So this is it…?
His lips curved into a bitter smile. He had lived as an engineer, a cog in the corporate machine. For decades, he had poured his soul into building systems that could have lifted humanity forward, only to be shackled by bureaucracy, greed, and shortsightedness. His designs had been buried under patents, his ideas dismissed until stolen, his ambition treated as a threat.
And now, betrayed by the very hands he had once trusted, he was dying in the flames of his own creation.
The crackle of fire consumed the silence, smoke burning his lungs as he collapsed onto the cold concrete floor. His last sight was of the blueprint that had slipped from his fingers, its edges curling into ash.
If only… I had more time. If only I could build something that lasts.
His heart gave one last beat. The world dimmed into nothingness.
And then—he heard a cry.
Warmth engulfed him. The acrid sting of smoke was gone, replaced by the gentle weight of fabric and the faint scent of herbs. His limbs felt strange—tiny, frail, as though he had been stripped down to nothing.
No, not nothing. A new beginning.
Light pierced through his vision as he forced his eyes open. The ceiling above was carved with intricate runes, glowing faintly blue, like veins of energy pulsing through stone. His ears, still unaccustomed to this body, caught muffled voices.
"Congratulations, my lord. It is a boy."
The voice was soft, trembling with reverence.
A shadow loomed above him. A man's face came into view—stern features, sharp jawline, dark hair pulled neatly back. His eyes were like steel, cold yet blazing with restrained power. The man's presence carried weight, as if the very air bent beneath his will.
And beside him, a woman leaned close. Her golden hair shimmered under the glow of the runes, eyes as deep as emerald forests. She smiled, tender yet edged with sharp intelligence. A faint glow pulsed from her hands, wrapping him in warmth.
"My son," she whispered, her voice melodic yet commanding. "Kael. The heir of House Duskveil."
The name struck him harder than the flames that had once consumed him.
Kael… Duskveil.
His mind reeled as the nursemaid wrapped him in cloth. His senses were still dull, but his consciousness—the core of who he was—remained intact. He remembered the flames. He remembered circuits and blueprints. He remembered failure.
And now… he had been reborn.
Days bled into weeks. Weeks into months. Though his body was that of a helpless infant, his mind never faltered. It was a strange paradox—trapped in a form unable to speak, yet perceiving everything with the clarity of an adult.
One morning, sunlight spilled through the nursery windows. Dust motes danced in the golden rays, but among them moved threads of something else—translucent currents, bending and swirling around his mother's fingertips as she lit the hearth with a single word. The warmth of the flame carried not just heat but a strange resonance, humming faintly in his ears.
The maid gasped. "My lady, your mana is strong today."
Mana…
The word lodged itself in his mind. He didn't know its meaning yet, but he knew it referred to the currents he saw, the invisible energy that pulsed like electricity through the air.
From then on, he noticed it everywhere. Threads of energy weaving around every object, every person, every wall in the estate. He saw how the runes etched into the manor's foundation drew those threads, bending them, weaving them into protective layers.
It flowed like electricity. It pulsed like coded circuits.
In his old world, he had once spent hours staring at data streams, analyzing how energy traveled through wires and engines. Here, the flow of mana mirrored that same rhythm. Only now, it was alive—untamed, yet malleable.
His tiny fingers twitched as he reached toward the streams only he seemed able to perceive. They bent faintly, like sparks dancing between his fingertips.
The maid nearly dropped her tray. "The young master… he pulled the flame!"
His mother only smiled faintly, though her eyes betrayed both pride and worry. "So early… too early."
Kael's lips curved into a faint smile. Magic is just science with different rules. Circuits, energy, flow… if I can map it, I can master it.
By the time he could walk, he had pieced together fragments of his new life. House Duskveil—an ancient noble family, mid-tier in the Kingdom's hierarchy yet wealthier than most higher peers. Their lands were fertile, their mines rich with rare minerals. Their warriors were disciplined, their mages respected.
But strength bred envy.
Whispers followed in every hallway, murmured by servants who thought the young heir too small to understand. Rivals in the royal court called House Duskveil "too independent," "too ambitious." The Church muttered that their methods strayed too close to heresy.
He understood perfectly. In his past life, he had seen the same pattern in corporations. Strong innovators were never trusted. They were tolerated only until they became threats. Then came sabotage, betrayal, and ruin.
One evening, as his mother tucked him beneath silken sheets, he overheard her hushed words to his father.
"Our influence grows, but so does envy. The nobles sharpen their knives in the shadows. Even the Church grows restless."
His father's reply was calm, but his tone held iron. "Let them come. House Duskveil does not kneel."
The boy, still no more than a child, clenched his tiny fists beneath the covers. His parents radiated confidence, yet the weight of their words pressed into his heart.
This family is strong. But strength alone is never enough. Not in politics. Not in a world where power invites fear.
He closed his eyes, imprinting the scene into his memory.
If they dare to strip this family of its legacy… then I will rebuild it with my own hands. And this time, no one will be able to tear it down.
Night deepened. Silence blanketed the manor. Yet his eyes remained open, tracing the faint blue lines etched across the ceiling. Mana pulsed through the wards in steady rhythm, like a coded language waiting to be deciphered.
To anyone else, it was nothing more than magical protection. But to him, it was a circuit board. A spell diagram. A formula that could be broken down and rewritten.
His lips parted. Though no one could understand the infant's babble, the determination behind it was unwavering.
"I was an engineer once. Now… I will become an engineer of magic."