I was eight when I opened my eyes again.
The bed was small, the walls wood, the air thick with candle smoke and something sweet—mint leaves drying on a string. Two girls sat beside me, identical except for the way one sniffled louder than the other. They were crying so hard they'd forgotten what for.
Outside the window, rain argued with the roof.
A woman stood near the door, cloak soaked through, hands folded tight. She looked like someone trying to hold a message together before it broke.
That was the night Ash Renfield died.
And I—who had been someone else once—woke up in his body.
The woman was his aunt. She'd come to deliver the news that Ash's parents, a knight and a healer, had fallen in a dungeon collapse. Their adventuring party hadn't made it out.
She knelt beside the bed, voice small but certain.
"You're safe," she said. "I'll take care of you. All three of you."
The words didn't belong to me, but I wanted to believe them anyway.
The first Ash had been adopted as a baby—brought home by a pair of adventurers who wanted more life in the quiet between quests. They'd loved him enough to forget he wasn't theirs.
When the twins came two years later, the house filled with laughter and sword oil and the smell of bread their mother always burned at the edges.
I saw it all in memory fragments that weren't mine: a wooden practice sword too heavy for small arms, his father's voice saying "stance before swing," his mother's gentle scolding when the bandages ran out because he kept pretending wounds to get her attention.
They'd been good people. Simple. Bright. The kind the world doesn't keep for long.
The aunt's house sat at the edge of a trade village, half a day's walk from the capital. She was a merchant's widow—practical, cautious, kinder than she wanted people to notice.
Her daughter, Ivy, was the same age as me, curious to the point of danger.
She never called me "cousin." She called me "Ren," shortening the name like we'd already agreed on friendship.
The twins—Claire and Celia—called me "big brother" in turns, as if taking shifts.
Life settled into quiet rhythms. The aunt ran a small apothecary; we helped where we could. Days smelled of herbs and chalk dust; nights, of ink and fatigue.
The System existed here, too—everyone talked about Awakening the way farmers talk about harvest. But for children, it was a story, not a sentence.
For me, it was both.
Sometimes, when the shop went dark, I'd stare out the window and the river beyond would look too familiar. The sound of rain on the roof would pull a thread in my chest I couldn't untie.
Old memories drifted close—the bridge, the laughter, the fall.
I never told anyone.
You don't tell children that their brother came back from another world carrying ghosts heavier than swords.
Seven years passed that way.
Claire and Celia grew from shadows clinging to my sleeves into bright, noisy girls who fought over ribbons and shared every apology.
Ivy learned how to talk her way out of chores better than any noble's daughter. The aunt grew slower, her hands lined by years of grinding herbs and patience.
And I grew quiet.
At fifteen, the academy acceptance letter arrived—my name written in careful ink, a chance to become something beyond the small life that had been loaned to me.
The aunt cried when she read it; the twins promised they'd write every week. Ivy smirked and said she'd make sure they did.
I packed light. One set of clothes, one knife, one habit: silence.
Solstice Academy looked nothing like the world I'd known.
Stone towers knifed the clouds, runes crawled along the walls like living ivy, and every hallway whispered the same question: How useful are you?
I answered by keeping to myself.
Classes, training, meals—all measured, unremarkable.
I spoke when needed, nodded when expected, and lived somewhere between background and rumor.
It was easier that way.
Attention had a cost, and I'd already paid it once.
But some people notice even the ones trying not to exist.
Elira Moonveil—the elf from the northern provinces—was one of them.
She'd been top of the class since the first month: calm, sharp, precise in speech and movement. She talked to everyone with equal courtesy, which meant it took me weeks to realize she talked to me more than most.
"Renfield," she'd say after sparring, offering a towel I didn't ask for. "You move like someone who's practiced something he doesn't want to admit."
I'd take the towel, nod, and leave it at that.
She kept trying anyway. Not with questions, but with presence—quiet beside me in the library, patient at the training yard's edge.
I pretended not to notice. She pretended she believed me.
Some days, I almost forgot she wasn't part of the family I'd lost twice.
By the time the Awakening Ceremony came, I had learned how to live without waiting.
Eight years old when I'd arrived.
Fifteen when I entered the academy.
Eighteen when the Spire called my name and the System laughed.
When it branded me F-rank, I didn't feel betrayal. I felt repetition.
Different world, same story.
And at midnight, for the first time since the bridge, I smiled—not out of hope, but out of recognition.
Because deep down, I knew my story was being rewritten.
Midnight.
Correction.
A life measured wrong finally recalibrating.