I open my eyes and stare into nothingness.
White. Endless white.
There is no ground, no walls, no horizon. Only light—blinding and soothing at the same time—and an emptiness that feels disturbingly familiar.
With effort, I push myself upright. A faint, sarcastic smile crosses my face.
"Is this… heaven?" I murmur into the silence.
A bitter laugh escapes me.
"Yeah, right. As if I'd ever make it into heaven."
"You are not entirely wrong."
I stiffen, turn around—and freeze.
Before me stands a being whose mere presence makes my heart race. Majestic. Overwhelming. Every inch of it radiates a calm and authority utterly foreign to me. Light flows from its form without a source, without casting shadows.
I understand instantly.
This is God.
"Your life has come to an end, Jordan," the being says. "But do not worry. A new life awaits you. A better one. In a new world."
A new world.
I swallow hard. My thoughts race. Hallucination? No. This feels more real than anything I've ever experienced.
"Thanks, but no thanks," I say, my voice trembling despite myself.
"My life wasn't a gift. It was a nightmare. I'm not interested in a repeat—no matter how 'new and improved' it's supposed to be."
The figure tilts its head slightly.
"I know exactly how your life unfolded," it replies calmly.
"You lived through hell—physically, mentally, exploited by people who only wanted your abilities. You learned to exploit others in return, simply to survive. That is precisely why you were chosen."
"Chosen," I repeat skeptically.
"We select souls whose existence was so horrific that it can barely be called 'life,'" God continues.
"We offer compensation. A chance."
"Compensation," I echo.
"A new world," the god confirms. "A new life—one that allows you to reshape the sum of your past decisions."
"And why should I believe it'll be any different?" I ask.
"That I won't just go through the same hell all over again?"
"The path lies before you," the being answers.
"Which road you walk is your decision. You will be born into a noble family, gifted with special abilities, raised in a loving environment. It will not be perfect—but it will be better than anything you've ever known."
"A noble family… special abilities?" I frown.
"So this is some kind of fantasy world?"
"You will discover that yourself," God replies.
"It is different. More thrilling. More dangerous. But full of opportunity."
I fall silent. It sounds too good. Like a trap.
But the alternative is nothingness.
And no matter how much I hated my life, my ego—my need to exist, to win—is stronger than my exhaustion.
"What kind of family will I be born into?" I ask at last.
"Everything is already prepared," the being says.
"Given your experiences, I selected a bloodline that values loyalty and strength. You will begin as a newborn, retain your memories, and learn the language effortlessly."
The voice sharpens.
"Do you accept this offer? Yes or no?"
I inhale deeply, feeling my indifference fade, replaced by a strange curiosity.
After a moment, I answer.
"Yes."
"Good."
God's voice hardens.
"There is one rule. Only one. Never tell a living soul that you come from another world."
"That's it?" I scoff.
"No 'kill the Demon King'? Just silence?"
"Do not underestimate this rule," the god warns.
"In this world, 'otherworlders' are not celebrated. They are hunted. Despised. Executed."
"Why?" I ask carefully.
"Partly, it is my fault," the being admits—and for the first time, it sounds almost human. Tired.
"In the past, I sent anyone who had lived a miserable life. I underestimated the psychological damage. People who endured hell often emerge… broken. Many became evil. Others were too mentally fragile and were corrupted by power."
Its gaze pierces straight through me.
"Just like you, Jordan."
My body tenses.
"I know about the schizophrenia," it continues.
"I know about the voices. The whispers telling you to hurt others before they hurt you. I know about the pills you swallowed like candy."
"It's under control," I say coldly.
The god ignores me.
"Previous candidates became a threat. A devastating war followed. That is why distrust runs deep. If they discover what you are, they will kill you."
It pauses.
"But I have taken precautions. I will alter your physical appearance—your eye color, your hair. You will no longer resemble your former self. You will blend into this world."
"And most importantly," it says quietly,
"I now choose carefully. I look for those who have the potential to change."
"And you see that potential in me?" I ask, my sarcasm unmistakable.
"Yes," the god replies simply.
"Hm." I nod inwardly.
"Don't be surprised if you're wrong."
"I will not be."
The world around me begins to blur, dissolving like ink in water.
"All preparations are complete," the voice says, now everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Do you have any final request?"
I hesitate.
"Yes. I do."
"Speak."
"My pills," the words rush out before I can stop them."I need it. Desperately."
The entity laughs softly. "Oh, Jordan. You don't need those anymore. Your illness is a product of your old world."
"No!" I snap, my voice hard. "It isn't a flaw. It is the scar left by the hell I lived through. It is a part of me. I will defeat it, but on my own terms. Not because you decide to absolve me of the responsibility."
"You are truly your own greatest enemy—and your greatest prisoner," the God says finally. The amusement is gone, replaced by a hint of respect. "As you wish."
A small, white box materializes in my non-existent hand. It is identical to the one I always carried.
"The box refills itself," the God explains. "It will never be empty. Consider it a parting gift. A reminder of what you wish to conquer one day."
"You are... remarkably stubborn, Jordan."
"Just don't be surprised if you're wrong about me," I reply coldly.
"I will not be."
The God pauses. "Very well. You may go now. May fate be kind to you. May you find what you seek—and perhaps even more."
The whiteness swallows me, pulling me down into a darkness that feels warm and tight.
And then I hear it: A dull, rhythmic pounding. A heartbeat.
"It's a boy."
The voice is deep. Male. The words... foreign. Completely foreign. And yet, I understand them as if they were burned into my brain.
I try to open my eyes. Everything is blurry. Too bright. I am wrapped in soft cloth. Warmth returns. Someone wipes something from my face—fluid, sticky, and warm. Then I am moved, passed into other hands.
My vision slowly clears. I see her face. Pale. Exhausted. Covered in sweat. But her eyes... glowing green, almost unnatural, like emeralds burning from within. Her hair is white—not grey like an elder's, but pure, snowy white. She smiles weakly. In that moment, I feel an instinctive connection. Mother.
A man steps closer. Taller. Broader. His hair is also white, tied back. He has the same green eyes, but his are sharper. Calculating. He places a hand on the woman's shoulder and looks down at me. Not with love. Not with joy. With... evaluation.
I analyze his face. The scar above the eyebrow. The rigid, military posture. This man is used to giving orders. My father, then. He only grunts in agreement as the doctor explains something. I let myself sink into the warmth of the blankets. My body is weak. Powerless. Helpless. That will change.
The beginning of this life is pure torture. For months, I can do nothing but lie there, stare, and process data. The foreign language sounds like static noise at first, but with each passing day, I decode more. The God didn't lie: As an infant, my brain is a sponge. I soak up the new language faster than any normal child could.
My father's name is Daemon. My mother, Maelis. And I am Kael. Kael Aranthor. A name I have never heard before. That confirms my suspicion: This is a true fantasy world.
The voices in my head are quieter here, perhaps due to the undeveloped brain. But they are there. A whisper at the edge of my consciousness. I reach for my medication with my mind. It lies hidden in... a pocket dimension? I don't know where exactly. But I can feel it. Summon it.
My priority now: Master the language. I need to grasp the situation quickly.
Time crawls. When I can finally wobble on two legs, I begin to observe. I stand in the courtyard, watching the guards train. Wooden swords clash, sweat flies. Maelis sits on a bench under a tree, a servant beside her. I play with a wooden toy, pretending not to listen.
"He speaks so well already," Maelis says. Worry lingers in her voice. "Is that... normal?"
The servant smiles politely. "Some children are early bloomers, My Lady. Especially in families with strong Mana."
Mana. That word again.
"But he is so... quiet," Maelis continues. "As if he is thinking. Watching. Sometimes I look into his eyes and... they look so cold. So empty."
My heartbeat accelerates. Not good. Not good.
"Children are riddles, My Lady," the servant soothes her. "Give him time. He will open up when he is ready."
I drop the toy. Crawl over to Maelis. Lean against her leg. I look up at her with big, innocent eyes. "Mama."
Her face softens. She strokes my hair. "My little Kael."
I smile. A perfect, childlike smile. Damn close to genuine. I have to be more careful.
My siblings don't make things easier. Aurora, my sister five years my senior, is annoying with her constant attempts to play. And then there is Eamon, born only a few months ago. A screaming bundle with zero strategic value yet, but he binds Maelis's attention. Good. That gives me peace.
But Cassian, my oldest brother, is different. He is nine, tall, and possesses the calculating gaze of our father. On my third birthday, he approaches me while I am studying the knights in the garden. I am dissecting the flaws in their swordsmanship when his shadow falls over me.
"You don't talk much," he says.
"Tired," I answer simply.
"Liar." His gaze is sharp. "You aren't tired. You are watching. Always. Like Father."
I force my small body to stay relaxed.
"I don't like you," Cassian states calmly. "You feel... wrong. But Father says family is important. So I won't betray you." He leans forward. "But I will be watching you."
He walks away, leaving me with a bitter realization: He's clever. That's going to be a problem.
To survive, I need knowledge. One night, about a year later, I sneak into the library. There I find Orin, an older servant whom no one else pays attention to.
"Orin," I say.
He flinches. Turns around. "Young Master Kael! What... what are you doing here? It is late—"
"I can't sleep." I step closer, my voice calm. "You come here often, don't you?"
He hesitates. "Yes, My Lord. I clean the library every evening."
"Can you read?"
Silence. Then, quietly: "Yes. My father was a scribe. He taught me before he died."
I nod slowly. "Good. I need your help."
"My lord?"
"I want to learn. About this world. About magic. About everything. But I can't read well enough yet."I fix him with my new, intensely green eyes. "You will read to me. Every night. And you will tell no one."
"My lord, I… that's impossible," he blurts out. He falters under my direct gaze. "The books are private. And if the lord finds out that I am using his library for… well, for lessons, I will lose my position."
"The risk is known. So is the price."I pull out a small gold coin I stole from Daemon's desk. In my childish hand, it looks enormous."This is the first payment. More than you earn in three months. And there will be more every week—as long as you remain silent."
Orin stares at the gold. Then at me. My childlike appearance does not match the icy determination in my eyes.
"That is bribery," he mutters hoarsely. "The price of betrayal is too high, my lord."
My voice drops to a near-whisper. I lean forward slightly, my posture that of an adult humoring a lesser being. I use the sharpest weapon I possess: the truth about his miserable existence.
"The lord will learn nothing, Orin," I say quietly. "No one will. You are already a ghost in this house, aren't you? No one sees you when you sweep the floors. You are invisible. And that invisibility is exactly what I need."
I let the coin fall into his hand. Then I fix him with my cold, demanding stare once more. I say nothing. I allow the silence to finish the work.
"As you wish, young master," he says, his voice thick with fear.
In the nights that follow, the world unfolds before me. Orin reads while the scent of old parchment fills the air. I trace the map with my finger.
Aeloria lies at the center—the primary kingdom, bold and self-satisfied. Supposedly, five races live there in harmony. I snort softly. Harmony is just another word for strict control.
Farther south lies Thul, the Shadow Desert. Even on paper, it looks hostile.
"Orin," I ask without looking up, "have you ever been there? To Thul?"
The old servant flinches as if struck. He grips his broom like a lifeline."No, young master. No one goes into the Shadow Desert willingly. They say poisons and demons rule there—"He breaks off and glances nervously at the door. "Those are not stories for a child."
"I am not a child," I remind him coolly.
Ignoring his discomfort, I slide my finger eastward to Sylverne, where the elves isolate themselves, then west to the jagged coastlines of Olyndra. Pirates. Spies. Trade. Chaos.
Chaos creates opportunity.
I open the next book. Magic.
Not simple lists, but complex diagrams of mana currents resembling veins. Fire. Water. Earth. Air. The fundamentals are simple.
But there is more.
Marginal notes on deviations. Blood manipulation. Metal. Lava.
A tingling sensation crawls through my fingertips.
Which of these sleeps within me?
I get my answer on my fifth birthday.
The hall of Morhenhall smells of roasted pheasant and expensive wine, but the atmosphere is ice-cold. This feels less like a celebration and more like a livestock inspection.
I sit stiffly in my cushioned chair, legs too short to touch the floor, and let my gaze wander across the long table.
Aurora laughs at some stupid joke at the far end. Cassian watches everything with his usual bored expression. Eamon, the youngest, sits beside Maelis in a high chair. Still a toddler, yet he fits the image perfectly—patting the table with small hands, white hair and green eyes an exact, innocent copy of us all.
Father—Daemon—speaks with a guest, a lord from a neighboring city. Political small talk.
It is grotesque.
Dozens of faces, all wearing the same mask: alabaster skin, snow-white hair, emerald-green eyes.
We are not a family.We are a product line.An army of cloned porcelain dolls bred for a single purpose: mana purity.
I sit still. Waiting for it to end.
A servant refills my cup with water. I reach for the goblet—then stop.
It does not begin with pain.
It begins with a sound.
A high, vibrating hum—not in my ears, but deep in my marrow. The air around me thickens, charged with static like the moments before a storm. The fine hairs on my arms stand on end.
What is this?
Then the heat explodes in my chest, as if I swallowed molten lead.
"Kael?" I hear Maelis ask in alarm.
I gasp. The goblet slips from my numb fingers—but it never reaches the ground.
Crack.
The crystal glass shatters midair, pulverized by an invisible pressure wave radiating from me.
Instant silence.
No screaming. Aranthors do not scream.
Thirty pairs of green eyes turn toward me in perfect unison.
"Mana awakening," Daemon says quietly. Not surprised. Not afraid. Analytical."Earlier than expected."
Panic—raw, childish panic—collides with my adult mind as it desperately tries to process the situation.
Mana awakening. Too early. Far too early.
Footsteps approach. Heavy. Controlled.
Daemon.
He does not run. He strides through the chaos like a general crossing a battlefield. There is no pity on his face. Only the cool nod of a man whose experiment has succeeded.
"Breathe," he commands.
His hand settles on my shoulder, heavy as an iron yoke. In the next moment, a foreign power invades me—his mana.
It is crushing. A massive tidal wave of ice that smothers my wild mana completely. Violent. He forces my power back into its core without restraint, like kicking a feral dog into a cage.
I slump forward, gasping. Sweat soaks my collar.
Daemon leans down, his face inches from mine.
"Good," he whispers, like a verdict."It begins."
Hours later, my room is dark, pale moonlight spilling through the window. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling.
My body feels sore. Hollowed out.And yet—charged.
As if a switch has been flipped.
I clench my fist. The power is there, humming beneath my skin.
I am no longer helpless.
A smile tries to form.
Then it freezes.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The sound does not come from the wall.It comes from inside my skull.
My breath catches.
They are back.
Reality begins to flicker. Shadows twist in the corners of the room, carving grotesque faces.
"He thinks he's something special," a wet, shrill voice giggles directly behind my left ear.
I press my hands against my temples. The pressure becomes physical—a pounding of pure hatred.
"He's trash. Filth. They will see," growls a second voice.
YOU ARE WEAK.THEY WILL SEE THROUGH YOU.THEY WILL SKIN YOU ALIVE.
With trembling hands, I reach beneath my pillow. My fingers close around the cool surface of the white box.
It is real.
My only anchor in the chaos.
I want to open it. I need the silence.
A knock at the door.
In an instant, I hide the box again.
"Come in."
Daemon enters. He closes the door behind him and stops.
He does not ask how I am. He likely knows—or does not care.
He simply watches me.
"Your training begins tomorrow," he says. His voice allows no argument."Be ready."
He leaves.
I remain.
Alone with the voices.
And with the question:
What kind of magic sleeps within me?