Death was quiet.
There was no pain, no panic—just a sudden absence, as if someone had turned off the world without warning. The man expected fear, or regret, or at least a final thought worth remembering. Instead, there was only stillness.
So this is how it ends, he thought.
I imagined it would hurt more.
"Not yet."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
He opened his eyes and found himself suspended in a pale, endless space. There was no ground beneath his feet, no sky above him. Only light—and a vague silhouette standing before him. It had no clear shape, no face, no age.
A god? the man asked calmly.
"You may call me that," the silhouette replied. "But titles are meaningless now."
The man exhaled slowly. "Another world, then. Reincarnation."
The god paused. "You accepted that quickly."
I was never strong,the man said. "People like me spend their lives watching others move forward. The idea of a second chance is easier to believe when you've never been the hero."
The light shifted. The god moved closer.
"That is precisely why you were chosen."
The man looked up. "What do I receive? A sword? Magic? A power that breaks the rules?"
"No," the god said. "I will not give you strength."
"Then what?"
"I will give you sight."
The word lingered.
"People fail because they stand in the wrong place," the god continued. "They fight with the wrong role, chase power that was never meant for them. You will see where they truly belong."
Before the man could respond, the light collapsed into itself.
He woke up screaming—only to realize the scream was not his own.
The sound was weak, thin, helpless. His body was small. Too small.
His eyes opened to a high stone ceiling decorated with gold inlays. Warm air filled his lungs. Voices rushed toward him.
"He's awake!"
"The fourth son has opened his eyes!"
Fourth son…
A noble family.
He understood instantly.
Days passed. He learned to speak again. To walk again. To remain silent when necessary. As his new body grew, the truth became clearer.
Three brothers stood above him.
One trained endlessly with the sword, his movements sharp even at a young age. Another buried himself in spellbooks, symbols floating naturally around his hands. The third stood beside their father, listening to matters of politics and power. Their father was a man of authority—a vice-minister of the kingdom, respected and feared.
And then there was him.
Physicians examined him. Their expressions never changed, but their words were consistent.
Low mana capacity.
Weak physical growth.
Poor endurance.
No one said it aloud, but everyone understood.
Failure.
His father looked at him once, silently, and turned away. That silence weighed heavier than any insult.
Years passed. His brothers rose higher. He remained behind. He could not wield a sword. He could not cast spells. His name was rarely spoken.
But he watched.
Always watched.
One afternoon, he noticed two servant boys fighting in the garden. One was bigger, louder, pushing forward with empty confidence. The other was smaller, trembling, backing away.
He saw it clearly.
The bigger boy was not strong—only afraid.
The smaller boy was not weak—only misplaced.
"Step behind him," the child said quietly, without thinking.
The smaller boy obeyed.
One step. Then another.
The bigger boy lost his balance. The fight ended instantly.
Something stirred inside him. Not emotion—understanding. Cold and precise.
I saw it.
The god's voice echoed faintly in his mind.
"I did not give you power.
I gave you the right place."
The boy lifted his head and looked around the garden. At the people. At the world.
I will never be the one who fights, he realized.
But I can make sure the right people win.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, he felt truly alive.