Earth, late 20th century.
Rain hammered relentlessly against the sagging rooftops of a rundown neighborhood, a place where dreams seldom survived long enough to draw their first breath. In a cramped fourth-floor apartment that smelled faintly of damp plaster and stale coffee, lived a young man named Raze—twenty-five years old, unemployed, and teetering on the edge of a life that no longer felt like his own.
Raze stood before the cracked mirror in his bedroom, dragging a weary hand through his tangled dark hair. The reflection staring back at him looked like a stranger: hollow cheeks, shadowed eyes, and a mouth that had forgotten how to smile.
"Look at you," he muttered, voice low and bitter. "Twenty-five and nothing to show for it."
The words echoed in the barren room. No posters on the walls, no guitar in the corner, no scattered sheet music—nothing that spoke of the dreams he had once carried like a flame. Everything had been sold, piece by piece, to cover rent, utilities, and the endless medical bills that kept his mother alive just a little longer.
He closed his eyes, and memory pulled him back.
A small, cluttered living room from another lifetime. A seven-year-old Raze balanced precariously on a chair, clutching a wooden spoon like a microphone. His mother sat on the worn couch, clapping in delight, her laughter bright enough to chase away the shadows of their poverty.
"You're going to be a star someday, Raze," she said, eyes shining with unshakable faith. "I know it in my bones."
Back then, he had believed her with every fiber of his being.
But life was rarely kind to those without privilege.
Raze had never known wealth, connections, or safety nets. His father had died when he was too young to remember him, leaving behind only an old keyboard and a handful of faded photographs. His mother, a single parent, juggled three jobs—waitress by day, cleaner by night, clerk on weekends—whatever it took to keep food on the table and Raze in school. She poured every ounce of herself into him, and he had sworn he would repay her.
He would make her proud.
As soon as he was old enough, he threw himself into music. He taught himself on his father's dusty keyboard, saved every penny from odd jobs, and later took out loans he could barely afford. He practiced until his voice cracked and his fingers bled, wrote songs until dawn bled into morning, and recorded demos in cheap, airless studios that reeked of cigarette smoke and broken promises.
Reality, however, was merciless.
Producers brushed him off with polite smiles or outright scorn. Auditions ended in rejection letters that piled up like autumn leaves. His online uploads vanished into the void, swallowed by algorithms that favored the already famous. Slowly, inexorably, his savings dwindled. The loans came due. And then his mother fell ill.
A rare, degenerative disease—slow, painful, and astronomically expensive. Raze took part-time jobs, then full-time shifts, then overtime until his body screamed for rest. No matter how many hours he worked, the money was never enough. The medical bills towered like unscalable mountains. Music became a luxury he could no longer afford. He set aside his dreams, one by one, until nothing remained but survival.
Hope thinned to a thread, then snapped entirely.
The hospital room was sterile and quiet save for the rhythmic beeping of monitors. Raze sat beside his mother's bed, cradling her frail hand in both of his. Her once-vibrant eyes had dimmed, but her smile—soft, unwavering—still held the same warmth it always had.
"Mom… I'm sorry," he whispered, throat raw.
Her fingers tightened weakly around his. "For what, sweetheart?"
"For everything." Tears burned his eyes. "I squandered Dad's savings on stupid dreams. I failed every audition. I couldn't give you the life you deserved. And when you needed me most, I—"
"Stop." Her voice was barely a breath, yet it carried the authority of a lifetime of love. "Raze… you did more than anyone could ask. More than most would have."
He shook his head, tears spilling over. "I wanted to be someone who made people happy. Someone you could brag about."
Her thumb brushed across his knuckles in slow, soothing circles. "I've always been proud of you, from the very first day. You have a kind heart. You cared deeply. You chased your dreams with everything you had. That is enough for any mother."
His breath hitched. "Mom…"
Her voice grew fainter, like a candle guttering in the wind. "Please… don't hate yourself for the world's cruelty. Promise me."
He pressed his forehead to their joined hands, shoulders shaking. "Mom, please don't go."
She gazed at him for a long, tender moment, eyes brimming with a lifetime of love. Then, with her last strength, she whispered, "Live your life, Raze. Find your light… even if the world refuses to see it."
The monitors flatlined.
The world went silent.
Days blurred into weeks. Raze moved through life like a ghost—eating only when hunger became unbearable, sleeping only when exhaustion forced him. Music felt like a language from another life. At twenty-five, he saw no path forward. No career. No passion. No family.
Nothing.
One stormy night, he climbed the hill overlooking the city. Below, neon lights bled across wet pavement in streaks of electric blue and crimson. Cold wind whipped around him, carrying the sharp scent of rain and distant thunder.
Raze stood alone beneath the roiling sky.
"Is this really it?" he asked the darkness. "Is this all I get?"
A bitter laugh escaped him. "I just wanted to sing. To make people smile. Was that too much?"
Thunder growled in answer.
He spread his arms slightly, as if offering himself to the storm. "Mom… could I ever become someone you'd be proud of? Someone who brings joy? Someone who matters?"
The wind howled, empty and cold.
He closed his eyes. "Maybe it's impossible."
Lightning tore across the heavens—brilliant, violent, splitting the clouds.
Raze opened his eyes just as a bolt lanced downward.
CRACK!
It struck him squarely.
There was no pain—only a force beyond comprehension, ripping through nerve and bone and soul. The world dissolved into blinding white.
His final thought was a desperate prayer:
If there's another chance… let me be someone who can make people smile.
Then everything vanished.
************
Born Again
Raze had often wondered what death would feel like. He had imagined cold, or nothingness, or perhaps a sharp, final darkness.
He never imagined warmth. Peace. A gentle, enveloping light.
Yet as the lightning consumed him, the only emotion that remained was regret—sharp, aching, absolute.
If I disappear like this… without achieving anything… without ever making anyone truly smile… what was the point of my life?
That regret lingered as consciousness returned.
Sensation flooded in all at once: soft light filtering through eyelids, muffled voices, the scent of clean linen and something faintly floral. Warmth cradled him. His body felt strange—heavy yet weightless, tiny, swaddled.
He tried to breathe deeply and managed only a small, instinctive gasp.
"Aah… aaah—!"
A high, helpless cry escaped his throat.
Panic surged. His eyes flew open, vision blurry and unfocused. He was being held—cradled against a woman's chest. Her heartbeat thrummed steadily beneath his ear, her arms strong yet infinitely gentle.
What…?
He tried to speak, to demand answers, but only another wail emerged.
The woman shifted, murmuring soft reassurances in a voice like sunlight. "Shh, little one. It's all right. Mama's here."
Mama.
The word struck him like a second bolt of lightning.
He turned his head—slowly, clumsily—and saw another bundled infant beside him, a girl with the same dark hair, the same tiny features, a faint birthmark beneath her left eye. Their gazes met for a fleeting instant before overlapping cries filled the room.
The woman laughed, weary but radiant with joy. "My beautiful twins… welcome to the world."
Twins.
The truth crashed over him.
I died. I was struck by lightning… and now I've been reborn. As a baby. As one of a pair of twins.
Disbelief warred with the undeniable reality of soft blankets, warm milk-scented breath, and the gentle rocking that lulled his new body despite his racing mind.
He peered past his new mother's shoulder. The room was spacious, bathed in golden light from tall windows. Intricate tapestries hung on stone walls, embroidered with symbols that glowed faintly. Beyond the glass, particles of light drifted lazily like fireflies in daylight. A silver-haired maid entered carrying a basin of water that steamed without fire.
This wasn't Earth.
This was… a fantasy world.
The realization settled over him like a blanket—absurd, impossible, and utterly real.
His memories remained intact: every failure, every tearful night, every moment with his first mother, the lightning, the wish. All of it sat strangely within this newborn mind, sharp and adult against the helpless infant body.
He was still Raze. And yet, he was someone new.
The first month passed in a frustrating haze of total dependence.
He loathed the helplessness—limbs that refused to obey, voice capable only of cries, needs expressed through wails and tears. Yet his new mother never once showed impatience. She tended him and his sister with endless devotion, humming melodies in a language that felt both foreign and musical.
The silver-haired maid—whose name, he learned, was Mira—assisted with gentle efficiency, changing linens, preparing feeds, and singing lullabies that made the glowing symbols on the walls pulse softly in rhythm.
To his surprise, language came quickly. By the end of the first month, he understood perhaps half of what was said around him. Whether it was the plasticity of an infant brain or some gift of reincarnation, words began to carry meaning.
His twin sister—still unnamed, like him—was a constant presence. She reached for him with tiny, grasping hands whenever they were separated. Her cries quieted the moment they were placed side by side. In his previous life, Raze had been an only child. Now, this fierce, instinctive bond felt both alien and comforting.
Perhaps having a sibling wasn't so bad.
One month after their birth, the household stirred with new energy.
Servants bustled, polishing every surface until it gleamed. Fresh flowers filled vases, their petals shimmering with faint light. Elegant banners were hung along corridors. The air hummed with anticipation.
It was the day of the Naming Ceremony.
From overheard conversations, Raze gathered that in this world, children were not officially recognized until the Church of Lumina performed the sacred rite. Until then, they remained simply "the boy" and "the girl"—or, in their case, "the twins."
His mother—Lady Arlienne, he had learned—dressed in flowing robes of pale blue and silver that caught the light like water. She carried Raze herself, cradling him close, while Mira carried his sister.
They descended to the courtyard where a magnificent carriage awaited, lacquered white and gold, drawn by two sleek, white-scaled creatures with manes of silvery mist. Definitely not horses.
As the carriage glided through the streets, Raze pressed his face to the window.
The city unfolded like a dream: towering spires capped with crystals that radiated soft light; cobblestone roads lined with floating lanterns that bobbed gently in the breeze; citizens in embroidered robes or gleaming armor; merchants selling potions that swirled with color and fruits that glowed from within.
Guards patrolled with swords that hummed with visible mana.
Every sight confirmed it: he had been reborn into a world of magic.
His tiny heart raced—not with fear, but with a spark of wonder he hadn't felt in years.
The carriage halted before an awe-inspiring cathedral of white marble veined with gold. Stained-glass windows depicted winged figures bathed in radiant light, and above the great doors rose the symbol of the Church: a winged cross encircled by ancient runes.
As Lady Arlienne stepped down, people bowed deeply.
"Lady Arlienne! May the Light bless your children."
"Thank you," she replied, voice warm yet regal. "May the Light guide them always."
The doors parted with a low, melodic hum, spilling golden radiance into the street.
Inside, rows of pillars stretched toward a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of divine creation. At the altar stood a high priest in flowing white robes, hands resting atop a crystalline orb that pulsed gently.
"Bring forward the children," he intoned, voice resonant yet kind. "Let the Light reveal their names and illuminate their paths."
Lady Arlienne's arms tightened protectively around Raze.
For the first time in this new life, true apprehension stirred within him.
What would this ceremony do? Would it change him? Reveal him? Bind him?
As they approached the altar, the orb's glow intensified, bathing the twins in warm, golden light.
Raze's sister cooed softly. He, however, could only watch—and wait—for whatever fate this new world held in store.