In the suffocating depths of the Arinoth Forest, where the canopy swallows the sun and silence feels like a physical weight, a figure moved like a ripple in a dark pond. The nameless mercenary, known to the underworld only as "The Shadowed Blade," stood before the Goliathan Sentry—a creature of stone and ancient mana. He did not come for glory; he came to prove that a human's Aura, honed through a lifetime of solitude, could shatter the magical glass ceiling imposed by the arrogant Elven lords and Spirit kin.
He drew his heavy, notched claymore. In an instant, a violent, deep-blue Aura erupted from his frame, cracking the frozen earth beneath his boots. "Just one more wall to break," he whispered, his voice raspy from months of disuse.
With a roar that went unheard by the world, he lunged. He was a blur of steel and sapphire light. His swordsmanship was surgical, each strike carrying the weight of decades of brutal training. Yet, with every clash against the Sentry's hide, the bitter truth clawed at him. The beast wasn't just physical; it was shielded by a veil of natural Magic that absorbed his kinetic energy and turned it into heat.
The Sentry's tail, glowing with a malevolent emerald sorcery, whipped through the air. The mercenary's blade—his only companion for twenty years—shattered into a thousand shimmering shards. The impact sent him hurtling through the air, his ribs snapping like dry twigs as he slammed into an ancient oak.
He lay in the mud, the black fabric of his cowl soaked in crimson. As the cold rain began to wash away the blood, he didn't scream. A single, silent tear tracked through the grime on his cheek. He looked at his trembling, empty hands and thought, All this strength... and I couldn't even see over the wall. As the frost of death settled into his marrow, he closed his eyes, surrendering to the void of a world that never gave him a name, nor a reason to stay.
The void did not last.
Suddenly, the numbing cold was scorched away by a blinding, golden warmth. Instead of the metallic scent of blood and wet earth, his senses were hit by the aroma of toasted hay and burning cedar. He tried to raise his arm to shield his eyes, but his limbs felt impossibly heavy, stubby, and frighteningly uncoordinated.
"Look, Ronan... he's finally opened them," a voice whispered. It was feminine, soft, and carried a melodic tenderness that felt alien to his soul.
Large, calloused hands lifted him with terrifying ease. He found himself staring into the face of a man with a rugged, unshaven jaw and a smile that seemed to radiate genuine heat. "He has your eyes, Elin. Sharp and clear. We'll call him Kayan. He'll be the pride of this village."
Kayan? The name echoed in the mercenary's mind. He wasn't used to having a name. He wasn't used to this small wooden room, nor the way these strangers looked at him with such fierce, unguarded love. He had been reborn into a commoner's family—simple people of the soil, far from the reach of kings or the disdain of high-born mages.
As Elin rocked him gently, humming a low, ancient folk tune, Kayan tried to reach inward. He knew the laws of this world: the "Awakening" of one's core only happened at the age of eight. Yet, in the stillness of his infant heart, he felt a faint, rhythmic thrum. The blue Aura of his past life was there, dormant and coiled like a sleeping dragon. But beside it, he felt something new—a cool, fluid current that moved like silk through his veins.
Magic, Kayan realized, his infant eyes meeting his mother's. Humans of my station were never supposed to hold this.
He understood then that the next eight years would be a test of silence. He would learn to be Kayan, the commoner's son, while secretly forging a power that would bridge the gap that had killed him. As he drifted into a heavy, peaceful sleep, he felt a sensation more powerful than Aura or Magic.
For the first time in two lifetimes, he felt warm.