I died quietly.
There was no pain worth remembering. No dramatic final moment, no lingering regret. One instant I existed, and the next I didn't. If fear was there, it passed too quickly to matter.
Then came warmth.
Not light. Not sound. Just warmth—steady, enclosing, impossible to escape.
When awareness returned, it did so slowly. Thought came before sensation, and sensation before understanding. My chest rose and fell in a rhythm I didn't control. My limbs felt distant, uncooperative.
I was crying.
The sound startled me more than the fact itself.
It took time to understand why my body felt wrong. Why my hands were too small. Why the world was vast and blurred and unbearably close.
I had been born.
Not summoned.Not transported.
Reborn.
Memory didn't return all at once. There was no flood, no shock. Just fragments, settling naturally over the years—knowledge of another life that felt increasingly distant, like a book read long ago.
By the time I could speak, I understood one thing clearly.
This world resisted people.
Everything here demanded effort. Mana resisted control. Muscles resisted growth. Techniques resisted mastery. Advancement was paid for in exhaustion, failure, and pain.
People struggled because the world required it.
Everyone did.
Except me.
The first time I sensed mana, it flowed as if it had been waiting. No friction. No backlash. It moved through my body smoothly, cleanly, obediently. When I mimicked a basic technique shown to me once, it settled into place without protest.
At first, I thought this was normal.
Then I trained beside others.
I watched children my age gasp for breath after drills while mine remained steady. I watched spells misfire, mana scatter, hands tremble with strain. I watched effort turn into inches of progress.
My own growth came in strides.
I didn't bleed.I didn't falter.I didn't feel the wall others complained about.
The difference was obvious.
But it didn't feel unfair.
It felt… efficient.
Years passed. Praise followed. So did expectation. By the time I stood at the entrance of my first dungeon, my reputation had already begun to form—quiet, restrained, whispered rather than announced.
The gate pulsed faintly as I stepped through.
The monster lunged the moment it saw me.
I moved once.
The fight ended before my breath changed.
The creature collapsed, lifeless, its momentum broken as if it had struck something immovable. There was no lingering tension, no rush of relief. Just a result achieved.
I wiped my blade clean out of habit, even though there was nothing on it, and continued deeper without hesitation.
Clearing the dungeon took less time than expected.
When I emerged, the overseer stared at me in disbelief. Someone mentioned another party that had entered earlier, struggling on the lower floors.
I acknowledged it—and walked away.
Intervening would have taken time. There was no guarantee of benefit.
Efficiency mattered.
Somewhere else, far from where I stood, something would go wrong.
But I didn't know that yet.
All I knew was this:
In a world built on struggle, I didn't need to suffer to win.
And as the world grew more dangerous,I kept winning.