In the dim shadows of a deserted training hall, a man with jet-black hair and piercing green eyes sat cross-legged in lotus position. His gaze drifted into the void, fixed on bare walls that seemed to close in around him like the bars of an invisible prison.
"Damn it…" he muttered, his voice echoing in the oppressive silence. "This is becoming deadly boring. What more must I do to attract students?"
Danni Mercier. That name had once made arenas across the world tremble with excitement. Double Olympic gold medalist, three-time world fencing champion, a living legend who had dominated the pistes for an entire decade. His blade was renowned for its surgical precision, his footwork for its deadly elegance. Commentators had dubbed him "The Green Shadow"—an allusion to his eyes that seemed to glow with supernatural intensity during decisive bouts.
Then came retirement. At twenty-eight, at the peak of his glory, he had sheathed his foil to open a fencing school. A project close to his heart: to pass on his art, to forge the next generation of champions. Sponsors had rushed in, students had flooded in by the dozens.
That was two years ago.
Today, the hall was empty.
Everything had collapsed six months earlier. A rumor. A simple whisper at first, quickly transformed into a media storm. Doping. The word had been dropped by a journalist hungry for sensation, repeated endlessly on social media, amplified until it became an assumed truth. No matter the absence of proof, no matter the counter-analyses he had commissioned at his own expense. The poison was in people's minds.
Sponsors had withdrawn their funding one after another. Students had left to seek other masters, less "controversial" ones. Even his former teammates now avoided his calls.
"In any case, the truth will eventually come out," he said aloud, a bitter smile on his lips. "Human relationships are always governed by interests. You can only rely on yourself."
This lesson, he had learned long before his sporting career. Thirty years of existence, twenty-five of them as an orphan. The Montpellier orphanage first, then foster families that came and went, each seeing him either as a burden or an opportunity to collect benefits. Fencing had been his only escape, the only domain where talent spoke louder than origins.
And now, even that was being taken from him.
"Well…" he sighed, placing his hands on his knees to stand up. "Time to stretch my legs."
But the instant he tried to rise, something went wrong. His legs trembled, refusing to support his weight. His vision blurred, the contours of the hall becoming hazy as if he were observing the world through a veil of water.
"Shit… What's happening to me?"
A searing pain exploded in his chest. His heart pounded against his ribs at an erratic rhythm, far too fast. The air seemed to have vanished from the room. He brought a trembling hand to his sternum, desperately seeking his breath.
His knees gave way.
Danni collapsed heavily onto the floor, the impact resonating through the empty hall. His cheek struck the cold ground, and in his inexorably narrowing field of vision, he saw only worn wooden planks and dust dancing in a ray of light.
No… Not like this…
Darkness engulfed him.
In the absolute silence that followed, only the tick-tock of a wall clock continued to mark time, indifferent to the fall of a champion
In a chamber bathed in golden light, ornamental garlands hung elegantly along walls paneled with precious wood. Intricate patterns intertwined across the vaulted ceiling, reminiscent of the architecture of aristocratic mansions from a bygone era. At the center of this sumptuous room stood a carved wooden cradle, covered with immaculate silk sheets.
And in that cradle lay an infant with hair as black as jet.
Huh? What's going on?
Danni's consciousness emerged abruptly from nothingness, like a swimmer breaking the surface of water after too long an apnea. But something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
I can't move… Why is my body so small?
He tried to raise his hand—a simple, basic gesture he had performed millions of times. But what he saw froze him with horror. A tiny chubby hand flailed clumsily before his face, pudgy fingers closing and opening without coordination.
My hands… look like those of a baby. What's happening to me?!
Panic seized him. He wanted to scream, to demand explanations, but what emerged from his throat was nothing but a shrill, uncontrollable wail. The cries of a terrified newborn.
"WAAAAAAH! WAAAAAAH!"
His own cries horrified him further. This wasn't his voice. This wasn't him. And yet, his mind was intact—thirty years of memories, experiences, victories and defeats, all compressed into this tiny helpless body.
No, no, NO! This is a nightmare! I have to wake up!
But his cries redoubled despite himself, a primal reflex that his adult consciousness could not control.
Hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor. The door burst open.
"Oh, Arthur! My angel, you're awake!"
A woman rushed into the room, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders as she hurried to the cradle. Her face, of delicate beauty enhanced by aristocratic features, expressed palpable maternal concern. She wore an elegant dress of deep blue, adorned with silver embroidery that shimmered with each movement.
"Why are you crying, my heart? Mama is here, don't be afraid."
With infinite gentleness, she lifted the infant and pressed him against her chest. Her warmth, her scent—a subtle blend of lavender and something reassuring he couldn't identify—enveloped Danni.
Arthur? Who is Arthur? And this woman… who is she?
Despite his confusion, his cries gradually calmed. There was something in this embrace, a sensation he had never known in his entire life as an orphan. A feeling of absolute security, of unconditional love.
"Shh, shh, my treasure," the woman murmured, rocking him gently, caressing his hair with a tenderness that shook something deep within him. "Mama will never leave you alone. You are safe, my little Arthur."
Arthur…
Reality slowly began to impose itself on his foggy mind. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a hallucination caused by his illness. Somehow, impossibly yet undeniably, he had become a baby.
Or rather… he had been reincarnated?
It's impossible. This can't be real. Reincarnation is… it's fiction, children's stories!
Yet the evidence was overwhelming. The luxurious cradle, this chamber worthy of a castle, this woman who called him Arthur with so much love in her voice, and above all—above all—this tiny body that barely obeyed him.
"You must have had a bad dream, my angel," the woman continued, sitting in a cushioned armchair near the window. The daylight drew a halo around her. "But everything is fine now. Mama is watching over you."
She began to hum a lullaby, a sweet and haunting melody that Danni didn't recognize. Despite himself, he felt his eyelids grow heavy. A newborn's body had its limits, and the emotional exhaustion of this impossible revelation overcame his resistance.
A second chance…
That was his last coherent thought before sleep claimed him again.
But in the depths of his sleeping mind, a question remained, gnawing:
Why? Why me? And what world have I landed in?