Samuel's eyes snapped open. The words of the mysterious man echoed through his mind.
It's not where… it's when. When he is from? Is he saying he is from the past or maybe the future? I need to find him before he leaves. He is the only thing that seems logical in this godforsaken world.
A dry cough broke his thoughts and pulled him back to reality. He blinked, finally taking in his surroundings.
Gone were the flames, the crashing hooves, the unbearable weight of the world tearing itself apart.
He lay on a cold surface, smooth beneath his palms, and when he lifted his head, the sight struck him dumb.
White. From wall to ceiling to floor, everything was white. No seams, no shadows, no hint of a door. It was as if he had woken inside the hollow of a single, endless pearl.
Slowly, he pushed himself upright. His breath echoed faintly, as though the room itself swallowed sound. A trick of his battered mind? Or had he slipped beyond the border of reality altogether?
His gaze wandered, searching for some imperfection, some proof that this was not eternity painted in one color.
Then he froze.
Across the blank expanse, a figure sat quietly, legs folded, posture calm.
A boy.
No older than five or six, face pale against the whiteness, dark eyes steady as they met Samuel's.
"Who are you, kid? Do you know where we are?" Samuel pushed himself upright and stepped forward, his voice low and rough as he closed the distance.
The boy rose too, unhurried and calm, standing with the crown of his head barely reaching Samuel's chest.
"Ahh… you come into my house and ask who I am?" A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Doesn't that seem a little lacking in manners? And for the record, I am not a kid."
Samuel stared at him, dumbfounded. What the hell is this boy talking about?
The boy tilted his head, watching him closely. "Well… shouldn't you be dead? Yet you woke up where you shouldn't be." Suddenly, he found the boy's face a bit familiar. Then it clicked.
"You… you have a similar face to the one I had when I first woke up in this world."
"Not similar. It's exactly the same," the boy answered, tapping his own cheek as if presenting evidence.
Thoughts tumbled through his mind, snapping together piece by piece until the realisation hit.
"You're the original owner of the body?" he asked, though the certainty in his voice made it barely a question.
"Clever. Correct again!" the boy replied, flicking him an amused nod.
What is this place? If he's the owner of the body… then what am I? A soul hovering around? A ghost? A glitch in the cosmic system? Questions piled up, each one making his thoughts more tangled.
The boy gave a know-it-all smile.
"This must be confusing for you. But long story short—after your original body died, your soul transmigrated over mine, or something along those lines," he explained, a wry grin tugging at his mouth.
Whatever. He'd never hurt a kid. Not in this life, not in the last. That line wasn't just a rule—it was who he was. Steal a body? From a child? Could he even look at himself in the mirror? Would I even still be me?
Besides, he has already accepted death in his previous life. He has made peace with all his regrets.
"Kid, I don't know how I came here, and I've got no intention of taking your body. If you have a way to keep it, take it. Though I've gotta warn you… I'm not sure it can survive."
"Wrong! I. Am. Not. A. Kid! And there is a high chance the body will survive," the boy shot back, irritation twitching at the corner of his mouth.
Samuel ignored the 'not a kid' tantrum entirely and focused on explaining, half-thinking the boy was blaming him.
"I know you're pissed, but what did you expect me to do? I woke up in your body out of nowhere, and it seems to have some 'Suryavanshi' bloodline—which certain demons are hell-bent on wiping out. And, on top of that, your dad managed to piss off a crown prince," he said, doing his best to keep the situation straightforward.
The boy's expression sharpened. Then he sighed, long and tired. Samuel opened his mouth to continue, but the kid spoke first.
"Forget it. We don't have much time. And it's not your fault you're here. You must've been related to the Suryavanshi bloodline in your previous life; otherwise, it's impossible for your soul to enter this body," the boy said, voice steady and serious.
"What's that supposed to mean, kid?" Samuel asked, genuinely thrown.
"I. Am. Not. A. Kid." He rolled his eyes before continuing. "Anyway, my soul was severely injured in my seventh life. Then things happened in this one with a soul-erasing toxin. I forcefully used my innate skill, 'REBORN,' to enter the next reincarnation and… here you are." He finished with a shrug, as if reincarnation were the sort of thing people did on lazy afternoons.
"Wait—wait—what? Seventh life? 'Things happened' in this one? Innate skill 'REBORN'? Are you telling me you've already lived seven times, and this is the eighth? And you can reincarnate willingly?" Samuel asked, each word slowly, trying to make sure he wasn't hallucinating the explanation.
The boy nodded plainly, almost bored, and corrected, "I could."
Samuel rubbed his face trying to analyse what he had heard. "What next? You're a messenger of God, sent by the Almighty to lead humanity to victory over demons?"
"The messenger and God part is wrong," the boy replied dryly. "But you're not far off about leading humanity. I've been trying to push humans into dominance for seven lives already… and failed every time."
Samuel stared. "So you're saying you've lived seven lifetimes' worth of life? The hell. Doesn't that make you an ancient fossil?"
"Isn't that what I've been trying to tell you? 'Not a kid' from the beginning," he muttered, folding his arms.
Ahhh… this is beyond my ken. Samuel pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just take your body back and send my soul to—" He paused, realizing he had no idea where he even belonged now. "Heaven or hell, or wherever it's supposed to be," he finished quietly.
"You are a good soul," the boy said quietly.
Samuel's lips curled in a bitter smile. "You have no idea. I was anything but good."
"Well, that's true. I have no idea. But this room, the one your imagination shaped, says otherwise." The boy's eyes swept the seamless white walls. "Extremely pure… not a speck of black. Though the lack of windows, doors, or even a crack to the outside tells me you were trapped. You never lived as your heart desired."
"You mean this space… I created it? My imagination?" Samuel's eyes widened.
"Something like that," the boy replied, then added softly, "Before things end… can you tell me who you were?"
A shadow of reminiscence crossed Samuel's face. "An orphan… a son… a boyfriend… a husband… a friend… and perhaps… a traitor."
This time, the boy's calm mask slipped. He stared at Samuel as though searching his face for lies.
Catching the boy's puzzled look, Samuel let out a dry chuckle. "I was a C.S.O. Born an orphan, raised by the top-tier Secret Shadow Organization."
The kid's eyes narrowed with silent questions. Samuel tapped his chest lightly, clarifying.
"It stands for Covert Scientific Operative—C.S.O. for short. In my organization, that meant being a spy who was also a scientist, trained for high-risk zones to gather, steal, or destroy advanced technology."
He paused, the memories drifting past like shadows. "I lived as the adopted son of a great physicist… the boyfriend of a biologist specialist… the friend of a weapon specialist… and husband to a nuclear physicist." His voice thinned for a moment, but he forced the next words out steadily. "…and perhaps, in the end, a traitor to humanity."
The boy burst into sudden laughter. "What I have lived across seven lifetimes, you crammed into one. Yet none of them was your true self. Interesting… interesting. Besides… scientists, physicists… your world must be very different from ours."
"What about you?" Samuel asked.
The boy waved his hand, and the room remade itself.
Corpses lay everywhere, some human, many not, and the sight that stole Samuel's breath was the four-headed dragon sprawled like a butchered mountain. Its body was massive, broken, impossibly heavy. It looked disturbingly similar to the Behemoth he remembered, but carried a menace that felt older, deeper. Around it rose mounds of bodies, far too many of them resembling the Demon Leader he had faced before.
A hollow voice drifted through the carnage. "I am tired… tired of leading humanity out of slavery and mediocrity."
Samuel stepped forward despite the nausea clawing up his throat. "Well, you might actually succeed this time," he said. "Remember, you've got a powerful bloodline this round." His voice held more steadiness than he felt; speaking was the only thing holding him together.
The child's smile was small, unreadable. "Who said there will be a 'this time'?"
"W–what is that supposed to mean?" Samuel asked, the threads of understanding fraying.
The sky split. The world groaned.
And the boy in front of him began to flicker, sometimes solid, sometimes translucent, as if his body were made of smoke caught in a confused wind.
"It seems this world has finally accepted your soul completely," the boy said. His voice wobbled as his form blurred. "With my soul gone, there won't be a 'Reborn' this time… but I have one last heaven-defying skill. I'll condense my soul into a cultivation seed. With two seeds, you'll be more heaven-defying than I ever managed. And I'll store my Dream Totem inside it as well."
'Cultivation.' 'Seed.' 'Dream Totem.'
The words slid past Samuel like equations in a fever dream.
"Wait, wait." Panic sharpened his voice. "I'm not ready. I don't have any desire to lead humanity. Humanity be damned! Just come back and take your body!"
The boy laughed, brittle and wild. "Well said! Humanity be damned! Across seven lifetimes, they repeated the same mistakes—never learning. Perhaps humanity isn't meant to be led in this world… but ruled."
Great. He's finally gone senile from repeated failure.
"Hold on, at least tell me more about this world! What even is cultivation? Any heaven-defying secrets? Who was this body's original owner? What's his name? What am I supposed to do?"
The avalanche of questions hit him at once.
He had been asking all the wrong questions.
He didn't know the world.
He didn't even know the name of the body he was in.
All he'd ever heard people call him was 'young master.'
The only clues he had were, 'He was the heir to House Ignis.'
The boy's form thinned like mist. His voice softened with something close to regret. "Why do you need the details? Didn't you lose your memory in the accident? As for cultivation… you'll understand when the time comes."
He winked. The playful gesture cut through Samuel like a blade.
"B-but…" Samuel reached out, desperate for one last answer.
"Live the life you want," the boy whispered. "Not the life of a spy. And… did you forget the mysterious man?"
That notion struck him like a spark on dry tinder. His purpose, lost moments before, flared back to life.
Only one warning escaped the collapsing boy, carrying through the shaking world like a final omen:
"Beware… of the Fate Weaver…"
And then the world tore itself apart.
***
Samuel jolted awake with a scream, chest heaving, skin damp with cold sweat. The nightmare still clung to him: white walls, blood, the boy's fading voice.
But none of it remained.
A pale gray glow leaked through the shutters, that breathless hour before sunrise when the world was neither night nor day. Outside, the shuffle of boots and the creak of cart wheels carried faintly through the stone walls.
At the foot of his bed, a woman stirred. She was sleeping hunched forward on the mattress, head pillowed on folded arms like a weary guardian.
"All right, all right!" she cried, springing up and clutching him close. "You're safe now."
Her embrace was warm and startlingly real. For a moment, he sat frozen, the contact more jarring than the dream. Slowly, his gaze slipped past her shoulder.
Samuel's focus steadied. The room resolved around him, its shapes no longer ghosts but wood and stone.
Exposed beams crossed above. A glass lamp on the table still glowed faintly, its etched runes pulsing like the dying embers of a hearth. A polished chest stood against the wall, brass fittings gleaming in the half-light. Shelves of crockery and folded linens were neatly arranged, everything tidy and scrubbed clean. The stone floor, worn smooth by countless feet, reflected the dim rune-light in muted silver tones.
Not a void. Not a battlefield. A home. Medieval, yet touched everywhere by quiet hints of alchemy and craft.
His breath slowed, though the echo of the collapsing world still burned at the edges of his mind.
"Honey, quickly, bring the soup! Milo is awake!" the woman cried, her voice shaking with relief.
Milo… me… His expression turned heavy, remembering the boy who had given his life for him.
Moments later, a man in his fifties hurried in, streaks of white threading his dark hair. He carried a small clay bowl etched with faint runes, steam rising from its surface.
"Drink it slowly, lad," the man urged, pressing the bowl into his hands. "And get well soon."
Then he turned, softening his tone. "Now, darling… see? Milo's awake. Go eat something proper. You've been watching over him for two days straight."
Samuel blinked, his gaze fixing on the woman. Two days? His thoughts snagged; his face went distant.
"Ahh, don't think too much," the man said quickly, almost as if he'd read the question. "Your mother sent a letter with you. We know you've lost your memory… so don't stress. All will be well."
All will be well? He wanted to believe it—but years of espionage had taught him that calm words often hid deeper storms.
I should clear this doubt. They've already suffered because of me. I can't pretend to be Milo… not when he's already gone, he thought, and was about to speak.
"Yes, I'll go," the woman said softly, brushing Samuel's hair back. "But let me feed him first."
"I'll do it. You go rest," the man countered gently, ushering her toward the door.
She hesitated, then finally yielded. The moment she stepped out, the man dipped a spoon into the steaming bowl and raised it toward Samuel.
Samuel's first instinct screamed to refuse. A lifetime of suspicion, of poisons, betrayals, shadows had carved that reflex deep into his bones. His lips parted to object…
Then the boy's last words echoed in his mind. Live the life as you are. Not as a spy.
His jaw tightened. Against all his ingrained habits, he allowed the spoon to touch his lips. Warm broth slid across his tongue. The taste was strange, spiced in a way unlike his world, but his instincts told him what mattered most.
There was no malice. No deception. Only genuine care. The man before him truly thought of him as his own.
I can't lie to them, Samuel thought quietly. I'll tell them the truth… in time.
Soon, the bowl was empty. The man set it aside, satisfaction in his eyes. "Good. You'll be moving around in no time. This is your first visit to your grandfather's house, so think of it as your own. Anything you need, just ask. Since you've lost your memory… consider it a fresh start."
He leaned closer, voice soft but steady. "I am your grandfather. And the one before… she's your grandmother." After that, he went.
He looked down at his hands, both wrapped in fresh bandages. His head was bound as well. Slowly, unsteadily, he rose to his feet and paced the room. The air was cool against his skin, but a faint warmth pulled him toward the corner where a small fireplace smoldered.
He crouched there, rubbing his hands together. That was when he noticed it—a scrap of half-burned paper among the ashes.
What drew his eye wasn't the charred words, but the name scrawled at the bottom.
Anne.
Heart tightening, he pulled it free and smoothed the brittle edges. What remained of the message read:
{I wanted to lie, to tell you he is Milo… but you would know, even without meeting him once. After all, Milo is your blood, and the young master's bearing is that of an aristocrat. Do not be sad… treat him as you would treat Milo. Madam always treated me as her sister, so she is like your daughter, too. I don't have much time… this is farewell.
Yours, with love,
Anne.}
Samuel's hands trembled. His chest clenched as he clutched the fragile paper to his heart. They know? And still treat me as their grandson?
When he turned, he found that the woman had returned and was standing there.
Words tumbled from his lips. "I am—"
Before he could finish, she crossed the room and embraced him tightly.
"I know," she whispered. "I know you're the young master… of noble blood. But can this old woman still treat you as my grandson?"
A violent shiver coursed through Samuel's body.
He'd been a spy once. Trained to unmask traitors, to read truth in the twitch of a lip, to weigh trust like currency. Few men were better at spotting lies. He had spent decades dissecting smiles, measuring tones, stripping the truth from even the most convincing lies.
And that was why this moment shook him to his core.
The woman's words carried no guile. No hesitation. No shadow of manipulation. They rang with a purity so rare that even instincts honed by a lifetime of suspicion could find no crack.
For the first time in years, Samuel was certain. She truly meant it. She really was treating him as her grandson.
He looked into the eyes of the old man beside her.
His eyes, too, carried that same tenderness: the look of someone who had found their long-lost blood.
For the first time in his life, a tear slipped free. Not the feigned tears of a spy, but one painfully genuine.
He drew a shuddering breath and whispered, "What are you saying, Grandma? Who is this young master? I don't know him. I am Milo. And you… you and Grandpa are my only family left."