Consciousness did not return in an explosive surge, but seeped back slowly—like the first light of dawn slipping through the cracks of darkness
At first, there was sound. The whisper of a gentle wind, utterly unlike the hiss of bullets or the constant drone of drones. Then came sensation, fine fabric brushing against skin, not the coarse uniform caked with mud and blood.
Scent followed—burning wood, candles, and something unfamiliar. Spices, perhaps. Medicines.
Dilan—or rather, the entity that had once been Dilan—opened his eyes.
A dark wooden ceiling greeted him, adorned with simple carvings. Not cracked concrete. Not the gray skies of Ukraine. The searing pain that had once devoured his thigh and shoulder had vanished. In its place was a strange lightness—an emptiness, almost unreal.
He raised his hand. Small. Soft. Undeniably, the chubby fingers of an infant.
A scream of panic clawed its way up his throat, but what emerged was merely the shrill cry of a newborn.
Panic surged—yet the survival instinct forged in his previous life compelled him to stay calm, to observe.
Blurry figures approached, a fair-haired woman with weary eyes full of tenderness; a neatly bearded man, his once-hard gaze now glistening with tears.
They leaned over, touched him, spoke in a foreign tongue—yet slowly, their meaning began to surface in his mind.
That was the beginning of everything.
***
Twelve years passed, measured by the turning seasons in Götthain, by the steady growth of a healthy body, and by the accumulation of knowledge about this new world.
He was Albert vin Götterbaum, the only son of Baron Friedrich vin Götterbaum and his wife, Lady Elara.
Götthain was a minor territory on the western border of the Kingdom of Helvetia. Its lands were unremarkable, forests, rolling hills, and three villages that subsisted on vineyards and low-grade iron from local mines.
Albert grew under close scrutiny. Too close, some would say. His eyes—emerald green, inherited from his father—were always observing, as if mapping reality itself.
One afternoon in the castle garden, Lady Elara sat on a stone bench, knitting. Her needles clicked softly. Albert sat not far away, but his gaze was fixed on a sparrow pecking at breadcrumbs among the stones.
"Albert, dear," Elara called gently. "You're watching that bird again?"
Albert shifted his gaze. "Yes, Mother. Look at the way it hops. Three times, then stop, look left and right."
Elara smiled, though something flickered in her eyes. "Boys your age usually prefer chasing birds, not sitting quietly watching them."
"If you chase it, it flies away, Mother. Then the story's over." Albert shrugged. "By staying still, I learn its habits."
Elara laughed softly, but her laughter sounded slightly forced. She returned to her knitting, occasionally glancing at her son with an expression difficult to decipher.
Such conversations were commonplace. Albert knew he was different. The memories from his previous life—the smell of gunpowder, the bone-piercing cold, the faces of the elderly carved by anxiety—were both a burden and a compass.
He couldn't be an ordinary child. This world, as peaceful as it seemed behind its feudal rhythms, felt fragile. History had proven that peace was always temporary. And Albert would never again be an unprepared victim.
His focus was knowledge.
He devoured everything. Altho—the common tongue of the western continent—political structures, geography, even the fundamentals of economics. And with a determination that astonished his tutors, he pursued the art of the sword.
His mentor, Sir Gregor, was a former royal cavalryman, lame from an old battle. In his fifties, with a patient face tempered by experience, Gregor had initially dismissed the Baron's request to train his "still too young" son.
On the first day of training, Gregor had already sighed deeply.
"Listen, Young Lord. This practice sword is bigger than your hand."
Albert—barely five years old at the time, yet already standing with a strange posture that made Gregor furrow his brow—lifted the wooden sword with difficulty. "But this is the only way to start, right?"
"Start what?" Gregor grinned. "Start falling? Because you'll be doing a lot of that."
"Yes. But if I fall, I'll get up again."
Gregor was silent for a moment, then chuckled. "You're a strange one, Young Lord. Fine. But don't cry when your hands blister."
Albert didn't cry. Not once.
The training was brutal—often cruel. Albert's hands blistered. His muscles screamed. He fell again and again. But each time he fell, he got up without much complaint. Only occasionally would he ask, in a flat voice like an adult deep in thought.
"Sir Gregor, why does my left hand need to be lower when parrying from above?"
Gregor stopped his swing. "Huh?"
"That's what you taught yesterday. But it feels awkward. If my left hand is lower, my balance feels less stable."
Gregor scratched his graying beard. "Because if your left hand is too high, your shoulder is exposed. Your opponent could stab you from the side."
"Oh." Albert nodded, then returned to his stance. "Understood."
Another time, during a break for drinks, Albert sat on a stone bench, wiping his wooden sword with a cloth. "Sir Gregor, if your opponent is taller and stronger, is it better to advance or retreat?"
Gregor sipped his tea. "Advance."
"Why?"
"Because if you retreat, you give them room to swing harder. If you close the distance, their swing is shorter. Their power can't be maximized." Gregor stared at him. "But that's difficult. It takes guts."
Albert didn't answer. He just looked down at his blistered small hands.
One afternoon, after two exhausting hours, Gregor collapsed onto a bench, wiping sweat from his forehead. Albert sat beside him, still panting, but his back straight.
Gregor regarded him for a long time. "Young Lord."
"Yes, Sir?"
"I've trained many noble children. Spoiled children, stubborn children, talented children. But you..." Gregor shook his head slowly. "Sometimes I forget you're only twelve. The way you talk, the way you ask questions... like an old man who's seen a lot."
Albert smiled faintly. But the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Maybe because I read a lot, Sir."
"Read a lot?" Gregor snorted. "Reading books doesn't make you able to endure pain like you did earlier. When you fell and your knee was bleeding, you just got up and said 'continue'. Kids your age usually cry and ask for a bandage."
Albert didn't answer.
Gregor sighed, then stood. "Enough for today. Tomorrow morning, we train again. And the day after. And so on. But you need to know one thing."
"What, Sir?"
"What you're doing—training like crazy, enduring pain—that's not to become a duelist. That's to survive." Gregor stared at him sharply. "As if you know something bad is coming. Do you know something?"
Albert met his gaze. In his green eyes, Gregor saw something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up—not childhood intelligence, but a vigilance far too deep.
"No one knows, Sir," Albert replied softly. "But we can prepare."
Gregor nodded slowly. Then he turned and walked away, leaving Albert alone on the training ground in the twilight.
***
The peaceful days continued.
Albert's routine was meticulously structured: history and politics lessons every morning, sword practice with Gregor at midday, hours in his father's modest library in the afternoon, and evenings alone in his room—often immersed in contemplation.
Those nights were the hardest. When the daytime bustle subsided, the ghosts emerged. The faces of those he had killed in his previous life haunted his dreams.
He stood by the window, gazing at the full moon hanging over the castle tower. The same moon, he thought, that might now be shining on nameless graves in a destroyed village near Donetsk. Or on his parents' small house in the old world—perhaps now aging, still waiting for a son who would never return.
"Dad... Mom..." he whispered. The longing was like a wound that wouldn't heal. Were they still alive? Did they know he was gone? Or did they still hope, waiting for news that would never come?
Tears welled, but didn't fall. Crying was a luxury. In his previous life, he'd cried in the trenches and only earned mockery. In this life, he was a Baron's son. Tears were weakness—especially for nobility.
He turned from the moon and took a deep breath. Focus on the present. Survive. Become strong. So if hell came again, he could protect what mattered.
But what mattered here? His new parents were kind. Lady Elara, gentle though sometimes anxious. Baron Friedrich, stern and busy, but always ensuring his education progressed.
Did he love them? Affection grew—yet it was always overshadowed by the memory of two other faces in a distant world. He felt like an impostor, wearing borrowed blood and a legacy family that was never truly his.
***
The tranquility shattered in the summer of his twelfth year.
A royal messenger arrived from the capital. His horse was lathered with sweat, the royal banner tattered and dusty.
Baron Friedrich immediately held a closed-door meeting.
Driven by unease, Albert slipped into the corridor near his father's study. From behind a thick curtain, he could hear the conversation inside.
"...tax levy increased by twenty percent," said a stranger's voice—male, sounding tired and official. "The border war with the Kingdom of Leandria in the north is draining the treasury. All nobles are required to contribute."
"TWENTY PERCENT?" his father's voice exploded. "Lord Verick, Götthain is small. Our mines are nearly exhausted. The vineyards are still recovering. My people will starve if forced to pay that much!"
"That is not the crown's concern, Baron." Verick's voice was flat. "What matters is that the monarchy has funds to pay soldiers and buy steel. Unless..." there was a pause, "Götthain intends to defy the King's decree?"
Silence.
Albert could picture his father's face behind that door—red, angry, but afraid.
"No," his father's voice finally emerged, quiet. "Götthain is loyal. But... give us time. Until the harvest is finished."
"Three months. No longer." Verick sounded like he was rising. "Oh, one more thing. All noble sons aged fifteen and above are subject to one year of military conscription. Proof of loyalty. With the war ongoing, it may be extended."
"Albert is only twelve!"
"Be grateful. But remember, Baron—this obligation remains. War requires young blood, from wherever it comes."
The door opened. Albert slipped away, his heart pounding.
War. Taxes. Conscription.
Goosebumps rose on his arms. The long-forgotten smell of gunpowder seemed to hang in the cold stone corridors. He clenched his fists. His body was still small. But inside, the soul that had endured hell was screaming.
No. Not again!
***
The next day, on the training ground, Gregor immediately sensed the difference.
Usually Albert was focused and serious, but today his strikes were harder. Faster. Each blow seemed intent on tearing through something.
"Let's rest," Gregor said finally, raising his hand.
Albert stopped, breathing heavily. Sweat plastered his fair hair to his forehead.
Gregor sat on the bench, patting the spot beside him. "Sit. Talk."
Albert stared at him for a moment, then sat. But he didn't speak.
"I know you heard something yesterday," Gregor said casually. "News from the royal messenger."
Albert nodded slowly.
"Tax increase?"
Albert nodded again.
Gregor snorted. "Figured as much. The King needs money, the northern war is expensive." He glanced at Albert. "But that's not what's making you angry, is it? There's more."
Albert was silent. Then, slowly, "Conscription. Noble sons fifteen and above."
Gregor whistled softly. "You're only twelve."
"Three years pass quickly, Sir."
Gregor stared at him. The boy's eyes—green like spring grass—but inside them, something dark. Too dark for a child his age.
"Are you afraid?" Gregor asked.
Albert turned. "What?"
"I asked, are you afraid?"
Albert looked down at his hands, still gripping the wooden sword. "I... I don't want to be livestock herded to the slaughterhouse, Sir."
Gregor frowned. "What do you mean?"
Albert was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft—but strangely, it sounded like a voice much older. "I've seen war, Sir. Maybe not here, maybe not the same war. But I know what it's like to be someone sent to the front unprepared. To be someone who... dies without anyone caring."
Gregor froze.
"You've seen war? From where?"
Albert realized he'd spoken too much. "From... books. From travelers' tales. I just..."
Gregor raised a hand, interrupting. "Enough. I don't need to know everything." He took a long breath, then looked at Albert seriously. "What you want—you want me to train you harder? Not for duels, but for survival?"
Albert nodded.
Gregor was silent, contemplating. Then he smiled slightly—a smile he rarely showed. "Listen, Young Lord. I'm old. My leg aches when it's about to rain. But if you're willing to work hard, I can still teach you a few things. Things that aren't in your books."
"What things, Sir?"
"How to survive if you're surrounded. How to run if you're beaten. How to use anything as a weapon—not just a sword." Gregor stared at him. "But none of it will be pleasant. It'll hurt more than what you've felt so far."
Albert stared back. Without hesitation. "I'm ready, Sir."
Gregor nodded. "Good. We start tomorrow. Now rest. You look like death warmed over."
Albert smiled slightly—the first time Gregor had seen him genuinely smile. "Thank you, Sir Gregor."
"Don't thank me yet." Gregor stood, rubbing his aching knee. "You'll find out what real training means soon enough."
That night, Albert didn't stand by the window.
He sat at his desk, a candle burning. Before him lay a rough map of Götthain, drawn by his own hand. He marked the hills, the hidden paths, the water sources.
His mind drifted—not to the moon, but to the future. He missed his former parents. That longing still existed, like a stone at the bottom of his heart. But here, now, there were new parents who might suffer. There were people who would starve because of taxes. And there was himself—once again feeling the shadow of war approaching.
He had never seen peace last long. His first life had taught him that, and his second life only confirmed it.
Albert closed his eyes, listening to the chime of the castle tower clock. Each chime was a precious second. He would use them. He would become strong, intelligent, and prepared.
Not for glory. Not for power.
But for one simple thing that had been taken from him—twice, in two lives.
Choice.
This time, when death came calling, he would face it with open eyes.
And perhaps, just perhaps, he would have the chance to answer.