School was always dull for me. I was a loner, the type who avoided crowds, social events, and group hangouts. I didn't hate people—I just didn't need them. Instead, I found comfort in what I loved: gaming and reading manga.
My parents would gaze at me seriously and say:
"You need to make friends, Uriel. Life's about the connections and memories you build along the way."
But they didn't understand. I already had all the memories I needed—right inside my palms. I had 150 save files on Magi Duel, my favorite game. Every friend, rival, triumph, and defeat lived inside that little screen. My world was digital, safe.
Yet, in reality, I had more than most. I came from a stable home with enough money to support my hobbies. My body was strong—people said I looked like I could model, and I excelled at every sport I tried (though those had always been my parents' idea of "helping me make friends"). Still, none of that mattered to me. I had everything I needed, and to me, connection meant nothing if it wasn't digital.
And then… one night turned everything upside down.
The day had been unremarkable—just me, walking home through Farlow's back alleys, scene after scene of cracked pavement and flickering lampposts. My eyes were glued to the screen of my phone—even as sirens wailed faintly in the distance. I was in the middle of a huge combo: "Double combo! Triple combo!"
"Just one more level to Supreme Mage," I whispered to myself.
My fingers moved faster and faster across the screen. I was nearly there—so close I could taste it.
"Come one… ALMOST—"
Click!
The sound was sharp, like a snapped twig. I looked up.
And froze.
Because I was staring directly down the barrel of a gun.
That was it. My instincts took over. I turned and ran.
Bang!
A fierce explosion of pain struck my chest. My legs buckled. My head spun. I fell to my knees, seeing stars.
"Help…!" I coughed, blood filling my mouth. A pool of hot red spread beneath me. "Help me…"
I reached out in panic. Tears blurred my vision.
Then I felt the cold barrel of the gun press against my temple.
Bang…
Everything went black.
I woke with a scream.
But it wasn't mine—or at least, not the same voice.
It was a baby's cry—high-pitched, desperate, all over the place.
My heart hammered. I looked down.
My hands—tiny, chubby, and oblivious—kicked through soft blanket. I snapped back. I was a baby.
An unfamiliar face hovered above me. Bright eyes traced my every move. Her lips curved into a warm, relieved smile.
"Shh… It's okay, Helios. Mummy's here," she murmured.
She scooped me gently and cradled me close. My ears filled with her quiet humming, the soft rustle of fabric, the rhythmic beating of her heart. Panic faded. Warmth crept through me, whispering that I was safe. Sleep followed like a tide.
But just before I let go, I realized it:
I had died.
And now, I was born again.
I'm not sure how much time passed. Weeks? Months? I barely remember the early days. But eventually, I learned.
This world is magical. Not in the "fantasy novel" sense—where magic is rare and mysterious. No, here, magic is everything.
It courses through the earth, floats in the air, and runs in the veins of every living creature. Children learn basic spells at a young age. Traders enchant their wares. Even farmers coax better crops with elemental touches.
My mother wielded flame magic. In our humble cottage, she used it to cook stews that smelled like autumn and pies that seemed to taste of sunshine. I remember the tiny sparks she'd play with as she kneaded dough—crackling like embers, dancing in her palm.
My father, on the other hand, was more hands-on. Spells for enchanting tools and crafting were his specialty. He invents gadgets—he calls one of his creations "Boomers." Basically fireworks with a magical twist. They're rare in this world, and every time he lights one, people gasp and cheer, awed by the colors and patterns. I loved how their faces lit up.
We were poor, though. Not starving, but always stretching our brazier for fuel, counting seeds, praying for rain. We were villagers—peasants scraping by.
Here, wealth comes through one of two paths:
Merchant – You buy low, sell high. Or so it sounds. The Merchant's Guild is powerful and greedy. They demand fees, take commissions, and often crush small traders.
High Mage – The rare, the chosen, the powerful. Nobles secure High Mage status through bloodline affinity. Others must prove themselves through exceptional skill: elemental control, ancient rituals, or arcane scholarship.
My parents? They dreamed I'd be great. Maybe a High Mage, or at least be well-off as a craftsman's son. Either way, they supported me fiercely—loving parents, who reminded me of the life I left behind.
But fate waits for no one. And normal days can flip in seconds.
I was nineteen when it happened.
It started like any other morning—the sun was pale, the breeze gentle, and the fields ripe with fruit and vegetables. My mother and I walked with the villagers, baskets slung over shoulders, filling our harvest.
Then the ground shook.
A deafening quake. Birds scattered. The earth trembled beneath our feet.
"Stampede!" a farmer shouted.
A herd of wilderbeasts—huge, horned brutes—came charging toward us, dust clouds swirling behind hooves.
Panic erupted. Men and women screamed, fleeing in all directions. My mother grabbed my wrist, pulling me out of the way.
The world blurred—screaming, dust, the smell of fear.
Then I heard it.
"Help… me…"
It sounded like a whisper—but strong enough to carry through the chaos.
I froze.
"Help… me…" the plea echoed again, desperate and gentle.
I scanned the field. Someone needed help.
That's when I saw her. A young girl, lying in the dirt. Tears stained her cheeks. She was paralyzed—or injured. She couldn't move. The beasts were nearly on top of her.
We were all running. Every single person. But something inside me twisted. Something called empathy. I saw myself—the day I died—lying helpless in the alley.
I had been her.
So I ran.
I pushed through frightened villagers, muscles burning. Time slowed and quickened all at once. My heartbeat roared in my ears.
I reached her, knelt, and gathered her into my arms.
"You're safe now," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I've got you."
But the herd was almost upon us.
In a final moment, I dared to turn. I knew I was doomed.
The wilderbeasts were less than ten meters away—eyes blazing, muscles rippling.
And then…
Time froze.
It happened so fast it felt like I could pinch myself.
Everything stopped: the wind, the beasts, the screams. The dust hung motionless.
And I heard a voice. Not through ears—directly in my mind.
"I bless you, kind soul."
Soft. Brief. Final.
Then time snapped back.
The first thing I felt was raw, electric power coursing through me. My hands tingled. My heart raced. Mana—pure, wild magic—flowed into me and around me. Breath drawn, eyes wider than ever.
I raised my shaking hand. I didn't even know what I'd do.
Then light exploded.
Bright as a sun-blast. Brilliant white that turned darker on the edges. It swallowed everything.
When I finally saw again, the beasts were gone—dust drifting, charred footprints in their wake. Only the girl remained, sleeping peacefully in my arms.
Silence.
My breath caught. Heart pounding. Limbs trembling with surging energy.
Then I heard her stir—and cry.
I knelt. I held her. I stared at my hands, still glowing softly.
It hit me:
This was only the beginning.
I stood there in the twilight, holding the girl who—just moments ago—should have been lost. I thought about my life before. How safe I felt behind my screen. How I believed I didn't need others.
Yet here I was: a loner who saved someone's life.
This was my first display of magic.