Consciousness emerged from the depths of darkness, wrapping Kaelen's body like a sheet of ice.
The cold seeped not just into his skin, but into the very shores of his soul. His mind floated as if adrift in a shattered haze. Thoughts flickered like beams of light slipping through fragmented memories, leaving behind no reality to grasp, no certainty to cling to.
It was like waking from a dream, only for its threads to slip through his fingers.
The first thing he noticed was the trembling of his breath. His lungs tightened, each inhale driving a knife into his chest. Breathing in his old body had been like weathering a storm—powerful, deep, commanding. Now, his lungs were constricted, his airways narrowed. As if trapped in a child's body.
He opened his eyes.
At first, nothing. Just a blur of gray. Then, blinking hard, his vision adjusted. A dim light illuminated a wooden ceiling, cracked and worn. Dampness seeped through the planks, thickening the already suffocating air.
When Kaelen turned his head, he saw a rusted nail jutting from the wall. Faded scraps of cloth dangled from it.
"A cell?" he wondered. But the broken cup and books on the small table beside the bed whispered that this was a home—or what remained of one. The cabinet door hung loose, its contents spilling out, books staring back at him.
Slowly, he raised his hands. Thin, delicate fingers. The callouses from gripping a sword, the hardened skin—all gone. These hands had never known dirt, only ink. He touched his face. His forehead was smooth. The scars, the creases of a hardened expression—all erased.
"No."
Panic struck his chest like a fist. His heart hammered as if trying to break free. He tried to lunge from the bed, but his legs trembled like thread. He collapsed to his knees, gasping. Dust coated his tongue. He coughed—the metallic tang of blood lingered.
Blood?
He wiped his mouth. His fingers were clean. No red. But that sharp, iron taste… Something stirred in his memory.
I was in battle.
I was wielding my flames.
The sky-rending screams. The demon's dark smile.
"Is this all, human? You've fallen short of my expectations."
That's what the demon had said.
Kaelen remembered his final strike. He had poured all his essence, his very being, into that inferno. The relief he felt as his body shattered—the cold embrace of death.
But now…
He was breathing.
What kind of madness is this?
He clutched his face. He wanted to tear at his hair, but it was short—black, silken, belonging to a young boy.
Whose body is this?
Something squirmed inside him.
As if he had been forced into another's skin.
A mirror.
There must be a mirror.
He pushed himself up, gripping the wall. Each step should have been heavy, like a giant's, but now he staggered like a child. In the corner stood a mirror, its frame worm-eaten, its glass cracked and clouded. Kaelen stood before it.
And saw.
His own reflection—from fifteen years ago.
Jet-black hair, strands falling over his forehead. Pale, almost translucent skin. The sharp angles of his jaw replaced by soft, boyish roundness. None of the old scars. Worse—he was thin, frail, bones visible from malnourishment.
And his eyes…
Red. Crimson. Like drawn in blood. Within them, the dying embers of a fading fire.
"Damn it! This… is my youth."
He flinched at the sound of his own voice—high, fragile. A child's. His fist jerked toward the mirror but stopped. The glass might shatter, but so might this body's hand. Helplessness tightened around his throat.
"What kind of sorcery is this?"
Kaelen questioned himself.
No, this is impossible, he told himself. No spell could have touched him in his final moments.
"My mana core. Where is it?"
He closed his eyes. Once, he had felt a volcano churning within him. Now—emptiness. A void, cold and endless. He searched deeper.
There was something—faint, weak. Like the first spark of coal catching flame.
No. This…
Kaelen staggered at the level of his mana core. He was back at the beginning. Not even a Level 1 mage.
He gritted his teeth, clenching his fists hard enough to pierce his palms.
"Did I… go back? Am I my weak, past self again?"
He searched for anything—a clue about his situation, where he was.
He just… needed to be sure.
His hands moved to the books on the table, then to the pockets of his clothes. He had to find something—a shred of hope. He needed this to be real. Desperately.
Mana Training Books. First-Level Mana Manipulation. Mana Beasts. The Lost Heroes.
Dinnn. Dinnn.
A sharp chime echoed in the room, followed by another.
The morning's shrill sound stabbed into Kaelen's mind like a blade.
Dark thoughts swirled, pulling him into a vortex. Time and space blurred as the shadows of the past weighed down on him.
But that sound…
It was what dragged him back from the suffocating depths.
His breath was ragged. Chest rising and falling, he reached under the pillow with a sweat-slicked hand. Cold, rough metal met his fingers. He gripped the old-model phone tightly.
This phone was a relic, an antique by Kaelen's standards. Fifteen years… A full fifteen years had passed. The world was not as he left it. Technology had advanced, cities had risen, wars had been fought and ended. Though mana beasts still plagued humanity, people had always found a way to evolve.
The dim glow of the screen lit his pale face.
His eyes flicked to the message notification, struggling to focus on the name.
"Prof. Alfia Hall."
His eyes narrowed slightly. A reel of memories spun in his mind—people he once knew, things he had lost.
He frowned, quickly reading the message.
"Entrance exam is today—don't forget! If you're late, you'll wish for death."
Kaelen's grip tightened. His nails dug into his palms.
Then…
A tremor started at his fingertips, spreading up his arm.
"Pffft. Still the same as ever."
That was exactly the kind of thing Ms. Alfia would say—harsh, threatening, yet oddly warm beneath it all.
A faint smile touched his lips. But beneath it lay years of exhaustion, regret, and broken dreams.
"Can I fix everything?"
The question burned in his mind.
A sharp pain lanced through his chest. The air in his lungs felt insufficient. He was suffocating.
He wanted to scream.
To roar. To slam his fists into the walls until they broke.
But…
This body…
Was weak. Fragile. A brittle shell.
Not even a shadow of the power he once held remained. All that was left were the cold ashes of extinguished flames.
The savage cry that should have torn from his throat came out as a choked whimper.
His chest heaved as he slid down the wall, knees pulling to his chest. Fingers tangled in his hair, forehead pressed to his knees. A silent battle.
It took minutes to steady himself.
A deep breath.
Then—a decision. He slapped himself twice, hard.
The sting burned, but it was real—far more real than the hollow dread in his mind.
He lifted his head, meeting his reflection in the mirror.
The face staring back was one he barely recognized.
Young. Scrawny. Weak.
But his eyes—those crimson eyes—still burned.
Deep within, a spark remained.
That was his hope.
Kaelen whispered to his reflection:
"I… have returned."
His voice was weak, barely audible.
But…
It was real.
And that truth reignited a fire in his heart.
"I… have returned."
This time, firmer.
And in that moment, the embers inside him began to burn again.