The first sound Kael heard wasn't his own wail, but a woman's sobbing. Distant, fragile, but real. Real enough to break through the haze that blanketed his newborn senses. There was warmth around him, the heavy weight of wool or cotton swaddling his small frame. The air was wet and smelled like blood and sweat and something earthy. Life. Fresh life. Rebirth.
He couldn't open his eyes at first. His lashes stuck together, his lids too heavy. His body refused to move, unfamiliar with itself. But within, deep in a place that should've been blank, memories stirred. Not fragments. Not fading dreams. Memories. Clear, terrifying, sacred.
A name echoed somewhere in his skull: Kael. Not Kaelan. Not son or boy. Kael. A killer. A wanderer. A war-forged soul.
A rush of sensation flooded his body. The feeling of gripping a blade, cold steel biting his palms. The explosion of magic through his veins. Screams that hadn't come from him but were caused by him. The thunder of a god's final breath.
He tried to breathe, and his chest spasmed. Air scraped at new lungs like wind tearing through thin paper. A wheeze escaped his lips, barely audible. Not a cry, not a wail. A gasp.
Then laughter.
"He's not even crying. Just staring," said a voice—deep, male, with warmth and humor tucked inside each word.
Another voice, softer. Female. Shaking. On the edge of disbelief. "He's… beautiful. Look at those eyes."
Kael blinked. Slowly. The room was dim, fire-lit. Shadows danced across wooden walls. He squinted upward, toward the sound. A face leaned close. A woman. Young, exhausted, cheeks flushed from strain. Her hair was plastered to her skin, dark with sweat. Her eyes shimmered.
She was crying, but her smile broke through all of it. And in that smile, Kael saw something he'd never been given in his last life.
Unquestioning, unconditional love.
Her fingers trembled as she touched his cheek. "My little Kaelan," she whispered.
Kaelan. A new name. A new body. A new world.
The man leaned into view next. Strong shoulders, stubble-lined jaw, eyes filled with awe. He looked down at Kael like he was holding a miracle.
"He's going to be sharp, this one. Doesn't even look confused."
Confused? No. But disoriented, yes. This wasn't just a new life; it was a cage. A body too small to contain the weight of who he used to be. Thoughts drifted like fog, sluggish and fragmented. He couldn't even focus his gaze for more than a few seconds.
His mind screamed for control. His limbs refused.
They thought he was just a baby. A blank page. But inside, Kael was a tome written in blood and fire.
And he remembered.
He remembered his final battle. The skies blackened with ash. The roars of dark angels as they fell from the heavens. The gods' shrieks as they were torn down from their thrones.
And one god, in its dying breath, whispering:
"You think you've won? You've only delayed the end."
Kael had died. But not completely. Something—someone—had pulled his soul out before the light swallowed it. And now he was here. Reborn. Reforged.
The world around him was wrong. The mana felt off. Quieter. Lighter. Untouched. There were no divine threads in the air. No pressure from unseen eyes watching from the skies. This place—wherever it was—was pure. Innocent.
He looked up at the woman again. Her smile had softened into a look of pure joy. She held him close to her chest, and he felt her heartbeat.
Steady. Fierce. Alive.
Kael's head lolled against her shoulder as exhaustion claimed him. Not from magic. Not from battle. From being born.
This world doesn't know war yet, he thought.
Let's keep it that way.
The days that followed were agonizing.
Not from pain, but from powerlessness. Kael had spent a lifetime mastering his body, commanding it with precision. Now, even lifting a finger was an insurmountable task. His nerves weren't ready. His muscles refused to obey.
Even his magic—or what remained of it—was dormant. He tried to draw mana. To trace the natural lines in the world. But all he felt was a whisper. A tickle. Like trying to remember the scent of fire.
He slept often. More than he wanted. But even in sleep, his mind worked. Remembering. Planning. Watching.
His parents were kind. Heartbreakingly so.
His mother, Lira, had a voice like water. Every night, she hummed lullabies Kael had never heard before. Songs about stars dancing with rivers. About trees older than time. Her voice wrapped around him like magic used to. Gentle. Steady. Healing.
His father, Dren, was broad and loud and endlessly patient. He told Kael stories about the village. About the forest beasts and the river fish and the local baker who burned bread every morning but smiled anyway.
There were no mentions of gods. No whispers of war or monsters. No angels. No realms.
It was a quiet life. Almost laughably so.
And Kael listened. To everything.
He memorized the names of neighbors, the layout of the village, the seasonal routines of farmers. He noted which birds sang before dawn, how the river changed pitch in the rain, and when the moon dipped below the hills.
Because this wouldn't last.
He knew it. The end wasn't gone. Only delayed.
And when it returned, Kael wouldn't face it as a helpless infant.
He would be ready.
Weeks passed.
Kael grew. Faster than he expected, though not unnaturally so. He learned to grasp, to focus his eyes, to recognize voices. His magic remained elusive, but his mind sharpened.
His mother spoke of festivals. Of harvests and blessings. She told him stories from her childhood—fishing in the western streams, sneaking berries from the village orchard, chasing butterflies with her brother.
Kael soaked it all in. It was foreign. So different from the blood-soaked fields and burning citadels of his past.
One night, as rain tapped against the cottage roof, Dren stood over Kael's cradle and whispered, "You know, I always wanted a son. Someone I could teach to carve, to track, to fight. But not for war. Just to be strong. Strong enough to protect those who can't."
He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Kael's forehead. "You'll be that boy. I know it."
Kael stared up at him.
Not a weapon. Not a god-slayer. Just… a boy.
The idea was strange. Beautiful. Painful.
But maybe, for a little while, he could live like that.
Just Kaelan. Just a son.
On the eve of his first season, something changed.
Lira had taken him outside to sit in the sun. The grass was soft. The sky a watercolor of fading blue. Birds chirped.
Then the air shifted.
Kael felt it. A ripple. A tear in the peace.
Not a threat. Not yet. But a sign.
He closed his eyes and reached out. Deeper this time. Not to pull magic, but to feel it.
It was faint, but there: a thread of mana. Ancient. Foreign. It wasn't from this world.
Something—or someone—had crossed into this realm. Just for a moment. A flicker.
Kael opened his eyes.
The war hadn't followed him. But it had found him again.
He had time. But not much.
He would grow. He would learn. He would train in silence and shadows if he had to.
Because when the gods returned—and they would—this time, he wouldn't be waiting to die.
This time, Kael would be ready to kill.