Chapter 1: "The Awakening of a Reincarnator"
The rain pattered softly against the grimy windowpane, a gray drizzle that seemed to mirror the monotony of Arthur's life. From the corner of the small apartment, nine-year-old Arthur sat curled over a worn notebook, scribbling idle sketches and notes he barely understood. The world outside was cruel, harsh, and indifferent. His parents had died in a car crash when he was nine, leaving him alone in a city that had no patience for the weak. He had learned quickly that kindness was a luxury few could afford, that survival required more than talent—it required cunning, tenacity, and a little luck, none of which had ever smiled on him.
At school, he was just another background character, the quiet boy no one noticed. He wore ill-fitting uniforms, his shoes scuffed, his red hair unkempt, and his stomach was often empty. Yet in this dim, cluttered apartment, a sanctuary existed—a single window to another world. On a cracked table lay a book, the cover worn but somehow enchanting: Wake of a Hero. It was the most famous light novel of the decade, adored by millions, a tale of courage, betrayal, and destiny. Arthur had discovered it in the dusty corner of a secondhand bookstore and, from the first page, had been captivated.
He loved the novel not for its spectacle or fame, but because it reflected something he yearned for: a life beyond insignificance. Every word, every battle, every strategy the protagonist employed ignited in him a spark—a longing for greatness, a chance to be remembered. While the world ignored him, the hero of Wake of a Hero was acknowledged, revered, feared. Arthur would spend hours reading the adventures, analyzing every tactical move, dreaming of a day when he could step beyond the shadows of his miserable life.
That day, however, would never come in this world.
The sound of tires screeching shattered the quiet. Arthur barely had time to react. A truck hurtled down the rain-slick street, its driver distracted, the headlights glaring. One step. A scream. The world twisted. Pain, then nothing.
Arthur opened his eyes again, but the world was different. The sky was sharper, the air charged with a strange energy he could feel thrumming through his veins. He was no longer nine, no longer the scrawny, powerless boy ignored by everyone. He was in a different body, different life, in a world he had only read about in Wake of a Hero.
It took time to adjust. Names, faces, customs—they were alien. The first family he knew was minor among the ten Primordial Families, the legendary bloodlines whose names were whispered with awe and fear across the continent. The family was small, their estate modest, their expectations high. And Arthur, despite being born into it, was far from their standard.
At first, he was weak. Magic—Primordial Affinity—was everywhere, flowing in everyone like blood, yet controlling it required finesse, and Arthur had none. While his peers summoned flaming swords, shields of crystalized mana, or constructs shaped like dragons, he struggled to form a simple blade. Training sessions left him bruised, humiliated, and, most of all, impatient. Why was he still so weak? he thought, heart heavy with frustration.
But Arthur had learned from another world. Strategy, patience, adaptability, he reminded himself, recalling every lesson, every plan the heroes of Wake of a Hero had used to survive against impossible odds. Slowly, painfully, he grew stronger. Small victories came first—a blade that held its shape for more than a few seconds, a shield that could deflect a basic strike. Gradually, he learned to manipulate Primordial Affinity, bending the raw mana around him, combining Creation, Destruction, and Life into crude, yet effective, techniques.
Yet no matter how strong he became, it was never enough.
The minor family was ruthless. Standards were merciless. Those weaker were not nurtured—they were discarded. And the higher-ups, the supposed mentors, looked at Arthur with impatience, disappointment, even contempt. They could not understand that this boy, born of another world, had knowledge beyond their own, but lacked the physical prowess or recognition to match it.
One day, during a routine raid against a low-level enemy encampment, it happened. Arthur had been prepared, had studied every scenario, yet even his intelligence could not protect him from betrayal. Those he had trusted—the family members who smiled, who joked, who promised camaraderie—turned against him mid-battle. Blades struck his back, spells unleashed with cruel precision. He had grown, yes, but not to the level they demanded.
As he fell to the cold ground, mana flickering weakly in his veins, he realized the truth: in this world, knowledge alone could not save you. Strength alone was not enough. Survival required more. And when the light faded from his eyes, he swore a promise—a vow that would shape the rest of his existence.
Arthur woke again.
This time, it was different. He could feel it in his bones, in the very air around him. The Ashborne family estate sprawled before him, immense and imposing. This was no minor family. Here, he would have the resources, the heritage, and the opportunities to rise. But he also knew the debt he carried. His previous life, his first reincarnation, the betrayal—it all weighed heavily in his mind.
He flexed his fingers and felt the flow of raw, untamed Primordial Affinity thrumming through him. It was stronger, clearer, and yet demanding. He was no longer weak, but the world did not reward potential—it demanded results. Every move, every thought, every battle had consequences. And the first person on his list was already clear: the betrayers who had sent him to death.
The Ashborne estate was as imposing as its name suggested. Marble columns lined the courtyards, and statues of ancestors, eyes carved with uncanny sharpness, seemed to watch every visitor. The air was thick with mana, humming with latent power from every corner. Arthur could feel it all, his awareness stretching instinctively, identifying flows of energy, possible threats, and opportunities.
This time, he thought, I will not fail. I will not be betrayed. And when I am ready, they will pay.
His first steps in Ashborne were cautious. He trained with unmatched discipline, learning not only to master his Primordial Affinity but to understand the politics, the hierarchies, the subtle manipulations that ruled every family gathering. Every slight, every insult, every challenge became a lesson. Arthur Ashborne, the reincarnator, would not just survive this world—he would reshape it.
And as he stared at the sky from the highest tower of the estate, golden sunlight glinting off the distant mountains, a faint pulse stirred deep within his chest. It was a whisper, almost a memory, a prophecy almost forgotten.
"A human who has reincarnated a hundred times will come and shall doom the gods and become a Primordial God, saving the world."
Arthur's lips curved into a small, determined smile.
Then let the world watch. I will not merely survive—I will become legend.