Warmth.
That was the first thing Seojun felt. Not the heat of battle or the taste of blood — just warmth. Gentle, safe, human.
He tried to move, but his body wouldn't obey. His limbs were small, soft, unfamiliar. The air around him smelled sweet — milk, fabric, skin. A woman's voice trembled above him, thick with tears and joy.
"It's a boy," someone said. "A healthy baby boy."
A baby?
It took him a moment to realize. Me?
The light around him was soft, golden. He could barely open his eyes, but when he did, he saw her — a young woman with dark hair sticking to her forehead, cheeks wet from crying, smiling as though the world had finally given her something precious.
"My little Seojun," she whispered.
The name made his chest ache. He had heard it before — it was his name, but this time, it wasn't the name of a hunter, or a weapon, or a hero. It was simply… a son.
He began to cry, not from pain, but from relief.
The days passed slowly.
He couldn't move much, couldn't speak, couldn't even hold his head steady — but he could feel. The way his mother's arms swayed when she carried him. The way his father's rough fingers brushed his tiny hands—the warmth of their laughter, the gentle rhythm of ordinary life.
It was everything he had never had before.
In his past life, he'd known the roar of monsters, the clash of steel, the loneliness of power. Now, the only sound was the soft hum of his mother as she rocked him to sleep.
Sometimes, when he dreamed, he saw flashes of that other world — fire, blood, the faces of comrades long gone. But when he woke, there was only sunlight streaming through the window and the smell of fresh bread baking.
And slowly, he began to forget.
One afternoon, as the light poured through the curtains, Seojun tried to reach for it. His tiny fingers grasped at nothing, trembling from the effort. He laughed — or maybe gurgled — the sound small but full of life.
There was no mana flowing through him. No aura, no echo of strength. His body was ordinary. Fragile. Weak.
And yet… it felt right.
He didn't need power anymore. The silence inside him wasn't emptiness — it was peace.
When his mother leaned over the crib, smiling softly, he reached up and touched her face. His fingers barely brushed her cheek, but she gasped, eyes shining.
"You're so warm," she whispered. "My little miracle."
Her words wrapped around him like a spell far stronger than any he had ever known.
At night, when the world grew quiet, Seojun would lie awake in his crib, eyes wide, listening to the sounds of life around him — his father snoring in the next room, the creak of the old wooden floor, the whisper of the wind against the window.
So this is normal life…
He didn't know the reason behind his rebirth or what awaited him, but for now, he didn't want anything else.
He didn't want battles, fame, or power.
Just peace.
And as his eyelids grew heavy, he made a silent promise — that this time, he would live happily, grow healthy, love deeply, and protect his peace.