Author's Note
Before moving on to the next chapters, I genuinely recommend reading the prologue carefully. It isn't here just to "start the story"—it's where the protagonist's emotional foundation lives.
The prologue shows where he comes from, the kind of world that shaped him, and, most importantly, the kind of scars he carries inside. Without that context, some of his actions later on might seem cold, exaggerated, or even contradictory. With it in mind, you'll understand what's going on in his head—and why certain choices aren't just "unnecessary," but a direct consequence of who he is.
Chapter 1 – New Life
Lian was dead. Again.
And, to make it worse, he was starting to think this was becoming routine.
The void swallowed him from every side, as if he'd been thrown into an ocean with no water, no light, and no sound. There was no cold, no heat. No weight, no direction. Only the unsettling impression of still being, without having a place to exist.
He tried to speak, out of pure reflex.
Nothing.
No air, no throat, no tongue.
Only thought, floating in absolute silence.
"So this is the afterlife? Black screen and silence. What a beautiful load of crap," Lian thought, trying to cling to any scrap of humor so he wouldn't completely lose it in that absolute nothingness.
With no clock, no body, time there was a useless concept. It could've been a breath. It could've been centuries. The void didn't care.
Until something changed.
At first it was subtle: a distant pressure, like a finger pushing into the fabric of nothing. The sensation drew closer, took shape, turned into a discreet tug. Then, without warning, the force tightened—and dragged.
The absence around him began to spin. Not in a literal way; it was like his consciousness was being thrown into a centrifuge.
"No… enough already," he growled in thought, irritated and powerless, like someone trapped in a bad dream who can't wake up.
The impression of a body returned in the most unpleasant way possible. Bones, muscles, nerves—everything seemed to sprout at once, without coordination. He felt arms where he didn't know if arms existed. Legs sketching outlines. A spine being "remembered" by force.
Each part emerged as if it were being pulled out through a thorn: raw assembly pain spreading through an existence that didn't even have a definitive shape yet.
"This isn't reincarnation, it's a badly installed operating system," he mentally quipped, trying to turn his pain into a joke because it was the only defense mechanism he still had working.
In the middle of that chaotic reconstruction, something gleamed.
First a point. Then a crack of light.
The darkness began to split open into a smooth, intense tear, like someone had ripped reality from the inside out. Luminous threads stretched from it, coiling, connecting to what was left of Lian. Each thread that touched him made the feeling of "me" sharper.
The light wasn't just white. It flickered in tones his old human eyes wouldn't even have names for, like too many colors mixed at once. It pulsed, inviting and imposing at the same time.
The force pulling him converged toward that tear.
"First I die. Then my consciousness gets tossed into a war zone. What's next? A prehistoric world? Star Wars?" he grumbled inside, a mix of sarcasm and fear, feeling himself being dragged without any right to vote.
He tried to resist. Useless.
The world—whatever it was—chose for him.
The light swallowed him….
♦
The heat came first.
It wasn't the dry heat of hot asphalt, nor the suffocating heat of a stifling room. It was damp, too close, wrapping him from every side. The air was heavy, saturated with smells.
Blood.
Sweat.
Something bittersweet, warm, organic.
Sounds arrived right after, as if someone were slowly turning up a volume knob. First a distant hum. Then fragmented echoes. Finally, voices: one older, rough, firm; another younger, trembling and laced with pain.
He tried to open his eyes.
It was like trying to lift stone lids with jelly muscles. Still, he managed: his vision came in blurred flashes. The light trembled in orange tones. Shadows crossed his field of view. A face leaned in.
Before anything else, he noticed the sense of weight.
Different from the other times, this was far too light. His body felt smaller, his center of gravity low, his movements limited.
He tried to raise an arm. What moved was a stubby, soft, clumsy little limb, floating for a few centimeters before giving up and dropping.
"…No. Wait. Small body. Wet-chicken movement… don't tell me—" he thought, a cold rush of denial crawling up a spine he'd barely gotten back.
A figure filled almost his entire view.
An old woman.
Wrinkles ran down her face like maps of a life that had lasted too long. Her hair was tied in a low, messy bun, gray strands slipping free at the sides. Her eyes, though, were vivid—bright and alert, with that shine of someone who's seen everything and has no patience left for drama.
The hands holding him were far too big for his tiny body. Rough palms, thick fingers, full of calluses and bulging veins. The way she supported him—one hand under his neck, the other under his back—was steady. Professional.
She tilted her head to focus on his face, narrowing her eyes.
— "…Lia, he's here." — she murmured in a language he didn't recognize, low and tired but firm.
Beside her, on a wide straw bed, a woman panted. Her shoulders rose and fell in uneven rhythm. Her hair stuck to her sweaty forehead, and her pale face looked like it had lost half its color in the last few hours.
She turned toward the baby in the old woman's arms, forcing her heavy eyes to stay open.
— "My baby…" — her voice cracked, rough. — "He… he's alive, Yana?"
The old woman—Yana, then—breathed out through her nose like someone who'd been carrying a weight along with the room.
She lifted the baby a bit, bringing him closer to the oil lamp hanging from a crooked nail. The wavering flame carved long shadows into her face.
— "You got lucky, Lia." — she said, eyes scanning the newborn's features. — "The child survived. I'd call it almost a miracle."
"A miracle is me still putting up with this without having a meltdown out loud," Lian thought, trying to reorganize the situation.
Yana adjusted her grip, fitting one hand more snugly beneath his neck. Then she pressed her thumb gently to the center of his tiny chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing with cold precision.
Her other arm supported his back, keeping him from slipping.
Lian felt the old skin against his newly made body—warm, dry, steady.
The midwife brought the fingers of her free hand together over his chest, like closing a shell, and murmured something softly:
— "Purificatio totalis."
He didn't need to understand the language to feel the weight of it.
The effect was instant.
A different kind of warmth bloomed from her palm. Not the damp heat of the room, not physical body heat. This one was gentle, alive, expanding from the point of contact to every last centimeter of his tiny body.
Lian felt as if some thick, sticky layer were stripped away in one swoop. The viscous discomfort vanished. The clammy chill gave way to something dry and light. A physical unease he'd barely noticed was erased without ceremony.
In seconds, he was clean, dry, smelling like nothing—like he'd been freshly bathed.
"Magic. That was magic!? Okay… that's something I didn't expect even in my best dreams," he thought, fascinated and annoyed at the same time, like someone watching an absurd trick used just to clean dirt.
On the bed, Lia tried to lift herself a little, clutching the sheet with trembling fingers.
— "But he… he isn't crying." — her voice rose, nervous. — "Is that normal? None of my other children were like this. They all cried from the first second."
Yana's mouth twitched impatiently, as if she wanted to say "one thing at a time." She leaned the baby closer, pressed her ear to his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Her face grew more serious.
— "It isn't common, no." — she admitted, stepping back and studying Lian's face with renewed focus. — "But he's breathing. His heart is steady. Let's check something else."
She extended her arms toward Lia again.
— "Hand him to me once more."
Lia lifted him carefully, as if terrified she might break him, and passed him back. The husband beside the bed leaned forward, watching every movement with his hands clenched on his knees, fingers crushing the fabric of his pants.
Yana turned her back to the couple, settling the baby into a more "working" position—one hand under his back, the other holding his legs.
She stretched her neck, inhaled, murmured another sequence of difficult words, then said clearly:
— "Manus invisibilis."
Lian felt the automatic warning of instinct shoot through his brain a millisecond before the spell hit.
"This isn't going to end wel—" he thought, pure reflex panic, not even finishing the complaint before—
An invisible pinch nailed the most sensitive part of his freshly built body. There was no hand, no tool, nothing he could see—only a precise pressure, cruelly surgical.
His reaction was instant.
"HEY, YOU CRAZY OLD WOMAN! GET YOUR HAND OFF MY PRECIOUS BALLS!" he screamed in thought, humiliated and furious, while his tiny body answered with a shrill, incoherent cry.
In practice, what came out was a clumsy wail, sharp and breathless.
His whole tiny body stiffened for a heartbeat, then slackened. And then came another too-familiar sensation: pressure rising in his belly, dropping through his gut, demanding an exit.
"Alright. You started this. Now deal with the consequence," he decided with petty satisfaction, accepting the physiological impulse like a planned counterattack.
He didn't hold it. Didn't fight it. He leaned into the inevitability with the most infantile vengeance possible.
A warm wave released with insulting efficiency, exploding across the midwife's dress. First the jet of urine, blotting the fabric dark. Then the solid follow-up, adding texture and humiliation to the mix in a perfectly shameful composition.
Yana froze, baby in her arms.
She lowered her gaze slowly, staring at the damage. The cloth that had been spotless a moment ago now wore an aggressive stain dead center.
The midwife took a deep breath, nostrils flaring.
Her shoulders sank a few millimeters.
— "…I must've pissed off some god today." — she grumbled, eyebrow arching. — "A baby who doesn't cry but has good aim. This is what I get for insisting on this job."
"Pinch my balls again, you old demon. Next time I'm aiming for your face," Lian thought, smug behind the innocent newborn expression.
She set her jaw, as if swallowing a small but memorable defeat. Then she closed her eyes for a second, brought her hands together again—one still holding him, the other hovering over her dress.
— "Purificatio totalis."
The same living warmth ran through Lian, then through the soaked cloth. In a blink, the dress was flawless again. The stench vanished like it had never existed.
She sighed for the third time.
— "There." — she murmured, exhaustion plain. — "Better this way. Here you go, Lia."
With renewed care, she brought the baby closer to the mother. — "Take your little miracle. For someone who just got born, this brat has a lot of personality."
Lia reached out—less steady than she wanted, but determined. Her trembling fingers wrapped around the tiny body, pulling him to her chest. The wrinkled sheet brushed his delicate skin.
She held him with the tenderness of someone cradling something too rare to drop.
Her eyes brimmed with fresh tears—not pain, but a relief so deep it almost hurt.
— "My boy…" — she whispered, touching her nose to his forehead, breathing in as if to memorize his scent. — "My little…"
She paused, like she was choosing her next words with exaggerated care.
— "Christian."
The name settled on him like a fresh tag.
"Christian, huh?" he repeated mentally, testing the sound like clothing he didn't know yet if it fit.
— "Christian Raymond." — she finished, smiling crookedly, full of tenderness. — "That will be your name."
♦
As he lay in his new mother's arms, the details around him began to make more sense.
The room was small, almost square. Wooden walls were threaded with thin cracks, and whatever varnish they'd once had was long gone. The low ceiling put the oil lamp, hanging from a bent nail, almost level with a human's line of sight.
The flame danced nervously inside its glass cup, casting long shadows that moved to the fire's rhythm.
The floor was packed earth, uneven—some parts smoothed hard by use, others covered with coarse, worn rugs. A wooden bench shoved into a corner held a basin of water and a bundle of rolled cloths.
No wires. No modern metal. No devices.
"Zero technology. Light by fire, dirt floor, straw bed… looks like I walked out of the modern world and fell straight into a hole at the end of everything. At least there's something interesting here," Lian assessed, cataloging the scene like someone opening a new game map and mentally marking the first points of interest.
Besides Lia and Yana, there were more people in the room.
The man who'd been watching closely finally moved. He stepped forward, leather boots dragging softly over the dirt. Broad shoulders, strong arms, a wide chest under a thick shirt darkened with sweat near the neck.
His eyes were wet, almost shy about existing. His huge hands twisted together, nervous, like they didn't know where to go.
He leaned over the bed, bracing one hand on the straw mattress to steady himself.
— "You gave us a scare, little guy." — he said, voice deep but softened by a genuine smile. The corners of his eyes wrinkled when he smiled. — "Look at him, Lia…"
He reached out a thick finger and brushed Christian's cheek delicately, taking almost exaggerated care. — "He's my spitting image. When the boys come back from the hunt, they'll lose their minds. Another Raymond."
"Someone tell him that if he doesn't get that hand off me right now I'm biting that finger off," Lian thought, annoyed and a little embarrassed, the huge touch on his tiny face hammering home how vulnerable he was.
Christian reflexively tried to turn away from that giant finger. His tiny neck managed only a clumsy sideways wiggle—but it was enough to pull a low chuckle from the man.
On the other side of the bed, a little girl stepped closer in short, anxious strides. Her bare feet kicked up small puffs of dust.
She gripped her dress hem with both hands, like she was afraid the fabric might block her view. Huge eyes made her face look even smaller.
— "Mom! Can I hold him? Please?" — she begged, leaning toward Lia, almost climbing onto the bed.
Lia laughed, weak but sweet. She lifted a hand and gently stroked the girl's hair.
— "Not now, Lyra." — she said, slowly shaking her head. — "He's still very small. More fragile than a newborn flower. When I'm stronger, you can hold him. I promise."
Lyra pouted instantly, shoulders drooping for a second. But then she bounced back, standing on tiptoe to peer at her brother more closely.
Her eyes sparkled with that raw curiosity kids get when something new suddenly becomes "theirs."
"Looks like her daughter—she looks a lot like Lia. Damn… if she's anything like Bia was as a kid…", he concluded, already imagining himself dressed in strange clothes and carried around the house like a living toy.
Farther back, near the door, another girl finished folding the last blood-stained cloth. She carried the bundle to a bucket in the corner, walking carefully so she wouldn't trip.
Her face was more serious. Her features resembled Lia's a little, but with a sharper chin and narrower eyes. Her expression was focused—used to seeing things most children didn't.
She dropped the cloths in with a decisive motion, wiped her hands on her skirt, and flicked a quick look at the baby, sizing him up top to bottom.
— "He's smaller than Lyra was when she was born." — she remarked, arms crossing, her tone mixing observation with mild criticism. — "He'll be work."
The father turned to her with a crooked smile.
— "Lilia, you say that about everything." — he shot back, half amused, half proud. — "But you're the one who held this house together when your mother was bedridden. You'll handle this one too."
Lilia raised an eyebrow, glanced at her mother, her father, and finally the baby. The corner of her mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
— "Someone has to." — she shrugged, then grabbed the bucket and dragged it away with both hands, metal scraping the ground.
Lia, oblivious to the exchange, adjusted her son higher against her. She leaned back into the worn pillows. Her chest rose and fell more evenly now, but the exhaustion lingered: dark circles, slumped shoulders, muscles relaxing by force.
She kept one hand cupped behind his neck, as if afraid she might let go and he'd vanish.
For the first time in many lives, Lian felt his body react to that touch in a way that surprised him.
It wasn't just physical. There was something in the way her fingers—warm, trembling with exhaustion but steady—pressed lightly into his delicate skin that slipped straight past any mental defenses he'd built.
"So… this is that maternal love people talk about?" he asked himself, curious and wary, like someone touching a spot that's too warm and not knowing if it's a trap or shelter.
"This is weird. But it's… good," he admitted internally, feeling some hardened part of him loosen a little against his will.
His head tipped gently to the side, resting against her chest. The steady rhythm of Lia's heartbeat filled his inner silence, creating an organic, hypnotic soundtrack.
At his side, the father pulled a wooden stool closer and sat down, knees cracking. He rested elbows on his thighs, fingers laced, watching in silence for a few seconds.
Then he reached out and swept Lia's sweat-stuck hair back from her forehead. The touch was careful, almost reverent.
— "You were brave, Lia." — he murmured, as if he didn't want to wake the baby. — "I… thought I was going to lose both of you for a moment."
She closed her eyes for a second, breathing deeply at the gesture. When she opened them, she met his gaze and smiled, tired.
— "He survived." — she said, looking back at the small face tucked in her arms. — "And he's here, with us. That… is more than I expected."
"First life, I was a nobody. The second was short… and I became disposable war ammo. Third… apparently I'm a miracle." he thought, dry humor flickering through the fatigue.
For the first time in three lives, Lian—now Christian Raymond—fell asleep believing, even faintly, that living might be better than dying.