My name is Andrew, well, at least I know it was. Apparently I am now Gavreel.
That's the first thing that comes to mind.
I'm lying on my back.
Above me is a stone ceiling with dark wooden beams. A chandelier hangs there, lit by candles. No bulbs. No wires. The light is warm and steady.
I try to move.
A small hand rises into view. Pale. Soft. The fingers open and close without much control. I stare at it for a second, then do it again.
That's my hand.
I try to talk.
"Agu…bu..ah…"
That's not a word.
I try again. Same result. Just sounds. My mouth moves, but nothing I mean to say comes out.
I'm in a cradle.
Polished wood. Clean fabric. It rocks slightly when I move. The room around it is big—stone walls, thick carpets, heavy furniture. Everything looks old, but expensive. Maintained. Like the noble houses from the novels and manhwas I used to read.
This isn't Earth.
I don't say anything out loud. I can't. I just lie there, looking around, putting things together.
A memory comes up.
A woman leaning over me. Long hair. A calm voice. She says a name I don't recognize at first, but somehow know is mine.
"Gavreel."
The memory slips away.
I came out of my reverie, staring at the ceiling, my small hands resting beside me.
I'm almost certain that woman was my mother.
"He's right here, Father!"
"Calm down, Celine."
"How can I calm down? There's clearly something wrong with him!"
"If there were, he wouldn't look this healthy."
"Exactly, Mel. He looks fine now. But what if it's a disease? Just because he's fine today doesn't mean he will be tomorrow."
Their voices bounce around the room.
I lie in my cradle and stare upward, listening.
These two loud people are my parents. Melron Peroth and Celine Olympus-Peroth. I piece that together from what they say. Melron rules these lands as a Count. Celine used to belong to the church. That part explains her panic.
They're arguing because I'm not breathing.
I'm not exaggerating.
I'm not breathing at all.
My chest doesn't rise. No air moves in or out. It's been like this since I was born. A week ago. I'm not even two weeks old yet.
By any normal rule, I should be dead.
But I feel fine.
More than fine. My body feels steady. My head feels clear. I don't feel short of breath. I don't feel pain. I don't feel anything wrong at all.
On Earth, babies cry so they can breathe. That's how it works. Cry, inhale, survive. If they don't cry, they don't start breathing.
That's basic physiology.
And yet here I am, awake, calm, and not breathing.
Something in the air feeds me. It's not oxygen. Something else. I can't name it, but my skin reacts to it. My body absorbs it without effort, like it was made for this.
"Interesting," an old man says. "The boy isn't breathing, yet his body is functioning perfectly. In fact, he's very healthy. Hoho."
"R-Really, Father-in-law?" my father says.
His voice sounds calm, but I can hear the worry underneath. This is his first child.
"But how is that possible?" my mother asks, her voice easing just a little.
The old man is Verion Olympus. I know that somehow. My mother's father. A Sage.
In this world, magic exists. Anyone who can gather and use mana is called a mage. A Sage is something more—a master of magic, theory, and application.
On Earth, he'd be a professor.
Here, that also makes him a doctor.
Mana can be used to examine the body directly. Any mage can do it at a basic level. A Sage can see far deeper.
This man can probably see everything happening inside me.
Moonlight Academy.
An unfamiliar term comes to mind. The most prestigious academy in the world. Magic. Swordsmanship. Martial arts. Alchemy. Medicine, and everything else.
The thought excites me.
Then I pause.
Why do I know that?
I've never heard of this place before. Not consciously. And yet the knowledge feels like it's flooding in, like it's always been there.
Is it this body's memory?
That doesn't make sense. I didn't take over someone else's life. I was born into this one. I remember the white nothing before this. I remember dying.
This is reincarnation.
So why do I already know these things?
"It seems the child's body is being nourished by the mana in the air," Verion says.
He pauses.
"No… that's not quite right. His body is circulating mana."
The room goes quiet.
"…It's manipulating mana?"
Neither of my parents speak.
"B-But how?" my father finally asks.
"To manipulate mana safely, one must reach a certain age, at least when their blood vessels fully develop." my mother says quickly. "The body can't withstand mana flowing through undeveloped meridians. He isn't even a week old!"
"Not necessarily," Verion replies. "When a mage reaches a high enough understanding, mana can be manipulated freely without damaging the body."
"But he's just a baby," she says. "That's impossible. Unless—"
"My grandchild is a monstrous talent," Verion interrupts. "His body naturally allows mana manipulation without deviation. This child will become a great powerhouse. Perhaps even claim the title of strongest. Hahahaha!"
"Don't be ridiculous," my mother snaps. "My child will become a saint. He will bring hope to the unfortunate and salvation to lost souls." My mother seems to give off the vibes of a fanatic.
"Now, now," my father says. "Let's calm down."
He takes a breath before continuing.
"Father-in-law, I know you're excited, but we shouldn't decide his path. And Celine—we talked about this. We won't force him into the church. He'll choose for himself."
He pauses.
"Whatever path he takes, we'll support him."
"Fair enough," Verion says. "Still, a child with this kind of talent will choose power eventually. That is the fate of the strong. It's inevitable."
"Yeah, yeah," my mother says. "Father, isn't there something you're supposed to be doing right now? The only reason you're even standing in this room."
She gives him a flat look.
"Oh, right," my grandfather replies. "But couldn't you be kinder with your words? Especially to an old man whose bones are about to turn to dust."
"Shut up," my mother says. Then, sharply, "Baby. Now."
Her tone changes instantly. Dangerous. Final.
"All right, all right," my grandfather says. "I'm on it, sweetheart."
The joking stops.
He steps closer to the cradle.
"Come here, boy," he says, gently this time.
He raised his wrinkled right hand, slow and deliberate, like he's about to give a blessing. A circle forms in front of his palm. It's faint at first, then clearer—lines of light shaping themselves into something precise.
Particles of light appear next. Different colors. They drift in from all directions, pulled toward me. One by one, they sink into my body.
The moment they do, something changed.
A pressure builds in my chest. Not pain. Something heavier. My throat tightens. My eyes sting. It feels like the saddest thing in the world just happened, even though nothing did.
An invisible force presses on my tear glands, coaxing them awake.
And then— "Sniff...sniff...wahhh..wahhh."
I cried.
Not of my own will.
It just happened.
And somehow, it felt natural.
5 hours later.