Before this life—
I wasn't quiet.
That was the truth no one here would ever know.
In my previous life, I laughed easily.
I joked with friends.
Spoke without thinking too much.
Filled silences because they felt awkward.
I was lazy.
Negative.
Unmotivated.
But not withdrawn.
I enjoyed people. Enjoyed noise. Enjoyed being part of something, even if I didn't know where I was going.
I smiled often—sometimes genuinely, sometimes just to fit in.
Silence wasn't comfort.
It was emptiness.
That changed the moment I died.
And changed again when I woke up in this world.
Here, every word carried consequence.
Every reaction was watched.
Every laugh felt… wrong.
I wasn't surrounded by friends anymore.
I was surrounded by servants, nobles, guards—people who listened not to what I said, but how I said it.
The moment I understood that—
I stopped speaking.
Not because I wanted to.
Because I had to.
The old Amaniel had spoken freely.
Boasted. Complained. Demanded.
And everyone remembered him for it.
A useless heir with a loud mouth and nothing to back it up.
I wouldn't repeat that mistake.
So I became quiet.
Not empty.
Controlled.
People mistook it for nature.
"He's calm," they said.
"Reserved," they whispered.
"Strange for a child," others murmured.
They didn't know it was learned behavior.
Survival behavior.
At night, when I was alone, I missed it.
The easy laughter.
The careless words.
The feeling of being normal.
I missed Daniel Smith.
But Daniel Smith was dead.
And Amaniel Atradiés didn't have the luxury of being careless.
It was during those silent nights that I began noticing it more clearly.
The pull in my chest.
Gentle. Persistent.
Like something waiting.
When I focused, the air around me felt heavier—responsive.
Not oppressive.
Alive.
I didn't have a name for it then.
But instinct told me what it was.
Magic.
Later, through overheard conversations and scattered phrases, I learned the word.
Aether.
The fundamental energy that flowed through the world.
Most people sensed it only after years.
I could feel it now.
That terrified me.
So I trained.
Quietly.
Not with spells.
Not with gestures.
With control.
I slowed my breathing the way I once learned from random videos in my old life—deep breaths, steady rhythm, awareness without force.
When I inhaled, the aether responded faintly.
When I exhaled, it receded.
I didn't pull.
I didn't push.
I let it pass through me.
Training became routine.
During naps.
While pretending to play.
In moments no one watched.
I counted breaths instead of steps.
Held focus instead of toys.
Nothing flashy.
Nothing detectable.
The changes were small.
My balance improved.
My body felt lighter.
Fatigue came slower.
No miracles.
No power.
Just foundation.
I wasn't trying to become strong.
Not yet.
I was trying to avoid becoming the man I remembered.
The useless Amaniel who spoke loudly and acted little.
The villain who died because he never changed.
Silence didn't mean I lost myself.
It meant I was protecting what remained.
One day, I would laugh again.
When it was safe.
When it was earned.
Until then—
Quiet was my armor.