(A/N: Thoughts are written in italic form.)
When Ethan opened his eyes, he saw fire everywhere.
Flames were burning along the wooden walls like living creatures, and smoke filled the air, thick and heavy, pressing against his face.
The ceiling groaned as heat warped the beams above him. The air itself felt alive, scorching and suffocating.
For a few seconds, he didn't move; his mind lagged behind his senses.
"Didn't I drown in the sea? The last thing I remember was cold water swallowing me whole. Even if I was saved, I should be in a hospital, right?"
"White lights, doctors, and beeping machines should have been the view, but instead, why am I surrounded by fire?"
He instinctively tried to move, pushing himself up from the thin carpet beneath him; his movement felt very wrong and sluggish.
He bent forward, coughing as smoke invaded his lungs, and looked down at his hands.
They were small and thin. His fingers were narrow and bony. Dirt clung beneath his nails. Faint bruises covered his forearms.
His skin was too pale, stretched tightly over bone like he hadn't eaten properly in months.
His breathing hitched. "What the fuck is going on?"
His voice sounded unfamiliar, higher and lighter; he stared at his hands again—they were not the hands of a man who had worked, fought, and struggled to survive his life.
They were not the hands that had grown from nonstop labor and hardship.
He looked down at his body. Too small and thin. His shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, the fabric worn and ragged.
His legs felt weak when he tried to stand. His entire body felt like it belonged to someone else.
He wanted to know what happened, but there was no time because the fire was creeping closer each and every second. Heat pressed against his skin, making sweat form instantly along his neck and back.
"Let's find a way to get out of here," he muttered. "Then I'll think about what happened."
He forced himself to stand.
His legs trembled beneath him. Every step felt unfamiliar, as if his mind and body were not yet synchronized. He stumbled toward the door and grabbed the handle.
It didn't budge. "Open, dammit!" Still nothing.
The wood around the frame had warped from the heat. Debris from the collapsing ceiling had wedged itself against the door.
He turned toward the window, but shattered beams and chunks of ceiling blocked it entirely.
The fire had already surrounded him; there was no clear path for him to escape. Getting desperate, he slammed his shoulder against the door, but the door did not open; instead, pain shot through his small frame.
"Seriously?" he hissed. He tried again, putting everything he had into it, but the door didn't even shake. "This body is too weak."
He wasn't used to this new body; his movements were clumsy and delayed. The strength he was expecting simply wasn't there.
He stepped back, breathing heavily, "So I survived the water only to die from fire. Great."
As time passed the smoke in the room was getting higher and higher, and his vision also blurred slightly as his lungs protested with every breath.
His eyes scanned the room desperately. "There had to be something. ".
Then he noticed a narrow crack in the far wall near the corner of the room. It was small, barely noticeable, and likely formed from years of neglect and stress on the old structure.
An idea sparked in his mind; he rushed to the bed and tore at the ragged carpet beneath it and grabbed the thin blanket and the worn clothes scattered nearby. There was a clay water pot sitting on a small wooden stand.
He grabbed it and nearly dropped it because the water inside was already warm from the heat in the room, but he had no choice.
He soaked the carpet and the torn cloth thoroughly in the water, making sure they were drenched. And dragged everything with his small body toward the crack in the wall.
Kneeling down, he poured some of the water into the crack itself, letting it seep into the wood and surrounding space.
He knew it wouldn't extinguish the fire, but it might slow his upcoming death. "I know this is an idiotic idea; let's just hope some miracle happens."
He wrapped himself tightly in the soaked carpet and cloth, pressing his body against the wall near the crack where the air felt slightly less suffocating.
The remaining water pot sat beside him. If the cloth dried, he would re-wet it, using the water. It was a desperate plan. He himself knew it was a stupid plan, but it was the only one he had.
"I survived the sea," he muttered, pressing his head against the wall. "Now let's see if I can survive the flames."
The heat was becoming intense, and the wet cloth began warming almost immediately; he clenched his jaw and tried to breathe slowly, conserving what little air he could.
"God," he whispered hoarsely. "I don't even know if you're real. I've never been religious. But if you are… help me survive this."
Smoke burned his throat.
"I'll visit every church, every temple, and every mosque, and I'll make offerings. Just… don't let me die like this."
His eyelids grew heavy. "No." He forced them to stay open. "If I lost consciousness now, I may never be able to gain it again," he thought.
He gritted his teeth. "Even if I'm going to die, I'm not dying roasted."
The cloth grew hot against his skin, and it burned even through the moisture. He grabbed the pot and poured more water over himself. The water was almost boiling now, but it soaked the fabric again, buying him a few more moments.
He waited; in desperate moments in life, even seconds would feel like hours.
Suddenly the roar of the flames began to change; at first, he thought it was his imagination. Then he noticed the intensity of the fire was lessening.
The heat, while still brutal, no longer felt like it was increasing.
Then, the door of the room burst open, and unknown silhouettes appeared through the smoke. He heard people talking but couldn't make out what they were saying.
Relief flooded him so suddenly it almost hurt.
"People"
He tried to speak, but his throat refused because of the constant inhaling of smoke. As figures rushed toward him, his body finally gave in, and his consciousness slipped away.
_______________________________________________________________________________________
When he opened his eyes again, he was lying in a bed; the air around was cool and calm. For a moment, he simply stared at the ceiling.
Then he tried moving his body, but this time it responded smoothly; he lifted his arms and examined them. There were no burns, blisters, or bruises; he touched his face, and he only felt his smooth skin. It was as if the fire had never touched him.
He sat up slowly, and only then did he truly look around. The room felt… different. The furniture was wooden and hand-carved. The walls were stone, not made of concrete but something else. There were no visible electrical outlets, no monitors connected to wires, and no modern appliances.
A small oil lamp sat on a table nearby; the window was framed with thick wood and simple glass panes.
"It looks medieval," he murmured.
There were small hints of technology, metal tools, and some refined objects, but nothing like what he was used to.
"It feels like I was back in the caveman period."
(A/N: I know what you guys are thinking; you may think he is exaggerating. But think about it, for a person who is used to Apple and Android devices, even a telephone would look like an ancient relic.)
But more than the room, something else unsettled him. He looked down at himself again, at his body, too small and too young. He stood up and walked toward a mirror mounted against the wall at the corner of the room.
When he reached it, he froze, his jaw dropped, and his heart skipped a beat. "Holy mother of Christ." He cursed out loud.
A white-haired boy with striking blue eyes stared back at him. Delicate but sharp features. Thin-framed and extremely malnourished, but even then the boy looked… exceptional.
"What the hell is this?" he whispered. "How did I become a little kid? And more than that, how does this kid look so handsome?"
He touched his cheek and tried to see if the reflection was truly his, but the reflection mimicked him perfectly. "Is this a dream? No, this feels too real to be a dream."
Then something clicked.
All the light novels he had read over the years flashed through his mind.
Regressed to when I was a toddler.
My Second Life.
Worthless Regr**n
(A/N: I don't think I should use real names heeheeheeee. …)
"I've read so many of those," he muttered. "Don't tell me…"
"Did I time travel? But this body didn't look like me when I was young. I still remember my childhood face. This guy looks stunning," he said, tilting his head slightly.
"Even though he's malnourished and dirty, his features are ridiculous. When he grows up, he's going to be hot as hell. Fuck! If only I looked like this back then, I would have easily become an actor or a model."
"Wait, am I complimenting myself? That's new; when did I become a narcissist?"
He then moved toward the window and looked outside; his breath caught again, and once again he was shocked.
He saw people walking along the street carrying swords and armor.
A woman watered flowers, and the water floated from her hands in a controlled stream without any visible container.
A man on the corner held a small flame in his palm, shaping it playfully to entertain a group of children.
"Magic—it's actually magic," he stated. "How many times am I going to be shocked today? Time travel didn't explain this; this wasn't regression."
He leaned against the window frame. "So I didn't go back in time," he murmured. "but got transmigrated to a different world and a different body.
He exhaled slowly, and right on cue, the door opened.
Ethan turned calmly. "Ah," he said under his breath. "Here it comes."
A woman stepped inside. Brown hair tied loosely, gentle eyes, simple clothing. There was relief in her expression when she saw him awake.
"It's a wonder you're not injured at all," she said softly. "The people who saved you thought you were dead when they pulled you out from that crack. But only after five or six hours, like a miracle, you were completely fine. I don't know how you did that."
There was kindness in her voice. Ethan studied her briefly; he does not know who she is. He shrugged slightly and said,
"Well, maybe I'm naturally gifted." He said it casually. But the reaction he received was not normal at all.
She froze, her eyes widened, and her lips parted slightly. She looked as if she had just witnessed something impossible.
Ethan blinked. "I didn't say anything wrong, did I?" he asked. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Her voice trembled. "You're… talking."
"Of course I'm talking," he replied.
"You've never spoken," she whispered. "Not once, for fifteen years, since the day you came here. This is the first time I'm hearing your voice."
Ethan's mind blanked.
"Oh shit," he thought. "I screwed up, didn't I?"