The castle burned like a funeral pyre beneath a bleeding sky.

  Its towers crumbled in flame, stained red by the sunset behind them. Screams echoed faintly over the hills, swallowed by the crackle of fire and the distant sound of shattered stone. Banners, once royal and proud, twisted in the updraft—blackened and torn.

  Atop a ridge overlooking the smoldering ruin, a lone man stood still as iron.

  General Lumi.

  Broad-shouldered. Silent. Wrapped in a heavy black cloak with the fur-lined collar pulled high. His face was carved with time—lined not by age alone, but by years of weight. He bore no helmet, no crown, no emblem of victory.

  Only the burden of having won too many times.

  Behind him, four armored men waited.

  His lieutenants.

  One of them stepped forward and spoke, breath visible in the cool dusk air. “The last wall is failing, General. Their defenders won’t last another hour.”

  The others murmured in quiet agreement, glancing at the burning castle below. There was no fear in their eyes. Only expectation. Another conquest. Another flag to raise. Another mark on history.

  Lumi said nothing.

  He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. He just stared—at the fire, at the towers, at the smoke coiling into the sky like the last breath of a dying beast.

  There was no satisfaction in him. No joy. Just a dull throb behind the eyes.

  War. Always war.

  He turned slowly, the wind catching the edge of his cloak, and said in a low, gravel-laced voice, “Finish it.”

  The lieutenants bowed their heads, murmured their assent, and turned to go.

  Lumi did not watch them leave.

  He began walking—down the slope, past the blackened trees and over the trampled earth—to the quiet rows of tents that stretched like scars across the valley.

  His gait was steady, but slower than it once was.

  He could feel it now.

  The ache in his knees. The pull in his chest. The quiet rebellion of a body that had long outlived its promise.

  This was to be his last campaign.

  One more crown shattered, and then—silence. A quiet piece of land by a river. No guards. No messengers. No orders to give.

  For the first time in decades, he had let himself imagine it.

  His tent stood at the center of the camp—modest, spartan, marked only by the black standard hanging above it. Two braziers flanked the entrance, flickering low in the wind.

  He stepped inside—

  —and froze.

  Five men stood waiting for him.

  They wore his colors. His crest. His armor.

  He blinked once, slowly. “Report.”

  None of them spoke.

  They stepped forward, quiet, unhurried.

  He narrowed his eyes, reaching instinctively for the hilt at his side.

  And then—

  The blade slid into his stomach.

  A quiet sound. Almost gentle.

  His breath caught.

  The soldier in front of him didn’t even look him in the eye.

  Lumi moved.

  In a flash of trained reflex, his sword hissed from its sheath and arced upward. The first man’s head hit the ground before the body did.

  The other four lunged.

  He met them in the narrow space between the tent walls and the brazier. The second attacker slashed his arm—he spun and drove his blade into the man’s gut. The third caught him across the thigh. The fourth, he barely parried, swinging wild with blood dripping down his chest.

  It was fast. Brutal. Animal.

  And when it ended, all five men lay dead in his tent.

  But Lumi—was bleeding out.

  He staggered back against a support beam, gasping, slick with blood, eyes darting toward the flap of the tent.

  “Guards!” he bellowed.

  No one answered.

  No one came.

  The tent flap opened.

  Three men entered.

  Lumi’s vision blurred.

  The first of them tossed something onto the floor.

  It hit the earth with a wet thud.

  A head.

  Blood still warm.

  Lumi stared.

  The face was familiar. Too familiar.

  Eyes still open. Mouth slack.

  Eli.

  His friend.

  His second.

  His shadow on every battlefield.

  Dead.

  Lumi stared at the head, the blood pooling beneath it, and then slowly raised his gaze to the three men standing before him.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  It was them.

  His lieutenants.

  The ones he had trusted. The ones who had bowed only an hour ago.

  His hand trembled around the hilt of his sword. “Why?” he asked, voice low. Raw.

  One of them stepped forward—bald-headed, scar across his mouth—and smiled.

  "You built an empire, General," the man said, voice dark and cruel. "But you never noticed the cracks. You taught us war. You taught us power. You just never taught us how to serve.”

  He raised his blade.

  “And now, teacher…”

  He plunged the sword into Lumi’s side.

  “…you become the lesson.”

  Lumi fell to his knees.

  The pain was fire.

  But it wasn’t the blade that undid him.

  It was the faces.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  He looked at them—not with hate.

  Not even with anger.

  Only… emptiness.

  He had commanded armies. Broken kings. Burned cities.

  And in the end?

  This was what waited for him.

  He thought—briefly, bitterly—perhaps I deserve this.

  Perhaps this was the only end fitting for a man who had only ever known how to end things.

  And yet, as the light faded from his vision and his body folded to the earth, he felt no despair.

  Only a strange, quiet relief.

  Finally, he thought.

  Finally, someone stopped me.

  Blood soaked into the earth beneath him.

  He exhaled once, long and slow.

  And whispered:

  “I wonder what it feels like… to live in peace.”

  There was darkness.

  Thick. Heavy. Wet.

  Not the darkness of death.

  No—this was something else.

  Warm liquid pressed against his skin. Every movement felt like drifting. Floating. He could feel the walls around him. Soft. Yielding. Alive.

  He tried to move.

  No response.

  Tried to speak.

  Nothing.

  His mouth wouldn’t open. His lungs wouldn’t breathe.

  He wasn’t suffocating—but he wasn’t breathing either.

  He floated in silence.

  His mind, dim and disoriented, clung to fragments.

  Steel. Blood. Betrayal.

  A burning castle.

  Eli.

  Then—

  Light.

  It pierced the black like a crack in the sky.

  And with it came a pull—a force that tugged at him, not gently, but like something was dragging his skull forward.

  And then—

  Pain. Cold. Air.

  A scream broke the silence.

  High. Raw.

  His.

  The sound startled him more than the sensation.

  It wasn’t the war-hardened voice of a general.

  It was a child’s wail.

  What… is this? he thought, trapped in the confusion.

  His skin was slick. Wet. Something was wiping at him with cloth and soft hands. His body, impossibly small and weak, squirmed on instinct.

  Blurry shapes moved above him. Tall. Strange.

  His vision pulsed in and out. His eyes watered from the light. Everything felt wrong, unfamiliar.

  And yet—he was alive.

  This isn’t the afterlife.

  This… feels like birth.

  A voice.

  Gentle. Rhythmic. Singing.

  Not a melody he knew—something older, warmer. The language was strange, rounded in tone, full of hums and soft syllables.

  But one word cut through, repeated again and again like a charm.

  “Kaelen…”

  He didn’t know what it meant.

  But each time the voice said it, it felt like it belonged to him.

  Kaelen? Is that… me?

  He blinked, squinting up toward the source of the voice.

  The blur slowly sharpened.

  And then he saw her.

  The woman holding him was not human.

  But she wasn’t monstrous either.

  She was something else—something other—with a face both beautiful and unfamiliar.

  Her skin was smooth and warm, a soft clay-brown color tinged with a golden hue under the firelight. High cheekbones framed her oval face, and her eyes—deep dark blue, large and slightly angled—held the kind of love that demanded nothing in return.

  Her nose was narrow, lips small but expressive. Her ears were round, slightly elongated, with a soft upward curve at the tips. Not sharp like an elf’s, but wide like a listener’s.

  Thick black hair, coiled and glossy, was pulled back into a loose braid with beads woven into it—each one a different shade of forest green or river stone blue.

  And despite the sweat on her brow, despite the tears in her eyes, she was radiant.

  Is this… my mother?

  The thought felt absurd—but the way she held him…

  There was no fear.

  Only warmth.

  Only home.

  “Kaelen,” she whispered again, pressing her forehead gently to his.

  He didn’t understand the words—but he understood the sound. The weight of it. Like a name being given, not spoken.

  He stopped crying.

  Not from understanding.

  But from something deeper.

  Then, a shadow moved behind her.

  A second voice joined hers—lower, softer, grounding.

  “Kaelen,” the man whispered.

  Lumi—Kaelen—strained his eyes to look past the edge of his mother’s shoulder.

  A man stood beside her, kneeling to meet her height. His hand rested gently against her back as he leaned forward.

  He was broad-shouldered, built like a worker, not a soldier. His arms were strong, veins and scars visible through his woven tunic. His face was marked with age—not the years of battle, but years of labor. Earth under his nails. Firelight in his eyes.

  He had a short beard, coarse and dark, and his eyes—just like hers—were the color of river-deep blue.

  But his were steadier. Watchful.

  Protective.

  His expression wasn’t wild with joy. It was quiet. Grounded.

  A man who didn’t need the world to see how much this meant.

  Kaelen stared at him, this calm, solid figure.

  This is my… father?

  Another whisper from the man, now spoken almost reverently:

  “Kaelen…”

  The name again.

  And with it—something inside him shifted.

  Not confusion.

  Not resistance.

  Just… acceptance.

  This was real.

  A month had passed since the moment Kaelen first felt cold air in his lungs.

  He didn’t cry anymore.

  He didn’t panic when the world shifted or when the strange light flickered through the woven ceiling of their home.

  He had accepted it.

  Not blindly—but logically.

  This was no hallucination. No fever dream from a battlefield.

  He had died.

  And somehow, impossibly…

  He had been born again.

  The world around him was not one he knew.

  The materials, the design—alien, but functional.

  Their home was built of layered wood, bark, bone-reinforced beams, and tightly woven fabrics. The walls breathed with the wind. The floor was soft and sloped, lined with mossy rugs and low stonework stoves.

  No castles. No steel. No banners.

  But no smoke, either. No soldiers. No screams.

  Just warmth. Rhythm. And voices that never rose in anger.

  This place… was peaceful.

  It unnerved him at first.

  Now?

  Now it intrigued him.

  From outside the home came a sound—heavy steps, light breathing, an off-rhythm bounce.

  Kaelen already knew who it was.

  He turned his head slowly, body still clumsy and untrained, and stared at the low fabric door just as it was pushed aside with clumsy gusto.

  A girl burst through the threshold with the grace of a runaway animal—barefoot, hair messy, wearing a tunic too long for her.

  She looked to be four—maybe five.

  Her eyes were wide and bright, her skin a shade darker than their mother’s, and her face was a perfect storm of mischief and confidence.

  Kaelen stared.

  So… I have a sister.

  The thought came with a strange twist in his chest.

  He had no siblings in his last life. No parents. No real family beyond Eli.

  But now?

  This girl came to see him every morning.

  Every single morning.

  She knelt beside the basket he rested in and peered over the edge with all the authority of a queen inspecting a royal artifact.

  “Well,” she said, hands on her hips. “How are you today, my little brother Kaelen?”

  Kaelen blinked.

  He didn’t understand the language yet—not fully—but he caught the tone. And more importantly, he heard his name.

  Kaelen.

  Always that word. Spoken like a charm. Like a claim.

  The girl reached out and gently poked his cheek.

  He made a soft, unimpressed sound in response.

  She grinned.

  “It is I again,” she declared proudly, “your beautiful sister Imari, who will protect you from everything. Even the mean tree spirits. Even Papa’s snoring.”

  Kaelen stared at her.

  She continued talking, fast and wild, gesturing with both hands, tossing words into the air like they were spells only she could control.

  He understood none of it—except the way she laughed between sentences.

  She's not afraid of anything, he thought.

  Not even of him.

  “Lureya!” she shouted suddenly, her voice rising toward the open hallway. “He’s awake and looking at me again like I’m a stranger!”

  Kaelen flinched at the name.

  Lureya.

  He’d heard it many times now.

  It was his mother’s name.

  It was always spoken with warmth. With trust. With love.

  A moment later, Kaelen felt the familiar presence.

  Footsteps.

  Soft hands.

  The scent of crushed herbs and sweat and something faintly floral.

  Lureya entered the room, her braid draped over one shoulder, her tunic damp with cooking steam. Her dark blue eyes settled on him instantly, and her face softened.

  “There he is,” she said gently in her strange, musical tongue.

  He couldn’t translate the words—but he didn’t need to.

  She leaned over, kissed his forehead, and adjusted the wrap of his blanket with a practiced touch.

  Kaelen relaxed into it.

  This is real, he thought. She’s real.

  His father wasn’t home.

  Kaelen knew that, too.

  He had picked up on the pattern—Harun, they called him. A miner or woodsman, based on the tools he always carried and the way he came home dusted in ash or bark.

  He didn’t speak much. But he always touched Kaelen’s brow when he entered, just once, like it was a promise.

  Then he’d kiss Lureya and lift Imari onto his shoulder like she was light as air.

  Not a warrior, Kaelen thought. But strong in a different way.

  They were not the people he once knew.

  But they were his now.

  And they treated him as if he had always belonged.

  Kaelen closed his eyes for a moment as Lureya and Imari chattered above him.

  He didn’t smile.

  But something quiet settled in his chest.

  This world… is not mine, he thought. But maybe I can learn to live in it.

  A year had passed.

  One full year.

  Kaelen often found himself thinking how strange time moved in this world. It didn’t march like it used to—not in weeks of war or months of campaign—but flowed like a river. Gentle. Predictable.

  And fast.

  One blink, and I’ve been here a year, he thought, nestled against his mother’s chest in a cloth sling.

  He couldn’t walk yet. But his body was growing stronger by the day. His neck held steady. His hands gripped tighter. His vision had sharpened. And best of all—his ears had adapted.

  He could understand words now.

  Not many. But enough.

  Enough to know that when Lureya said “market”, they were going somewhere important.

  Enough to recognize the word “supplies”.

  And of course, his name—Kaelen—spoken daily, lovingly, as if the sound alone kept him tethered to this life.

  Lureya carried him gently, her steps soft and sure over the narrow wooden walkways that wound through the jungle village. Beside her, Harun walked with a steady gait, Imari perched across his back, legs swinging, arms wrapped around his neck like a lazy jungle cat.

  Imari pointed at birds and shouted things Kaelen couldn’t quite follow yet. Something about roots. About fish. About who owed her a sweetcake.

  She was endless.

  Harun only grunted in amused silence and let her talk.

  Kaelen—meanwhile—watched everything.

  And what he saw took his breath.

  The village center was alive with movement.

  Dozens of figures crossed the square, baskets on their backs, pulling small carts or leading beasts of burden. All of them were like his family—humanoid, but not quite human. Their skin varied in tone: sunbaked brown, ash-gray, golden-honey. Their ears were rounded but expressive, and many wore layered garments woven from bark-fiber and soft jungle-dyed cloth.

  There was no metal clanging. No barked orders. No marching.

  Only the hum of voices. The creak of wood. The smell of spices and soil.

  Huts were built into the trees, connected by suspended rope bridges and curved planks. Archways made of bone and vine framed walkways. Hanging lanterns dangled from curved poles, shaped like fruit but glowing softly in the midmorning light.

  Children ran barefoot through puddles, laughing. Elders sat weaving mats beneath awnings strung between tree stumps and smooth, spiraling trunks.

  At the edge of the square, near a watchpost, stood wooden palisades, rising tall and pointed—aged, moss-covered, strong. More decorative than militaristic, but Kaelen could tell they served a purpose.

  Not for war.

  For protection.

  There were no soldiers. Just villagers with spears and blades at their hips. Volunteers. Watchers.

  This wasn’t a kingdom.

  It was a home.

  Kaelen stared out from his sling, arms resting against Lureya’s chest, wide-eyed and silent.

  This is their world, he thought. This is where I live now.

  No formations. No blood-soaked flags. No orders barked over wind and steel.

  He could feel his past life like a distant noise behind a closed door.

  Here—there were no thrones.

  No crowns to claim.

  Only earth.

  People.

  Harmony.

  This world… isn’t so bad, but this peace… feels too soft. Too delicate. What happens when the world presses in?