From the moment he could think for himself, Raelith—though that name would come later—knew life owed him nothing.
Back then, on Earth, he was called Rayan. Just another orphan among dozens in a city that forgot its poor. The state-run shelter he grew up in smelled of rust and bleach, its walls cracked and ceilings stained. Adults came and went, offering kindness that was always fleeting or hollow. He learned early that promises broke and people left.
What he had, however, was intelligence. Sharp, unflinching, and cold.
By the age of six, he was reading the newspapers before breakfast, explaining headlines to the younger children like a teacher might. His understanding of mathematics shocked the schoolteachers, and by twelve, he was tutoring older students in exchange for spare pencils and notebooks. He didn't make friends—he made arrangements.
People called him a prodigy. Brilliant. Exceptional. But never warm. Never loved.
He didn't mind.
Feelings complicated progress. Attachment got in the way. He had goals, and Earth was a world that rewarded results, not sentiment.
By sixteen, he was on a scholarship to one of worlds's top pre-med institutions. By twenty-one, he had cleared medical school with honors. By twenty-five, he was Dr. Rayan Vale, a rising trauma surgeon with a sharp mind, a steady hand, and a reputation for being as ruthless with his time as he was with his scalpel.
His apartment was sleek, modern, and silent. His car was expensive. His life, to many, seemed ideal.
But Rayan knew the truth.
He was a machine that healed people by day and returned to empty rooms at night.
He had wealth.
He had skill.
But not a single person who truly knew him.
And he never let anyone try.
The night it ended, he had just left a party.
A colleague's engagement. Too much noise. Too many smiles. Too many people asking about patients and paychecks, like their whole lives were summarized in job titles.
He had a single drink—nothing strong. Just enough to take the edge off.
The rain started on his way back.
Slick streets. Flickering streetlamps. The city breathed in shadows and neon as the night deepened.
His car—gleaming and powerful—hugged the curves of the road with precision. His mind wandered, just for a moment. He thought about the next surgery. About a research paper he meant to finish. About how tired he was.
Then the brakes failed.
It happened fast.
The turn came too quickly. His foot slammed down, but the pedal sank with no resistance. The car skidded. Spun.
The world blurred into a smear of headlights, water, and black.
Impact.
A crack of bone. The crunch of steel. Shattered glass.
And silence.
There was no light at the end of a tunnel.
No flashing of his life before his eyes.
Just… stillness.
He was aware, somehow. Disconnected from sensation, yet present. He couldn't feel his body, but his mind pulsed with clarity.
He expected pain.
Expected fear.
Instead, there was only confusion.
Then—something new.
He opened his eyes.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
But what he saw wasn't a hospital, or the afterlife, or the mangled wreckage of his car.
It was a room—stone walls, dim torchlight, a scent of incense and iron.
Two strangers stood above him, blurry at first, then coming into focus.
A man and a woman.
They were breathing heavily, the woman exhausted, drenched in sweat but glowing with something fierce in her eyes. The man was tall, sharp-jawed, his hand clutching the woman's shoulder.
They were… smiling.
At him.
Something pressed against his chest—soft, warm.
He realized it was a cloth.
And arms.
He was being held.
He looked down, and what he saw shook him to his core.
Tiny hands. A baby's hands.
He tried to scream.
No sound came out—only a cry. A newborn's wail.
Panic swelled inside him.
He tried to sit up.
His muscles didn't respond.
He tried to speak.
Only another cry escaped.
Then came the words. A voice, foreign but gentle:
"He's perfect…"
The woman. She kissed his forehead.
"Welcome to the world, little one. Welcome, Raelith."
Days passed—maybe weeks. Time had little meaning in a newborn's body.
But his mind remained intact.
He remembered everything.
His name. His death. His past life.
All of it.
He tried, at first, to rationalize it. A dying brain's last dream? A coma-induced hallucination?
But the warmth of the woman's embrace… the cooing lullabies… the strange yet beautiful language he somehow understood… the soft flicker of magic—yes, magic—in the air around him...
It was too real.
He had died.
And somehow… been reborn.
The world he now found himself in was unlike Earth in every way.
The air shimmered faintly with a force he didn't yet understand. He saw light bend unnaturally around glowing symbols etched into the walls. He heard conversations about "mana cores" and "soul awakening." His new parents—though strangers to his soul—held him with genuine affection, not out of obligation, but love.
He hated how much it warmed him.
Not out of weakness, but because it was unfamiliar.
He'd spent his entire Earth life alone. Independent. Walled off.
Now, he was… cherished.
A second chance, perhaps.
But Raelith was no ordinary child.
He wasn't reborn with a blank slate.
He was a surgeon. A scientist. A man forged by hardship.
And though his body was fragile, his mind was not.
As he drifted to sleep in his mother's arms on that first night, a thought etched itself into his soul like iron:
"This time… I will not live blindly."
"This world will not shape me."
"I will understand it."
"And I will master it."
Even if it meant unraveling its very foundations.