He remembered dying.
That much was certain.
The scent of iron and rain. The cold steel lodged deep in his back. The laughter of traitorous disciples he once called brothers.
A legacy shattered at the height of his mastery.
He had been called many things: Sword Saint, Demon Slayer, Warped Edge, Master of a Thousand Cuts. The man who cleaved dragons from sky to spine. The man who walked into battle barefoot and emerged clean.
But none of that mattered when his body collapsed beneath a storm of arrows and envy.
And then—darkness.
Only, it wasn't cold or lonely. It pulsed.
With heat. With rhythm. With time.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
A golden clock appeared in the void, its face cracked and bleeding gears. Its hands spun wildly, counter to time's natural flow.
From its shattered center emerged a voice—both ancient and newborn.
> "Aelric. Soul of the Severed Line. Blade of the Moment Unlived."
> "Do you wish to wield a blade that slays destiny itself?"
He did not speak. He didn't need to.
His will reached out, not for salvation, but for a challenge worthy of his name.
The clock shattered.
And the world began again.
---
He gasped, lungs pulling in sweet, unfamiliar air. Light flooded his senses, too bright, too sharp.
The scent of lilies. Polished stone. Incense. And something wild—magic.
He tried to move. His limbs were too small. Too soft.
He looked down.
Small, pale arms. Slight fingers. A blanket of deep green silk.
He saw elven attendants around him, one weeping with joy. Another muttered blessings in a tongue he instinctively understood.
"Elven?" he whispered—or tried to. The sound came out as a child's squeak.
"Your Highness!" cried a maid. "He speaks! The Second Prince speaks!"
A regal man with sun-bronzed skin and golden eyes rushed forward, his emerald robes gleaming with enchantment.
"My son… my Aelric. The gods have smiled upon us this day."
Aelric's thoughts screamed.
> Son? Prince? Elven?!
He wasn't in his old world. He was in another body. A child's body. In a kingdom where time itself felt... twisted.
A new life.
A new form.
But the same soul.
And somewhere deep inside his being, a sword pulsed quietly—unbound, but waiting.