Warmth.
That was the first thing Trafalgar noticed—an unusual, almost cozy warmth beneath him. He didn't feel the pain, or see the blood that covered him.
Then came the smell.
A thick, unmistakable stench wafted up into his nose like a cruel slap from reality itself. His eyes snapped open.
He wasn't on the battlefield. He wasn't dying in the rain. He was… sitting. On cold stone. With his knees slightly apart.
He had no armor, no wounds across his body, no blood flowing endlessly, no pain.
Just… a toilet.
A medieval one.
Trafalgar blinked rapidly, his brain refusing to connect the dots. He looked down and saw small, pale legs dangling freely. Tiny feet. Thin arms. His heart thudded in his chest—not out of fear, but sheer disbelief.
'No. This can't be…'
He reached up, touching his face. Round cheeks. Short nose. Soft skin. All of it… small.
'This is my body. My old body…'
He jumped to his feet, still half-squatting over the stone seat. His balance wobbled, and he had to catch himself on the wall. Panic rose in his chest—but not because of the confusion.
He hadn't wiped.
'I just got a second life and I'm already messing it up.'
Ignoring everything else, he stumbled out of the private stall and sprinted barefoot through the quiet stone corridors of the Morgain estate. The cold floors slapped against his soles, the long shirt he wore fluttering behind him as he ran.
There was only one thing he needed to see right now. One piece of proof.
The mirror.
He had to see the truth with his own eyes.
Trafalgar burst into the room, bare feet skidding slightly on the polished stone. The bathroom—one of dozens scattered across the Morgain estate—was quiet and cold, lit only by moonlight pouring through the tall, arched window. Ornate silver fixtures lined the walls. The marble sink sat beneath a massive mirror framed with blackened steel and runic etchings.
He clambered up onto the wooden stool beneath it, hands gripping the edge of the sink to steady himself. His breath caught in his throat.
There he was.
But not the man who had died in the rain—no blood, no scars, no haunted eyes. The reflection staring back at him was young. Too young. Pale skin. Messy black hair that clung damply to his forehead. And eyes—those same deep navy-blue eyes, so unlike the golden or platinum hues of the Morgain bloodline.
A child.
'That's… me,' he thought, stunned. 'Me, when I was… eight.'
His gaze dropped to his chest. Hesitantly, with trembling fingers, he pulled his shirt open.
Nothing.
No mark. No cursed symbol burned into his skin. Just a smooth, unmarred chest. He stared for several seconds, heart pounding louder than ever, his mind a whirlwind of disbelief and fear and—
Relief.
His knees buckled slightly, and he fell to his knees on the stool, chest heaving as his fingers curled over the edge of the sink.
Tears spilled down his cheeks before he could stop them. Quiet, messy, trembling sobs escaped his lips as he pressed his forehead to the cool marble.
'It's gone… It's really gone.'
The curse that had shackled him since infancy—erased.
He hadn't been given another chance.
He'd been reborn.
He remained there, forehead resting against the sink, tears still quietly falling as the enormity of it all began to settle in.
There was no mark, no pain, no curse—only silence, and the steady rhythm of a heart finally free.
And yet, something else was different—something he hadn't felt in his entire past life.
He sniffled once and inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself. But as the air filled his lungs, his eyes widened.
There was… something in it.
Something that wasn't air.
He drew another breath, slower this time. It was subtle, almost delicate, like catching the scent of magic after a storm. The air shimmered faintly around his skin—he could feel it. A soft, almost electric sensation dancing across his chest, down his arms, through his fingertips.
Mana.
It was in the air. In the room. In everything.
'This is what they all feel,' he realized, awestruck. 'This is what I never could.'
The energy wasn't overwhelming—it didn't rush into him or explode within his veins—but it was there, present and tangible, like a gentle pulse beating in rhythm with the world itself.
He could sense it.
And that alone made his heart race.
He laughed softly through the tears, wiping his face with the sleeve of his oversized shirt.
'I'm breathing mana… I can actually feel it now…'
He clenched his fists in wonder. He knew the truth—he couldn't use it yet. Not really. Without a formed mana core, it would slip right through him like water through a cracked cup. But the fact that he could sense it meant his body was no longer sealed. No longer cursed.
It was a beginning.
A real beginning.
And for the first time in his two lives, Trafalgar felt hope.
Trafalgar wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, cheeks still damp, chest still trembling from emotion. He took one last breath, savoring the mana-filled air, and let out a soft, shaky laugh.
Then it hit him.
His face froze.
His eyes narrowed.
'Wait… I never wiped.'
The epiphany landed with crushing weight.
He turned his head slowly toward the doorway, then back toward the mirror. Then to the floor. Then up again.
'You absolute idiot,' he groaned internally, dragging a hand down his face. 'You reincarnate with a perfect body and the first thing you do is sprint across the castle with a dirty ass.'
With all the grace of a noble heir who had just experienced a spiritual awakening, Trafalgar climbed off the stool, shuffled down the corridor with stiff dignity, and returned to the bathroom stall he'd been reborn in.
The stone seat looked a little less mystical now.
He sat down again, shaking his head.
'Second life or not… hygiene still matters.'
He sighed, finishing the job properly this time—because miracles or not, no one wants to start their legend smelling like shit.
Freshly cleaned and emotionally recalibrated, Trafalgar stepped into his chamber—a modest room tucked into the northern wing of the Morgain estate. Though still young in this body, his movements were calm.
He went straight to the wooden wardrobe, opened it, and reached for what he already knew was inside.
A long-sleeved tunic of deep navy blue.
He pulled it from the hanger, holding it up briefly as if seeing it for the first time. The fabric was simple but well made, its color darker than the ocean, almost like the night sky before a storm.
He slipped it on carefully, the sleeves still slightly long on his small frame.
It had always been his color.
Not because it matched the Morgain crest or represented some noble ideal—but because it was the one thing he could wear that made him feel like… himself.
He stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror.
Black hair, falling messily around his face.
Navy-blue eyes, sharp and deep like ink swirling through water.
'They were gold and platinum,' he thought quietly, remembering the others. 'Hair like sunlight, eyes like polished amber…'
His fingers clenched.
'I was the night in a family of daylight, literally the dark sheep.'
The bastard. The wrong shade. The flaw.
Trafalgar closed the door behind him with a soft click.
His room was quiet—almost sacred in its stillness. The walls were lined with shelves packed with worn books, scrolls, and notes he had memorized over the years wandering the halls of the Morgain library. Even if no one had ever truly taught him, he had studied. Obsessed over theory. Devoured every scrap of magical knowledge he could get his hands on.
Because it was all he had.
He crossed the room, picked up an old leather-bound tome titled "Foundations of Mana Flow", then paused.
He didn't need to open it.
He already knew every page.
Instead, he sat down cross-legged on the floor, resting his small hands over his chest. His eyes drifted shut.
The air felt alive.
Mana was everywhere—subtle, shifting, infinite.
He reached for it not with his fingers, but with his breath, his mind, his will. He drew it in softly, cautiously, holding it close to his center like a fragile ember.
'Form the circle. Seal it. Don't let it escape…'
The process was slow, delicate. Forming a mana core wasn't like casting a spell—it was the foundation for everything that would come after. It required discipline. Patience. Absolute control.
He felt the first threads of mana brushing against his inner self, tentative, curious, responding to his focus.
Not enough to spark a core yet.
But enough to begin.
A long silence followed as he breathed in rhythm, unmoving, immersed in stillness.
'I never had the chance before… but now, I can finally make it!!!'
The scene faded to darkness.
And the boy who had died a bastard began his second life—alone in a quiet room, breathing magic for the very first time.