Sylas(pov)
The night was quiet. But not the comforting kind.
It was the kind of quiet that pressed against your skin — heavy, expectant, like the world was waiting for something to break.
Sylas lay in bed, eyes open, staring at the cracked ceiling of the Eriden manor's west wing — the one no one entered except him.
The moonlight poured through a half-drawn curtain, casting silver streaks across the stone floor.
His hands were folded over his chest, unmoving, as if even sleep refused to take him tonight.
And then—
It began again.
That… feeling.
---
It started a few weeks ago. Subtle at first.
Like echoes in a cave. Faint memories that weren't his — or at least not from this life.
A desk made of plastic, not oak. A glowing screen. A silent apartment filled with books and regret. The smell of burnt coffee and winter dust.
He didn't see it clearly. Not yet.
But he felt it.
The weight of isolation. The burn of effort. The hunger for approval. The crushing emptiness that followed failure.
And above it all — the world's quiet judgment.
The silence of people turning away.
The sharpness of their eyes when he stopped being "useful."
---
Sylas didn't know who he'd been.
But he remembered this:
What the world does to those who fall.
---
He remembered struggling to keep up, day after day.
Not for fame. Not for greatness.
But because it felt like the only way to matter.
And when that effort failed?
Everything — everyone — turned to smoke.
---
His breath trembled.
A cold sweat rolled down the side of his neck.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face with one hand.
> "Why am I remembering this now…?"
No answer came.
Just the wind brushing the curtains.
---
He stood, feet cold on the stone floor, and walked to the small mirror leaning against the far wall.
He looked at his reflection.
Same pale skin. Same quiet, tired eyes.
But something behind them… had changed.
He was no longer just the overlooked son of a dying house.
Somewhere — somehow — another life had bled into him.
A life that had burned itself to ashes trying to be enough.
And failed.
---
He clenched the sides of the mirror. His voice came out quieter than a whisper.
> "I don't want to be like him."
He didn't mean the version of himself that failed.
He meant the version that gave up after.
---
In this world, too, he was already forgotten.
He was already dismissed.
Laughed at. Ignored.
But now he knew what came after the fall.
He knew the cold silence. The collapse. The endless hunger to be seen.
And for the first time in either life — he asked himself a different question.
> Not "How can I prove myself?"
But: "Who am I if I stop trying to be what others want?"
---
The question lingered.
Like a candle's smoke long after the flame.
---
Over the next few days, he changed.
Not in any obvious way. He still spoke little. Still drifted through the manor like a shadow.
But he stopped watching Kaien from the balcony.
He stopped waiting for someone to acknowledge him.
Instead, he began listening — not to others, but to himself.
---
In the old library, he no longer just memorized spells or formulas. He studied magic that resonated — spells rooted in emotion, memory, structure, identity.
In the broken greenhouse, he planted forgotten herbs, watching how they reacted to his mana flow.
In the training hall, after everyone left, he walked the arena alone — not to spar, but to understand how his body moved, how his breath shifted, how to feel present.
---
He didn't crave power.
He craved understanding.
Not of the world. But of himself.
What made him hesitate?
Why did he shrink when someone raised their voice?
Why did he apologize even when he hadn't done anything wrong?
Why did he flinch at the sound of footsteps behind him?
---
And slowly, he began to answer those questions.
Not all at once.
But piece by piece.
Like gathering the broken fragments of a name he'd once lost.
---
One night, he sat beneath the old willow in the courtyard — the one his mother used to sit under when she was still lucid.
He lit a single flame in his palm, shaping it gently with mana, letting it curl like a ribbon.
No chants. No violence. Just quiet control.
> "What do I want?"
The flame flickered.
> "Not revenge. Not recognition. Not legacy."
The flame brightened.
> "I want… to know who I could become. If I stopped hiding."
---
That thought…
Felt like his.
Not from the past life.
Not from the Eriden bloodline.
Just his.
---
He didn't need to scream.
He didn't need to burn the world down.
He just needed to exist on his own terms.
That would be enough.
More than enough.
---
The stars blinked above him. Quiet and vast.
He smiled — just barely.
And for the first time in years…
He didn't feel small beneath them.
---
End of Chapter