The silence around him broke like shattered glass.
His eyes opened—not with fear, not confusion, but certainty. The dimly lit ceiling above him was unfamiliar, and yet... he knew. He knew this was not a dream. Not anymore.
He was alive.
Or rather, reborn.
A quiet energy surged through his small body—dense, alive, divine. His limbs were light, brimming with something he had never felt before in that cursed life.
Strength.
Real, untamed, unfiltered strength.
There was no celebration in his expression, no wonder. Just a quiet shift of the eyes, a sharp inhale, and a stillness that came only with those who had seen too much to be surprised anymore.
The memories of hell still echoed faintly—flickers of fire and frost, twisted landscapes shaped by his own buried nightmares. He hadn't even known his name when he fell into that abyss. The gods, or whatever they were, had given him a choice:
"Remain here, and be forgotten. Or go back—start from the beginning. But you will remember nothing."
He had chosen.
And now, here he was, three months old, not even at the age when most children knew their own strength—but already a beginner of the First Rank.
His divine energy churned beneath the surface of his skin, cool and vast.
Resistance to poison, enhanced regeneration, sharpened senses—gifts he didn't recall earning, but instinctively understood as his own.
But there was something more.
Something dangerous.
A core.
Too early, too soon—normally, children would form one only at eight. But Elarion had already begun. He sat cross-legged, drawing in the raw spiritual threads within his veins, condensing them, forming a core the size of a pearl—small, but fiercely compact.
Carefully, he wrapped it in divine energy, sealing it completely.
Nobody could ever know.
The door creaked.
He paused, eyelids lowering to feign sleep.
Footsteps approached softly—the head of Crimsonveil.
The head stood at the doorway, gaze warm, proud. Elarion didn't move.
He stepped closer, knelt beside the bed, and brushed his fingers gently through his son's silver hair.
"You're growing fast... aren't you?" he whispered.
A smile.
He stood up and left.
The moment the footsteps faded, Elarion's eyes opened. Cold. Flat.
Damn, he ruined it.
He sat up, brushed his hand over the strands that had been touched, realigning each as if restoring some lost order.
He would look flawless. Always.
Because in this life—this second chance—he would be beautiful. Untouched. Worshipped. Not like before. Not like the burned corpse that had been his former self.
Pretty things deserved protection.
That was what the world believed.
Let it believe that.
Let them all fall for that mask.
But behind it, Elarion had no interest in being protected. He would never again be the one shielding others with broken bones and shattered faith. This time—
He would protect them.
Those who deserved it.
Especially her.
He didn't forget, just because he don't care doesn't mean that he will forget.
No matter what had taken from his mind, his heart remembered the feeling. A shadow of someone who had once stood beside him, hands bleeding, eyes determined.
She had remained. Even when the world had burned.
They would meet again. He didn't need it to be dramatic. Just a greeting.
Nothing too genuine, nothing too cold.
But it would be enough.
This time, he wouldn't be the broken one.
He would be the hand they all reached for—and the hand that never let go.
Because now, he remembered his name.
Elarion.
And this time, he would make sure the world remembered it too.
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