Chapter 3 :Ezra Aurelius
Warmth.
That was the first thing John Smith felt.
John Smith's final breath on Earth was a whisper, barely audible over the sterile hum of the hospital machines. His frail body, beaten down by relentless sickness, trembled one last time beneath the thin hospital blanket, and then stillness came.
But death was not the end.
A surge of warmth—an unearthly light—pulled him from the shadowed edge of oblivion. His eyes, heavy with pain and the weight of years, flickered open to a world drenched in golden light and the scent of blooming jasmine.
He was swaddled in fabrics that felt impossibly soft and fine, like threads spun from sunlight itself. A gentle hand cradled him—not cold and clinical like the doctors who had tended him, but warm, loving, almost reverent.
"Ezra…"
The voice was soft, carrying a tender strength that sent a shiver racing down his spine. There was a melody to it, like rustling leaves stirred by a gentle breeze, promising more than mere words could convey.
John's mind struggled to grasp the reality before him. The face above him was unlike any he had seen—a woman whose radiant golden hair cascaded around her like a halo, her eyes shimmering with ancient wisdom and quiet sorrow. They held stories that spanned centuries, the dying embers of a world he had only ever imagined.
"Ezra Aurelius," she whispered again, "our son, the hope of House Aurelius."
The name struck John like a thunderclap, reverberating through the chamber and echoing through the depths of his mind. Ezra Aurelius.
A name from his own creation. A name he had penned with weary fingers in a hospital room, weaving a story to give others hope when he himself had none. The irony was rich and bitter—he was no longer the architect of dreams but merely a pawn within one of them.
He was inside his novel.
And not as the hero.
Not as the savior.
He was the villain.
The minor villain, a character destined to stand against the light, a shadow cast by the heroes' brilliance.
Suddenly, his heart pounded against the confines of his new existence, echoing the despair festering within.
A cold wave of despair washed over him as he realized the gravity of his situation.
How? Why?
John's thoughts tumbled, fragmented and chaotic. Memories of his life—lonely nights in the orphanage, the burning desire to escape through stories, the fevered hours typing in pain—collided with flashes of this new reality.
A profound sense of irony enveloped him as he considered the plight of his fictional counterpart, who had struggled and plotted against the protagonists that John had once lovingly crafted.
He was no longer John Smith, the dying writer.
He was Ezra Aurelius, child of the Sun Elves, heir to a great and ancient house in a world that stretched beyond imagination.
From the confines of his infant body, he felt instinctual knowledge thrumming beneath his skin, like a pulse of magic waiting to be awakened. It was as if the very land itself had imprinted its essence within him, beckoning him to embrace his true heritage.
The walls of the chamber shimmered with light, carved from sunstone and gold. Each beam of sunlight fractured into a thousand rainbows that danced on the polished marble floor, reflecting colors alive with history and promise.
The air was thick with magic and history, humming softly like a heartbeat that resonated with the life force of this vibrant realm.
Around him, the palace breathed with quiet grandeur, its opulence a stark contrast to the starkness of the hospital. Spires rose like fingers reaching to the heavens, carved with runes older than any language John had ever studied—sacred inscriptions that told tales of heroes and tragedies, the triumphs and failures of those who had come before him.
The faint scent of amber and jasmine wove through the air, grounding him even as his mind soared into confusion.
Beyond the chamber's heavy doors, he could hear the distant murmur of a bustling city—a capital unlike any he had imagined, where elves of every kind gathered under the banner of House Aurelius. Here, the streets were alive with a delicate harmony: the somber grace of the Dark Elves, who moved like shadows beneath twilight canopies; the ethereal presence of the Moon Elves, who seemed to dance beneath the silver glow of eternal moons; and the deep-rooted strength of the Nature Elves, whose connection to the living earth thrummed with every step.
But at the very heart of this vibrant realm, bathing all others in a warm, golden light, were the Sun Elves—the noble, proud lineages whose cities shimmered like fallen stars. It was here, on the central continent, that House Aurelius held its seat of power, a dynasty steeped in privilege and expectation, ruling with grace but carrying the weight of millennia.
John—no, Ezra—could feel the weight of his new existence pressing against his chest. Here was a world brimming with potential, yet he was fated to play the role of the villain, forever cast into the shadows of those who bore the light.
He was wrapped in silks finer than any earthly fabric, but their softness only deepened the sense of fragility, of unfamiliarity. His infant hands twitched, a spark of something ancient and divine flickering faintly beneath delicate skin, awakening instincts unrecognized yet deeply rooted.
He grappled with the conflict within him—a writer who had etched characters into existence now trapped as one, his heart beating with the very cadence of a story unfolding anew.
He tried to remember the moments before this awakening—the hospital room, the cold white walls, the crushing weight of sickness and fear that had become his constant companions.
He remembered the stories he had written, pouring his soul into a world where a human-dragon hybrid fought a godking of time, and the fierce hope that had burned within him—the desperate desire to leave something behind.
And now, here he was, reborn in that very world—but trapped in the body of a boy destined to be a villain.
A tear welled in the corner of his eye, though he could not yet cry.
The reality that had so painfully shaped his prior existence threatened to suffocate him beneath the weight of his new reality.
Why me?
Why this fate?
But beneath the shock and despair, a stubborn flame kindled deep inside—a flicker of defiance against the cosmic arrangement of his life.
His destiny was not set in stone.
He had the power to reshape his narrative.
If fate had woven this thread, he would not be its puppet.
He would rewrite his role.
He would rise from the shadows cast upon him.
His story was not over.
It was only beginning.