Just before dawn, a lone horse stumbled out of the forest and entered the outskirts of a small coastal village.
Anyone who saw it would have been horrified. The creature looked as if death clung to its every breath. Large patches of flesh on its legs were blackened and rotting, as if poisoned. Claw marks tore across its flank, and the most gruesome wound was on its stomach—a massive gash where flesh was simply gone, leaving only blood and torn muscle behind.
Despite its condition, the horse moved forward with unyielding determination. Tied to its saddle was a cloth basket, untouched by the carnage around it, as though the beast had protected it with every last ounce of life it had left.
This dying warrior was Falcon… and on his back, nestled within the basket, lay a helpless infant—Atharva.
Atharva slowly tilted his head, exhaustion flooding his tiny body. Finally… perhaps this was the end of the nightmare journey. His entire being ached, not just from his infant form's weakness but from the sheer terror of the previous day.
The assassins had been right—the jungle was a death trap. Only sheer luck had kept them alive:
First, Atharva was not a cultivator. Powerful beasts ignored him, sensing no spirit energy.Second, Falcon had stuck to the outermost edges of the forest, avoiding the true horrors within.Third, Falcon's blood carried the faint lineage of a monster, making lesser creatures hesitant to approach.And lastly, Falcon remembered the way home. Like a lost dog returning to its master, it followed some instinct, a memory imprinted deep within, guiding them to this place.
If not for those miracles, Atharva would already be dead. The assassins hadn't known about Falcon's existence. If that other woman had found out… he shivered. His life truly hung by a single thread.
But now, that thread was fraying. Falcon's breathing grew ragged, each step slower than the last, yet it refused to stop. The loyalty of this beast—this dying guardian—was beyond anything Atharva could have imagined.
From the hill they stood on, the village unfolded below. Even under the dim light of a sun yet to rise, it looked breathtaking. Houses lay scattered across rolling green fields, each surrounded by patches of farmland. A small port rested at the water's edge, with two or three fishing boats tied to its wooden dock.
It was… peaceful. So different from the polluted, crowded cities of Atharva's past life. Here, the air felt clean, untouched by greed or war. For a fleeting moment, his heart felt calm.
But Falcon's labored breath reminded him of reality. Each step the horse took toward the village gate was slower, weaker. Blood dripped onto the dirt path, marking their trail of suffering.
At last, Falcon stopped in front of a modest two-story house. To the left stood a large open workshop filled with hammers, swords, bows, and a forge with its own chimney—a blacksmith's workplace. To the right, a small stable held cows, buffalo, and a few healthy horses, quietly resting in the pre-dawn stillness.
No one was awake. No one saw the dying steed collapse at the doorstep. With a final desperate neigh, Falcon fell to its side, the impact knocking Atharva's small body to the ground. Luckily, he wasn't hurt.
The house door burst open. An elderly woman rushed out, her gray hair loose around her shoulders. The moment her eyes fell on the horse, she froze, then screamed in grief:
"Falcon! What happened to you?!"
But the loyal beast no longer breathed.
Her gaze darted frantically around until it landed on the overturned basket. She dropped to her knees, pulling it open—and gasped. Inside was a blood-stained letter. A baby lay there, alive, wide-eyed, yet trembling.
Beside him was a folded piece of skin parchment, blotched with dried blood. With trembling hands, the old woman picked it up and began to read, her voice barely a whisper…
The old woman's hands shook as she unrolled the blood-speckled parchment. Her lips quivered as she read the words aloud, voice breaking with each line:
"Dear Mother… if you are reading this letter, it means I am no longer of this world. At least now, I can join my beloved husband in the afterlife."
Tears blurred her vision, yet she forced herself to keep going.
"I know I was never blessed with a child of my own. My body would not allow it, no matter how much I wished otherwise. You tried to keep it from me, but I knew… I knew that my little Milo was born stillborn. But tell me, Mother… must blood decide who we call family? This child, this precious little one you see before you… he is my son, my young master, my everything."
Her breath hitched, the parchment trembling violently in her grasp.
"I am selfish, I know. But in my final moments, I can only ask this of you: take care of him as you once cared for me. Raise him as your grandson. Let him live, even if I could not. And… tell Father that even though I may not have been the daughter he wished for… in my heart, he was always the best father any girl could dream of. Please… tell him not to hate me for leaving this world so soon."
The letter ended abruptly, as though time had run out.
By now, tears streamed freely down the old woman's wrinkled face, dripping onto the letter. She lowered it slowly, her body trembling as grief swallowed her whole.
Beside her, the baby let out a soft whimper, sensing the sorrow in the air. And then, unable to contain it anymore, he began to cry—loud, heart-wrenching sobs that echoed the pain in her heart.
Atharva wasn't crying because of discomfort or fear. He understood every word. In his past life, he had seen death, loss, and betrayal… but this letter pierced something deeper than all of that. A woman had given her life to protect him, and this grieving grandmother had lost her daughter forever because of him.
"Would she still accept me?" he thought through his tears. "I'm not her blood. I'm the reason her daughter died… what right do I have to stay?"
But before he could sink further into guilt, warmth enveloped him. The old woman had scooped him up and pulled him tightly to her chest. Her lips trembled, but her voice was soft and full of unwavering resolve:
"Don't cry, little one… your Granny is here now. I'll take care of you. I'll protect you."
Atharva froze, stunned. And then his tiny hands clutched her clothes, his sobs breaking into hiccups. It had been so long since someone had held him like this… since someone had promised to stay by his side without asking for anything in return.
The loyalty of a horse, the sacrifice of a mother, and now the unconditional embrace of a grieving grandmother… this family had given him more than he deserved. And though he couldn't yet speak the words aloud, a vow was quietly etched into his heart:
He would not fail them. Not in this life.
Before stepping inside, the old woman turned to the fallen horse lying lifeless at her doorstep. Her heart ached anew. Falcon… that loyal beast had given everything to bring her daughter's last wish home.
Placing Atharva gently on the bed inside, she returned to the doorway, knelt beside Falcon, and stroked his blood-matted mane. Her voice cracked as she whispered:
"Farewell, Falcon… you protected my Anne until your very last breath. She would be proud of you."
With trembling hands, she closed his lifeless eyes, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead as tears slipped down her weathered cheeks.
For the next hour, Atharva heard the sound of her struggling outside—dragging the horse's heavy body, gathering tools, digging through stubborn earth. He couldn't move to help, only lie there, silent, listening to every painful sound of devotion.
When she finally came back inside, her face was streaked with sweat and dirt, but her eyes carried the weight of love and grief intertwined. She picked him up and carried him outside to the backyard.
There, in a small garden surrounded by flowers, stood four mounds of earth, each marked with a rough stone slab. Three bore names etched by hand:
Solvian – Loving SonLucian – Dearest to Anne and Faithful Son-in-lawThe last two were blank, waiting silently for names that fate had claimed too soon.
The old woman knelt before the empty mounds. With a colored powder on her fingers, she carefully inscribed:
Dearest Daughter AnneFalcon the Faithful
When the final letters were drawn, she bowed low, her forehead touching the soil. Her body shook as muffled sobs escaped her lips.
Atharva crawled forward on unsteady limbs, his tiny hands sinking into the dirt. He didn't understand prayer in this new world, but he understood loss. Pressing his small forehead to the cold earth beside hers, he silently promised: I will remember you both. I will carry your names in my heart.
The old woman turned to see him mimicking her actions, tears running silently down his cheeks. Something broke inside her then—not from pain, but from a fragile, tender warmth she thought she'd never feel again. She scooped him into her arms, hugging him close as she whispered:
"Let's go, my sweet darling… let's get you something to eat."
Inside the house, Atharva's thoughts churned as he looked around at this humble home filled with memories of a family broken by fate.
"What a cruel destiny this is," he thought. "To lose so much, to suffer so deeply… yet still have enough love left to give to a stranger like me."
He tightened his small fists. "This family… my family now… will never know despair again if I can help it."
The sun slipped past noon, casting a warm glow through the house's wooden windows. Granny spent the afternoon tending to Atharva, feeding him soft food, rocking him gently, whispering words meant to soothe her own heart as much as his.
She told him stories of family—of a kind yet reckless brother-in-law whose only son would be arriving soon. "You'll have a brother to play with," she murmured with a hopeful smile, her wrinkled hands stroking his tiny head. "Even if he's not your blood, you'll have each other."
For a brief moment, Atharva's heart warmed. In his previous life, he had never known the bond of a sibling. This new world… perhaps it would give him what the last had stolen.
But when night fell, Grandpa did not return. Granny paced the room, worry etched deep into her face. Atharva watched silently, unease gnawing at his chest. He didn't know why, but dread clung to the air.
It wasn't until dawn's first light that a battered, tattered ship docked at the port. Its sails were torn, its hull slashed by claws, and its very presence reeked of bloodshed. Survivors limped ashore, many wounded, many haunted.
Among them, an old man trudged forward, his hammer hanging loosely in one hand, and in the other… a baby, limp and cold.
He barely saw the crowd whispering around him. His steps were heavy, leaden, every movement drenched in grief. Thoughts tormented his mind. Should I bury him mid-way and pretend he never lived? No… he was my blood. My grandson. How could I betray him like that…?
When he reached his home, he hesitated at the door, his hand trembling mid-air. Finally, with all the courage he had left, he knocked. The door opened. Granny's eyes fell to the bundle in his arms. She froze. The truth hit her like lightning.
"I failed…" the old man whispered, his voice breaking as he collapsed to his knees.
The house filled with weeping. Atharva awoke to the sound of grief that could shatter hearts. He didn't need to see to know what had happened. In this life as in the last, fate denied him a brother.
Later, Granny handed the blood-stained letter to Grandpa. When he read Anne's final words, his body shook, his face crumpling. "Silly girl," he sobbed. "In every life, you will always be my daughter. Only a blessed father could have a child like you… I'm sorry… I couldn't protect you."
When his teary eyes finally turned toward Atharva, hesitation clouded them. He stepped outside with Granny, voices raised in a desperate argument that Atharva couldn't make out.
Minutes later, the old man returned alone, his face a mask of conflict. He knelt in front of the baby, his large, calloused hands trembling as he picked him up. His eyes were filled with guilt, sorrow… and a strange kind of determination.
"Kid…" his voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. "Forgive this old fool. You're too beautiful, too noble-looking. No one would believe you're the grandson of a blacksmith. If your pursuers come… they'll find you in an instant. I can't let that happen."
Atharva stared at the knife in Grandpa's hand. A strange calmness settled over his heart. "So this is it… after everything they've done for me, if this is the price to keep them safe, I'll pay it.". I should have died long ago anyway…
The blade drew a deep, burning line from the top of his right forehead, skimming past his eyebrow, and cutting down to his cheek. Blood ran warm over his face. More slashes followed, rough and unrefined, until his once-handsome baby features were marred by cruel scars." Now no one will recognize you"
The moment the first scar was made, he knew that grandpa was not trying to kill him and only disfiguring his face..
He didn't cry. Didn't even flinch. To fake tears would only hurt the man more, and to shed real ones would feel unworthy of the love this family had shown. After all this, the family still wants to take care of him, so what if they disfigured his face? It is only for his own good at that.
When it was over, Grandpa dropped the knife, his hands shaking as he looked at the silent child. A flicker of awe passed through his eyes—this baby understood. Somehow, he understood.
Moments later, Granny stormed in, eyes blazing with anger and heartbreak. She swept Atharva from his arms, applying herbal ointment to his wounds, tears dripping onto his small face.
After some time…
Atharva stood before the garden, his grandmother's hand clasped tightly in his.
Beside them, an old man gazed intently at a small, barely distinguishable mound. As he placed a comforting arm around Atharva's grandmother, she leaned her head against him, seeking solace.
The old man's voice was soft yet resolute as he spoke, "I'm sorry, my dear, but we cannot mark our grandson's resting place with a tombstone. The whole village saw me return with a child; they must believe he's still alive." By leaving no trace of Atharv Ignis, we ensure his safety from those who might seek him. We must also erase any memory of Falcon."
A thunderclap echoed in Atharva's mind. Who was he to them? To protect him, they had buried their last blood beneath a nameless mound.
This gift… this sacrifice… was beyond measure, one that could not easily be repaid in a single lifetime.
He felt the weight of the old man's pain, understanding it on a profound level. The thought crossed his mind—what if he were to mar his own visage? He realized that, despite everything, he would willingly give his life if it meant safeguarding this old man.
Until that moment, his feelings had been reserved primarily for his grandmother, but now, in this new life, the bond felt even stronger, more intense.
For the first time, the brilliant scientist realized that his family was with him. It was as if a thread connecting him to his past had snapped, releasing him into a sense of belonging.
Determination ignited in his eyes as he buried the name Atharva Ignis deep within his heart. He felt neither affection nor attachment to it; today marked the death of that identity. From now on, he vowed to erase the Ignis bloodline from existence.
Lost in his thoughts, he suddenly felt warm droplets on his head. Turning, he saw his grandmother weeping softly.
He took her hand in his small, comforting grip and, for the first time in this world, spoke in a voice imbued with childlike innocence:
"Don't cry, Grandma. Your grandson, Milo, will take care of everything."
This was more than a promise; it was a declaration—one to the heavens and to himself.
He had taken his first steps in this world, and a new era was dawning.