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Chapter 1 - The Last Dawn of Arsus

The wind swept through the broken shrine on the hill. Its stone pillars had long cracked and faded, half-swallowed by creeping vines. At the center sat an old man, his white robe torn and his hands trembling as he tried to light a small fire.

Arsus exhaled, the sound dry and shallow. "Even fire forgets me now." His voice was faint, swallowed by the cold.

He had once been the Sword Saint of Veyra, the man who ended wars and slew monsters that destroyed kingdoms. People once called him "The Immortal Blade," believing no disease or god could take him. But the world moved on. Kingdoms rebuilt. New heroes rose. And Arsus, burdened by age and fading strength, disappeared from memory.

The fire finally sparked, small and weak. Arsus smiled at it as if greeting an old friend.

He gazed at the rusted sword leaning against the wall beside him. Its edge was chipped, its once-brilliant runes now faint scratches. "You and I, both old fools."

He closed his eyes. The wind carried fragments of his memories—cheers of crowds, banners raised high, comrades laughing around campfires. Faces blurred together. Many were gone. The few still living had families, titles, and new lives. None visited the hill where he stayed.

His fingers brushed the blade's hilt. "Do you remember, Valen? That last battle in the Crimson Fields? You said we'd die together." His voice cracked. "You kept your word too early."

A cough seized him. Blood stained his sleeve. He wiped it away with irritation, not fear. He had known for months his body was failing. The healers refused to see him. The temples said the gods had turned away.

He was fine with that. He never fought for gods.

He dragged himself outside, leaning on his sword like a cane. The sunrise painted the horizon gold. Below the hill lay the ruins of a village once named Arven, the first he ever saved. Now, only ghosts remained in the quiet breeze.

A small bird landed near him, tilting its head. Arsus chuckled. "Still got an audience. Guess that counts for something."

He looked to the sky. "If there's another life, maybe I'll do it right next time. No wars, no glory. Just peace."

The air shifted.

A faint whisper brushed his ears. It wasn't human. Not quite divine either. "Would you take that chance, forgotten one?"

Arsus froze. His grip tightened. "Who's there?"

Silence. Then a warmth filled his chest, strange and heavy.

"You sought meaning beyond the blade," the voice said. "Your soul still burns. It does not end here."

He laughed, the sound rough. "Don't mock me. My time's over."

The light grew brighter. It wrapped around him, soft as dawn. The cold left his bones. His sword slipped from his fingers, striking the ground.

Arsus fell to his knees, gasping. For the first time in years, he felt no pain. "So this is it... death?"

The voice answered, gentle but distant. "Not death. Renewal."

He tried to speak but the light swallowed everything. The ruined shrine, the morning sky, even his breath—gone.

And then there was silence.

When he opened his eyes, he wasn't on the hill anymore.

He lay on a dirt floor, the smell of smoke and old wood filling his nose. His hands were small, his skin smooth. Panic hit him. He looked around, confused. A frail woman stood nearby, her face tired yet kind.

"Thank the stars," she said softly. "You're awake, little one."

Arsus blinked. "Little... one?" His voice was young, high-pitched.

The woman smiled. "You fainted again, poor thing. The village healer said you're too weak. You should rest."

Arsus stared at his reflection in a cracked bowl of water beside him. A child, maybe five years old, with dark hair and gray eyes that felt too familiar. His heart pounded.

"What in the—" He stopped himself. His mind raced.

He touched his chest. The weak heartbeat felt new, fragile, alive.

A slow grin spread across his face. "So this is what you meant."

The woman tilted her head. "Hmm?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, forcing a smile. "Thank you."

She nodded and left to fetch water.

When she was gone, Arsus sat up, staring at his hands again. His expression changed from disbelief to quiet determination.

"Alright then," he muttered. "I don't know whose body this is, but we're in this together." He clenched his fist. "Let's make sure you don't end up forgotten."

Outside, the sound of villagers working filled the air—voices, laughter, life. Arsus felt something he hadn't in years.

Hope.

He leaned back and whispered to himself, "The world gave me another chance. This time, I'll live for more than the sword."

The wind blew through the open window, carrying the scent of morning.

The old hero was gone. But his soul burned again, hidden in the heart of a child who would one day rise beyond fate itself.

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