Elias sat in the narrow studio the Elden Republic assigned to orphans, legs folded on the thin mattress, back pressed to cool plaster.
His grade E village had fallen when the earth "shifted," wiped out by beasts—animals from old Earth twisted by the System. Creatures that once grazed or stalked at the edges of vision now walked on heavy, armored limbs, carried blades of bone and horn, and in the higher tiers even spoke in rough, humanlike voices.
He waited for his uncle to come get him, his mother's brother from a rank D village.
He remembered everything from the day he was born. Faces over his crib, careful voices, hands that carried authority. He came from an influential family; that truth sat solid in his mind. Something weighty had happened around him back then—raised voices, hurried movements, decisions made in tight, tense moments—but as a baby he caught only fragments and missed the center of it.
His mother disappeared and he moved to the rank E village with his father. He blinked away the tightness that rose with the memory. His father in this life worked hard, laughed easily, and carried him on broad shoulders whenever he had the chance. A solid man. An amazing father.
He learned how not to cry in his last life. Actions carried more value than words.
He had asked once what happened. His father's jaw clenched, eyes turned away, and the subject ended right there. Elias, small and weak at the time, understood he could push only so far.
He decided he would uncover the truth once strength returned to his hands again.
Now he waited for his father's brother, his uncle, to come and get him from the other side of the Elden Republic. Travel overland meant days of risk through the wilds. The safe option was the train, and the next one that stopped at this grade E hub would arrive in six months. Untamed territory still stretched wider than governed cities.
The room carried the usual package: a bed bolted to the floor, a metal wardrobe with a stiff hinge, a squat desk beneath a narrow window that framed a thin slice of training grounds and sky. A compact stove and sink shared a short counter along one wall, with a single cupboard overhead. In the corner, a small enclosed space held a toilet and shower. The studio felt tight yet efficient, every piece close at hand and ready to use—a space built for one person to live, sleep, wash, and cook with minimal steps. White light from twin overhead strips washed every surface in a clean, even glow.
He rolled his shoulders, muscles burning pleasantly from the morning circuit in the training room on the first floor. Rubber mats lifted at the edges and metal frames showed flakes of old paint. Grips felt smooth from years of hands. The simulators along one wall ran at the lowest grade, covering only basic drills, simple target practice, and straightforward movement patterns.
Still far beyond anything he touched in his first life. When the System hit back then, the world jumped straight to apocalypse, like some nightmare difficulty setting flipped on overnight. If humans hadn't learned to bond with beings of Chaos, Order, Nature, and pure Beast, they would have vanished in the opening years.
Black hair fell over his forehead in damp strands, darkened by sweat and clinging lightly to his skin. He brushed it back with two fingers, and hazel eyes met him in the mirror—green gathered around the pupils with a ring of brown at the edge. Harsh light from above traced the fine lines of his features: smooth cheeks, a small straight nose, and a mouth that settled into a calm, firm line when he thought. His gaze held steady weight, a measuring focus that fit an adult far more than a child.
He stood around the middle of the chart for a seven-year-old boy. A narrow frame, light shoulders, and a slim chest, yet regular training carved definition into that outline. Thin cords rose along his arms when he clenched his fists, forearms carrying faint but clear muscle. Bony wrists already showed the start of calluses at the base of his fingers. His legs felt springy under him, thighs and calves firm from sprints, jumps, and squats. Across his stomach, skin lay flat and tight; when he braced his core, subtle lines hinted at future muscle groups. He held himself straight on instinct—back aligned, chin level—the stance of someone who treated his own body as a long-term project.
The Elden Republic governed the scattered islands in the western ocean. After the Shift dragged Earth into System Space, borders twisted, seas gained new weight, and old nations fractured. Elden rose inside that chaos, a uniform and flag over deeper structures. In Elias's thoughts, Elden resembled a framework wrapped around people with real strength—cultivators who shaped policy from higher tiers while visible officials handled speeches, routines, and public work.
They ran life with military precision, a republic shaped around survival and duty. At seven, every child stepped into "school," a year-round grind of six days each week. Every quarter, three months of training, ended with two weeks off so clans, families, corporations, or guilds could pull students home, review progress, and maneuver for better paths.
Lessons began before sunrise. Whistles echoed over courtyards while children formed lines for stretches and sprints. Obstacle courses followed—walls to climb, pits to cross, balance beams that left legs trembling. Doctrine and tactics came next, maps and formations spread across screens and tables, then mathematics and reading to close the schedule. At twelve, scores and evaluations stacked up. At thirteen, placement arrived: "support" school or "battle" school.
Government academies carried most students, yet corporations and guilds funded their own schools as well, hunting for talent early.
His thoughts drifted elsewhere.
He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
He had stood on Earth when the world shifted, when daily life cracked and slid into apocalypse. He lived and fought through that rise of chaos. He went from awkward teenager to the strongest version of himself, fight after fight.
Then he died because he walked through life with a naïve heart and trusted too easily, even at the end.
The memory pressed against his chest, yet the usual burn stayed low. Time spent as a baby in this world gave him room. Room to listen, to watch, to think. Hot anger thinned out over those years, leaving behind something heavier and more stable.
He carried resolve now. A clear line in his mind. This life would move along a different path, and he would shape it from the ground up.
He remembered where it all began.
He had been on a date…