In the haze of exhaustion from endless overtime in my previous life, I collapsed and died—only to awaken once more, my memories of the modern world intact, in a newborn's fragile body. This new world was one of swords and sorcery, a medieval realm where dragons soared over jagged mountains and ancient forests whispered with magic. I was born in a quiet village nestled beside a murmuring river, its cobblestone paths lined with thatched-roof cottages that smelled perpetually of fresh-baked bread and woodsmoke.
When I was twelve, tragedy struck. My parents—both seasoned adventurers with callused hands from wielding sword and staff—ventured into the shadowed Whispering Woods to hunt a rampaging pack of direwolves. They never returned. The village elder brought the news at dusk, his voice heavy as he described the bloodied remnants found at the forest's edge: torn leather armor, the metallic tang of blood still lingering in the air, and the distant howls echoing through the trees like mocking laughter. My mother's gentle laugh and my father's warm, rumbling stories by the hearth were silenced forever. They had been good parents—patient teachers of herb-lore and basic swordplay, their eyes sparkling with pride whenever I mimicked their spells with childish sparks of mana. Grief consumed me for a full year; I barely ate, the world muted to grays, nights filled with choking sobs muffled into my pillow as rain pattered relentlessly on the roof.
Orphaned like my parents before me, with no extended family to claim me, I inherited their modest home—a sturdy timber cabin with creaking floorboards and a garden overgrown with healing herbs—and a small pouch of gold coins from their adventuring days, along with a few enchanted trinkets that hummed faintly with residual magic. It was enough to sustain me. I learned to tend the fields under the scorching summer sun, sweat stinging my eyes as I harvested wheat that rustled like dry bones in the wind. Winters were harsh, the biting cold seeping through cracks in the walls, forcing me to huddle by a crackling fire that filled the room with the sharp scent of pine resin. I hunted rabbits in the misty mornings, the dew-soaked grass cool underfoot, and traded pelts and potions at the village market amid the clamor of haggling voices and the earthy aroma of livestock.
Eight long years passed in quiet solitude, each season etching resilience into my soul. Now, at twenty-five, I am an adult forged by loss and self-reliance—Elarion Thorne, a name I chose for myself from the old tales my parents once shared, evoking the enduring thorns that protect the rarest blooms. The village knows me as a skilled herbalist and occasional monster hunter, my past life's knowledge blending seamlessly with this world's magic, ready for whatever adventures await beyond the river's gentle flow.