Names carried weight.
his previous life, he had discarded his countless times.
Titles replaced it—Archmage, Sovereign of the Circle, Calamity of the West. Names became irrelevant when one's existence alone warped the world.
But this life was different.
This life required roots.
The realization came quietly, on a morning unlike any other.
The village bell rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Urgent—but not panicked.
The Archmage opened his eyes instantly.
Something was happening.
His mother was already awake, hurriedly wrapping a shawl around herself. His father stood near the door, expression tense but composed.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Messenger," his father replied. "From the city."
The Archmage's interest sharpened.
Messengers did not come to villages like this without reason.
Outside, villagers gathered near the central square. A horse stood nearby—well-fed, well-kept. Its rider wore simple but well-made clothing bearing a faint insignia stitched into the collar.
Not a noble.
But not common either.
Administrative authority.
"By order of the regional magistrate," the man announced, voice carrying clearly, "all households are to present their children born within the last three years for registration."
Murmurs spread instantly.
"Registration?"
"Why now?"
The Archmage remained calm.
"…So it begins," he thought.
Population records.
Talent assessment.
A common practice in structured magical societies.
This world was not as backward as he had initially assumed.
His mother stiffened.
"Is this about the beast?" she whispered.
"No," the messenger said, hearing her. "This is standard procedure. Recent disturbances have accelerated the process."
Accelerated.
Meaning something had been flagged.
Perhaps the corrupted forest.
Perhaps the ward anomaly.
Perhaps both.
Regardless, resistance would be foolish.
They lined up.
One by one, families stepped forward. Names were spoken. Ages recorded. Simple mana stones were brought out—crude tools, but sufficient to detect basic aptitude.
The Archmage watched closely.
Most children caused no reaction.
A faint glow here.
A flicker there.
Nothing impressive.
When it was his turn, his mother stepped forward, holding him carefully.
"Name?" the registrar asked, quill poised.
Silence.
His parents exchanged glances.
The Archmage felt it then—a hesitation he had not accounted for.
They had never formally named him.
In the chaos following his birth, in the fear of survival, the name had remained unspoken.
He had been called boy, son, child.
A temporary thing.
The registrar frowned. "They must have a name."
His mother swallowed. "We… hadn't decided yet."
The Archmage considered this.
A name chosen at random would be meaningless.
A name chosen in fear would be weak.
But a name chosen now—under scrutiny, under fate's gaze—would be bound tightly to the path ahead.
He allowed a fraction of intent to surface.
Not mana.
Not power.
Presence.
His mother inhaled sharply.
"…We have," she said suddenly.
Her voice steadied.
"We've decided."
The registrar nodded. "Proceed."
She looked down at him.
For a moment, their eyes met.
Something passed between them—instinct, perhaps. Or destiny.
"His name," she said, "is Aurelian."
The Archmage felt it resonate.
Aurelian.
Derived from aurum—gold.
Light.
Endurance.
A name associated with empires that lasted centuries.
Not overly grand.
Not small.
Balanced.
"…Acceptable," he thought.
The registrar wrote it down.
"Aurelian," the man repeated. "Age?"
"One," his father replied.
The mana stone was brought forward.
The Archmage did not resist.
He allowed the smallest, most harmless reaction possible.
The stone glowed faintly.
A soft blue shimmer.
The registrar blinked.
"…Interesting," he murmured. "Above average."
Above average.
Not genius.
Not prodigy.
Perfect.
The stone dimmed.
"Any magical incidents?" the registrar asked casually.
"No," his father said immediately.
The Archmage approved.
The registrar made a note and moved on.
The process continued.
But something had shifted.
From that moment on, the world had a label for him.
Aurelian.
That night, he tested the name within himself.
"I was once nameless," he reflected. "Now I am bound."
The name did not feel restrictive.
It felt… anchoring.
Good.
Very good.
Days passed.
The mage returned.
Not the same one.
This one was older, sharper, and far more dangerous.
Sixth Circle.
At least.
The Archmage knew immediately.
This man's presence compressed the ambient mana. It obeyed him instinctively, aligning around his form without conscious effort.
An Inspector.
The villagers felt it too.
They bowed.
They avoided his gaze.
He did not waste time.
"I am here to confirm reports," the inspector said. "Regarding abnormal mana behavior."
The Archmage remained in his mother's arms, eyes half-lidded, expression drowsy.
A perfect infant.
The inspector examined the ward remains.
The beast's lingering traces.
Then—
He stopped in front of their home.
His gaze fell on the child.
Sharp.
Piercing.
Not probing.
Measuring.
The Archmage suppressed himself fully.
Soul.
Presence.
Intent.
Everything folded inward.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then—
"…Huh," the inspector murmured.
"What is it?" his father asked carefully.
"Nothing," the man replied slowly. "Just a name."
"A name?" his mother echoed.
"Aurelian," the inspector said. "That name has appeared in old records."
The Archmage's thoughts sharpened.
Old records?
Unlikely coincidence.
More likely linguistic overlap.
Still…
The inspector crouched slightly.
"What do you see, child?" he asked suddenly.
The Archmage blinked.
Looked at him.
Smiled.
Laughed softly.
A meaningless sound.
The inspector studied him for another second
—then stood.
"…Perhaps I'm overthinking," he said.
But his eyes lingered as he left.
That night, the Archmage reviewed every moment.
The name had drawn attention.
Not dangerous.
Yet.
But names echoed.
Especially ancient ones.
He adjusted his suppression again.
Stronger.
Deeper.
From this point on, he would grow under observation.
Which meant—
He would need to learn control far beyond brute force.
The breakthrough came weeks later.
Not during training.
Not during meditation.
But during play.
His mother placed wooden blocks in front of him, encouraging him to stack them.
A pointless exercise.
But repetition revealed patterns.
He reached for a block—
And stopped.
He felt it.
The mana around the object responded to his intent.
Not movement.
Not command.
Expectation.
The block trembled.
Barely.
His heart rate remained calm.
Slowly—carefully—he focused.
The block lifted.
A finger's width.
Then dropped.
No pain.
No backlash.
No instability.
His eyes widened.
"…I see."
This was not spellcasting.
Not circulation.
This was micro-manipulation.
A technique too subtle for most mages to bother mastering.
But for him—
It was perfect.
He repeated it once.
Twice.
Three times.
Always stopping before strain.
By nightfall, he could move objects the size of a pebble.
Silently.
Effortlessly.
"Control before power," he thought. "This world teaches the opposite."
He smiled faintly.
That night, he dreamed.
Not of his past life.
Not of the 10th Circle.
But of a path unfolding slowly, deliberately, without resistance.
When he woke, his resolve was clear.
Aurelian.
That name would not become legend through excess.
It would become legend through inevitability.
Far away, in a city layered with towers and wards, a report was filed.
Subject: Child, village outskirts.
Name: Aurelian.
Mana reading: Slightly above average.
Anomalies: None confirmed.
Recommendation: Monitor at standard intervals.
The document was sealed.
Filed away.
Forgotten.
For now.
Back in the village, a child laughed as a wooden block tipped over.
No one noticed the way the air moved around his fingers.
No one sensed the ancient will refining itself, thread by careful thread.
The world believed it had recorded a name.