Aerin did not leave the room immediately.
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the stone floor as if it might explain what had happened to him.
It didn't.
Instead, his breathing slowly evened out—steady, controlled. Not the shallow gasps of someone who had just escaped death, but the measured rhythm of a body that felt… healthy.
That alone unsettled him.
The previous owner of this body had lived with weakness. That much was clear from the memories lingering at the edges of his mind: frequent exhaustion, a constant tightness in the chest, the quiet acceptance that running, fighting, or even prolonged effort were things meant for others.
Aerin stood.
No dizziness.
No pain.
No trembling limbs.
He rolled his shoulders experimentally, then clenched his fist. Strength answered him—modest, but real. The kind of strength built into bone and muscle, not borrowed from adrenaline.
"So the disease is really gone," he murmured.
He crossed the room and stopped in front of a tall mirror set into the wardrobe door.
The face staring back at him was unfamiliar, yet already difficult to separate from himself.
Seventeen.
Clean features.
Black hair that fell just short of his eyes.
Fair skin, untouched by hardship.
Above-average height, though the frame was still lean—more potential than presence.
Not weak.
Just unfinished.
He lifted a hand and touched his cheek, half-expecting the reflection to resist.
It didn't.
"This is me now," he said quietly.
The words carried no excitement. No despair. Just acceptance.
A knock sounded at the door.
He stiffened.
"—Aerin?" a woman's voice called. "Are you awake?"
Another memory surfaced immediately.
Mireya Solvane.
His aunt.
The one who had taken him in after his parents' death.
A merchant by trade. Practical. Warm, but often worried.
"I'm up," Aerin replied after a brief pause.
The door opened, and the woman stepped inside carrying a small tray. She stopped the moment her eyes met his.
For a heartbeat, she just stared.
Then the tray rattled slightly in her hands.
"You're… standing," she said.
Her voice wasn't shocked. It was careful. Afraid that noticing too much might break something fragile.
"I feel better," Aerin answered.
It was the truth—just not the whole one.
She set the tray down slowly on the desk, eyes never leaving his face. Up close, he noticed the faint lines of fatigue around her eyes, the way her shoulders seemed perpetually tense.
"You said that yesterday too," she said gently. "And the day before."
"I know."
He hesitated, then straightened his posture slightly—not as a show, but instinctively.
"This time is different."
Mireya frowned.
She stepped closer, placing a hand against his forehead, then his cheek, then his wrist. Her movements were brisk, professional—someone who had done this too many times.
"You're warm," she muttered. "But not feverish. Your pulse is steady."
Her hand paused at his wrist.
"…Stronger," she added quietly.
Aerin met her eyes.
He didn't smile. Didn't joke. Didn't promise miracles.
"I think," he said carefully, "I'm not sick anymore."
Silence filled the room.
Mireya's fingers tightened.
"Don't say that lightly," she warned, though her voice wavered. "You know what the healers said."
"I know what they said," Aerin replied.
And he did—through borrowed memory. Chronic. Incurable. Manageable at best.
But he also knew what he felt now.
Alive.
Mireya withdrew her hand and turned away, blinking rapidly.
"…Eat," she said, voice steadier than her expression. "You'll be late for class."
Class.
Another thread of memory settled into place.
An academy city.
A general education high school tied to awakening pathways.
A place where talent was noticed—and lack of it quietly discarded.
Aerin nodded. "I won't skip."
She paused at the door, glancing back at him.
"If you feel unwell—"
"I'll tell you," he said.
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
Aerin sat at the desk and looked down at the simple breakfast laid out before him.
Bread. Steamed vegetables. A small bowl of clear soup.
He ate slowly, thoughtfully.
So this was Vallorae.
A world where strength mattered, awakenings defined futures, and even students were quietly measured and ranked long before they understood the rules of the game.
And he—
No system.
No guidance.
No advantage he could rely on openly.
Just a borrowed life, a healthy body, and time.
He finished the meal and stood, adjusting the simple uniform laid out for him. As he fastened the collar, his fingers brushed against the skin at the base of his neck.
There was… something there.
Not pain. Not discomfort.
Just the faintest sensation—like a scar that hadn't finished forming.
He frowned, reached back, and felt smooth skin.
Nothing.
"…Probably imagining things," he muttered.
He grabbed his bag and stepped out into the corridor.
Outside, the city of Vallorae waited.
And for the first time since waking up in this world, Aerin felt a quiet certainty settle in his chest.
He would not rush.
Whatever this world demanded of him, he would answer on his own terms—slowly, deliberately, and without wasting the second life he had been given.
The echoes were still faint.
But they were there.
Waiting.