I was supposed to be in my car, heading to my Krav Maga class. My plans, however, were derailed by a surreal twist of fate. A black truck pulled up beside me, its presence inconspicuous at first. Then, a searing pain—like hot needles piercing my skin—gripped me. Darkness claimed me in an instant.

  Now, I find myself submerged in an abyss of quiet serenity. It’s a sanctuary, a place where no pain or worry can reach me. Here, the clamor of life fades into peaceful obscurity.

  Once, in this boundless void, I heard a song. It was beautiful, filled with intense love and care. But as suddenly as it began, it stopped, leaving me yearning to hear it again. Other voices soon filled the silence—distant screams, raw with pain and despair.

  Amid the chaos, a soft voice emerged like an echo from the depths: "Calm yourself, Zaattia. Endure it for these last moments."

  The tranquility of the darkness began to fracture. A faint blue light seeped through the cracks, intensifying steadily. My bewilderment grew as another scream pierced the silence, shattering what little peace remained.

  The blue light swelled, flooding my vision. I started to cry, overwhelmed by the harshness of it all.

  "It is a boy," a voice declared, clear and gentle—the same voice I had heard in the void.

  Warm hands cradled me, tender and unfamiliar. I resisted the urge to open my eyes, yearning to retreat back to the safety of darkness. But then I heard her. That beautiful melody returned, no longer distant. The woman’s voice was a lullaby, soft and soothing, wrapping around me like a comforting embrace.

  Curiosity overpowered my reluctance. I opened my eyes.

  She was breathtaking. Her hair was a cascade of raven black, and horns the color of stone blue, speckled with vibrant orange, crowned her head. Striking orange markings, like ancient glyphs, adorned her pale skin, tracing her cheekbones and forehead. Her eyes shimmered like twin topaz gemstones, their glow mesmerizing in the soft blue light.

  I wanted to keep looking at her, to memorize every detail. But the exhaustion was too much. Sleep claimed me once more.

  Two months later…

  My situation is no mistake. I find myself in the body of an infant, confined to a state of helplessness that gnaws at my sanity. The stark contrast between the clarity of my memories and my current existence is jarring. I am a man reborn in a form too weak to do anything but coo, cry, and endure the mush they feed me.

  In moments of frustration, I retreat into my memories—a sanctuary where I can remember who I once was.

  I was 26, working as a loan officer at Pillar Holdings Inc. in Los Angeles. My career was my life. Ambition drove me, and I aspired to climb the corporate ladder, fueled by the belief that hard work and persistence were the keys to success.

  I was firm, even ruthless, in my role. I drew a hard line, particularly with those who couldn’t meet the bank’s requirements. My conviction was unshakable: success had to be earned, not given.

  One client, a 46-year-old man, stood out. He had a criminal record but claimed he had turned his life around with steady work. I didn’t buy it. My decision was final: his loan was denied. The anger on his face—veins bulging, teeth clenched—didn’t sway me. I stood firm, confident in my judgment. Six months of Krav Maga training and a weapons-free office were all the assurance I needed to face any fallout.

  That evening, I left work at 5:30, aiming to make it to my martial arts class. At a red light on the boulevard, a black truck pulled up beside me.

  The windows rolled down.

  Our eyes locked.

  Instinct screamed at me to drive, to get away. But before I could act, a rapid staccato shattered the stillness of the evening. Gunfire.

  The hot needles returned, sharper than before. My body went limp. I slumped forward, my consciousness slipping into that endless void once more.

  I Sighed, but all that emerges is the sound of a child. “It is regrettable that I met my end in such a manner. I had barely scratched the surface of what I had learned from that Krav Maga class. My life was full of potential, only to be cut short by an uneducated, irrational old lunatic. It is deeply unjust.”

  My mother rushes to me as I begin to cry in frustration. She cradles me in her arms and showers me with kisses. “What has angered you, my child?” she asks tenderly. Unveiling her breast to nurse me, the warmth of the milk soothes my throat, and I feel the pull of sleep.

  Cursed be this frail body—unable to last even an hour without succumbing to fatigue. I swear, in this life, I will not be weak—neither for myself nor anyone else.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Four Years Later…

  I have progressed beyond requiring my mother's assistance in walking and speaking, though mastering the language has proven arduous. I navigate a world absent of a fatherly presence—a bitter reality. When I inquired about my father, my questions were met with silence. Zattia, visibly distressed, fled to her room in tears, leaving me with unanswered curiosity.

  My mother’s appearance is humanoid, her features both familiar and alien. Her face bears intricate markings on her cheekbones and forehead, complemented by the presence of horns. These traits serve as a constant reminder that my origins lie far from the mundane.

  The language spoken here is one I am gradually deciphering. It carries rhythms reminiscent of Russian or Portuguese, though its words belong to an entirely different world.

  My mother’s library is a repository of knowledge penned by Daemonium Scholars, with texts spanning history, creatures, and flora. Among the volumes, a particular book captured my interest: "Magi Chorus Caedis." This tome explores the intricacies of Praecantors, mage warriors adept at manipulating magic.

  According to its pages, Praecantors channel their magic through two disciplines: Interius Imperius and Externum Imperius. Mastery of these forms underpins the combat art known as Magicae Tactus. When wielded by a professional, this amalgamation of martial and magical prowess becomes an unstoppable force.

  Despite my attempts to practice, my efforts have been fruitless. In this world, magical abilities manifest at the age of ten for Praecantors, rendering my endeavors premature.

  The differences between my previous life and this one are staggering. Through my circular window, seated on a wooden chair imbued with the scent of lavender, I gaze upon an ethereal landscape. The bluish-purple sky glows softly during the day, inexplicably without a discernible light source. At night, the transformation is otherworldly, revealing a stunning display of celestial phenomena.

  The flora and fauna thrive in luminescence. Blades of grass shimmer with tiny dots of light, while flowers radiate gradients of blue and purple, illuminating the darkness. According to the library's records, our Plateau, Urea, is but one among four—the others being Buquen, Trellis, and Istreon. These plateaus span vast distances across a void, each anchored within a domain encircling them.

  My mother returns home aboard her wagon, drawn by a creature she calls a Gorngaar. This towering beast, taller than a horse, possesses muscular forelimbs armed with menacing spikes. Its hind limbs are shrouded in dense fur, and a striking mane cascades along its formidable back. The creature’s goat-like visage is rendered imposing by its six piercing eyes and a majestic horn crowning its head.

  The wagon itself is an engineering marvel. Constructed of wood and metal, its windows can be sealed completely. A segmented metallic canopy, supported by arching wood and operated by a chain mechanism, adorns the top, shielding the entrance.

  My mother, an Arator, belongs to the farmer class. Gazing down at our farm, I see acres of towering trees with blue leaves bearing fruits known as “Jeto.” These captivating, oval-shaped fruits are speckled with luminescence, their leaves transitioning from deep blue to vibrant yellow-green at the edges.

  Eager to greet my mother, I hurry downstairs, only to be intercepted by Irneas. She seizes my hand, preventing me from bolting out the door. “Let go, Irneas!” I protest, my voice high-pitched with frustration.

  “No! Zattia instructed me to keep you indoors. You’re staying put,” she asserts, guiding me firmly to a kitchen chair.

  Irneas, two years my senior, became part of our family following the deaths of her parents—her father in battle against cacodemons, and her mother in childbirth. Acting as my guardian in my mother’s absence, Irneas’s appearance is striking. Her amethyst skin and tiny forehead horns are unique, but her eyes are truly unsettling—her irises match the hue of her sclera.

  When my mother enters, she is clad in her Arator attire—a tan suit with an integrated apron, covering all but her head. Her elegance is matched by her unwavering commitment to tradition and duty.

  Irneas places her palm over her heart and dips her head respectfully. My mother reciprocates with a smile, placing both hands over her chest. The exchange embodies the mutual respect within our household.

  Turning her attention to me, my mother opens her arms. I rush to her embrace. “How I missed you, my child,” she says warmly. “Has Irneas been teaching you well?”

  “Yes, she has,” I reply.

  Pleased, my mother praises both of us. “Tonight, I shall prepare a feast in honor of your hard work.”

  Irneas bows her head. “Thank you, Melior.”

  Six Years Later…

  After rigorous training in the Caedes sword art, I reflect on the discipline required before advancing to Communi Pugna—the swordsmanship practiced by Legionnaires. The "Liber Artium Gladii" outlines its principles, emphasizing precision and practicality.

  Though deemed inferior by the elite ranks, I find Communi Pugna’s versatility invaluable. In contrast, the ferocity of Caedes remains reserved for the Demon Knights and higher ranks. Any attempt by a Legionnaire to learn this forbidden art is met with execution—a harsh reality that disgusts me.

  Determined, I practice the Gwusite stance of Communi Pugna on a sack dummy, executing swift, precise strikes to vital points. The dummy is shredded by the end, but my exhaustion reveals areas for improvement.

  With my magical abilities emerging, I delve into spellcasting. Focusing on the flow of mana, I attempt both Interius Imperius and Externum Imperius. After much effort, I succeed in conjuring a small flame—a promising start.

  A Year Later…

  Seated by the window, I watch a legionnaire wagon approach, drawn by pristine white Gorngaars adorned with red markings. Anticipation builds as I recall their message from weeks prior. Over the past year, I have honed my skills in both swordsmanship and magic. With a simple gesture, I summon and extinguish a flame, now second nature to me.

  My belongings are packed: shirts, sturdy boots, and cherished books—"Liber Artium Gladii" and "Magi Chorus Caedis"—alongside my trusted sword.

  My mother greets the legionnaires, their armor bearing the midnight blue and black of Grand Duke Nortamo. Among them stands a Praecantor, her red skin and horned helm exuding authority. Beside her looms a formidable Centurion, his deep red skin and ram-like horns complementing his menacing silver armor.

  The Praecantor addresses me with commanding presence. “Come, boy,” she orders. She presents a box adorned with hieroglyphs. “Place your hand here.”

  Obediently, I comply. The box reacts violently, its mechanisms piercing my hand. Pain erupts as ethereal purple tendrils emerge. Despite my instinct to recoil, her firm grip holds me steady. “Do not move,” she commands.

  When the ordeal ends, she examines the box, astonished. “By Lucifer! How is this possible?”