They say death comes like thunder – loud, sudden, and final.
But for me, it came like a lullaby.
No pain. No fear. Just the soft click of a mouse, the glow of a screen, and the weight of a blanket wrapped around my legs. The visual novel I'd been reading had just reached a turning point. The protagonist had confessed his love. I'd smiled, maybe even whispered something corny. Then everything faded.
There were no flashing memories. No regrets. My heart didn't race. I wasn't crushed by a truck or stabbed in an alley. I simply… stopped.
Some would say that's a terrible way to go.
But I liked it.
The next moment, I woke up to the sound of voices.
No—not voices. One voice. Strange, distorted. It echoed inside my skull, like someone whispering underwater. The words didn't make sense, but I felt them.
"...Heþa... ni ka'tel… he'ra..."
It wasn't Japanese. It wasn't English either. A completely unfamiliar language, ancient and soft, like wind brushing across tall grass.
Then came the light – too bright. My eyelids fluttered like wet paper, and my vision swam in and out of focus. I saw wood. A ceiling, uneven and dark with smoke stains. It smelled of ash and herbs. My body felt heavy, small, and weak.
I tried to sit up, but my muscles refused.
"Wai—hold him, he's squirming."
That voice was clearer. Still strange, but more grounded. Feminine. Kind, but tired.
A pair of rough hands lifted me. I was bundled in cloth – thick and scratchy. I cried out. Or tried to. It came out as a high-pitched wail I didn't recognize as mine.
"He's loud. That's a good sign," someone chuckled.
I saw a woman's face – tan skin, messy hair tied back with a strip of cloth, deep brown eyes rimmed with fatigue. She wasn't old, but her gaze had seen many seasons.
She wasn't my mother. And I wasn't me.
I spent the first week in a haze of confusion and sleep.
My name in my old life had been Yuto. Average student, part-time bookstore clerk, full-time game addict. A guy who loved quiet things – novels, puzzles, rainy days. Friends? A few. Family? Distant, but civil.
And now?
Now I was a baby. Again.
My body was soft and small, barely able to hold its own head. I couldn't speak. Couldn't read. The only comfort was my memories, though even they felt like dreams fading behind smoke.
The language here was foreign. Everyone spoke in odd syllables, with clicks and pauses in strange places. Yet slowly, instinctively, I began to recognize patterns.
"Kara." Food.
"Ne'ta." Sleep.
"Fenn." Brother.
"Elna." Sister.
"Baba." Father.
"Mei." Mother.
I learned without realizing. My mind clung to words like a drowning man to driftwood.
Years passed.
My name in this world became Yul. Simple, soft. My sister, Elna, was two years older. Sharp eyes, always watching, always thinking. She didn't smile much, but she held my hand every night before bed. My younger brother, Fenn, came three years later. A quiet baby who grew clingy and curious.
Our family lived in the Outer Ring – what most people called the Dustwall. It was the lowest sector of society, walled off from the middle and inner layers of the city. You could literally see the stone walls rising in the distance like cliffs, separating us from nobles and royals.
Beyond those walls were markets of glass, carriages that ran without horses, and libraries filled with scrolls and magic.
At least, that's what the stories said.
Here in Dustwall, we had mud homes, dry fields, and bare cupboards. My father, Ronan, was a farmer. Bent shoulders, sun-dark skin, gentle voice. My mother, Mei, was a housewife – though everyone here worked. She mended clothes, gathered herbs, and sometimes helped the local midwife.
Together, they earned about 20 copper and 2 silver a day. Enough for bread, stew, and the occasional bit of cheese. Never enough to save.
We didn't starve. But we didn't hope either.
My favorite time of day was twilight.
After dinner, when the fire burned low and the little ones were asleep, I'd sit by the window and listen.
Sometimes, I could hear that same voice from my first day. Faint, like wind in a tunnel. It spoke in the same tongue—impossible to understand. Yet every time, a chill ran down my spine. Not from fear. From familiarity.
It never felt evil. Just… distant. Like it was calling from a mountain far away.
"...Ka thel... ren ash'ta..."
One night, Elna caught me listening.
"You hear it again?" she asked, sitting beside me.
I nodded.
"What does it say?"
"I don't know."
She was silent for a while, then shrugged. "Maybe it's the city. The middle wall echoes weird sometimes."
But it wasn't the wall. I knew that deep down.
By the time I turned eight, I'd learned to read.
Not through school. There were no schools for children in Dustwall. Only scribes and priests could read and write, and they didn't bother with commoners.
But sometimes, traders left behind bits of parchment. Wrappers, notes, broken scrolls. I collected them like treasure. I matched letters, guessed meanings, drew the symbols over and over on the dirt floor until they made sense.
My parents didn't stop me. They didn't understand it, but they let me be. I think they were just glad I wasn't stealing or fighting.
Elna sometimes watched me. She didn't read, but she was quick to understand. "You think you'll be a scribe someday?" she asked once.
I shook my head. "No. They won't let someone like me in."
"Then why do you study?"
I paused. Looked at the fading ink on the scroll in my lap. It was a recipe for preserving meat, but the script was beautiful—curved, elegant.
"I don't want to be trapped here forever."
She didn't say anything after that.
Dustwall wasn't cruel. Just tired.
People here were born, worked, and died behind stone walls. Few questioned it. The priest said it was the order of the world—that nobles were born to rule, and commoners born to serve. Magic was for the blooded. Books were for the blessed.
But sometimes, when the wind was just right, I felt something stir. A sense that the world was much bigger than this place. That the voice I kept hearing wasn't madness, but a thread leading somewhere.
I didn't want power. I didn't want gold. I just wanted to understand.
Why was I here? Why me?
It happened again on the night of the Red Moon.
Dustwall had no festivals. But when the moon turned crimson once a year, everyone stayed indoors. My father said it was tradition. My mother said it was for safety. Elna said it was stupid.
I stayed up late, lying by the hearth, staring at the glow through a crack in the wall.
And then I heard it.
Louder. Clearer.
"Ka'seren… Yul… tu'ar eth ni."
It said my name.
The room spun. My chest tightened, not in fear, but in recognition. It knew me. It had always known me.
And for the first time, I understood one word:
"Awaken."