"What... is this?" Clarsen could barely open his eyes. His head throbbed, his thoughts tangled in a whirlwind of memories—two lifetimes crashing into one.
For seven years, this body had belonged to a boy named Arthur Stronghart. But now, Arthur could remember something impossible—more than thirty years of life as Clarsen, a hardened soldier who had once pledged his blade to the Demon Army.
The memories bled together. The grit and terror of battle, the weight of countless choices, the iron discipline of a militant's life—all of it surged through him. Yet, at the same time, the warmth of childhood, the laughter of a loving family, and the simple joys of being Arthur felt just as real.
Clarsen—Arthur—who was he now? The past and present blurred, refusing to be sorted. Two lives, two selves, bound together in a single existence.
"What's… happening?" He muttered inwardly. His vision was blurry, his thoughts scattered. His body felt heavy and unresponsive.
For a soldier to be this helpless—it was unthinkable. But right now, he was bound by his limits. All he could do was take in his surroundings, unsure of how to react.
His family was here. His parents. His elder brother. They sat around him, their faces tight with worry.
Apparently, they had been taking care of him ever since he collapsed.
Clarsen turned his head slightly, eyes drifting toward the window. Morning light spilled into the room. They should have gone to bed by now… yet his mother and brother were still awake, gently changing the cooling pads on his forehead, rubbing warmth back into his hands.
'This is pointless… I'll heal on my own.'
Clarsen had always been like this. He had endured wounds, sickness, poison—alone. He never cried, never complained. There was no one to listen back then.
Even if they had ignored him now, his body would have recovered in a few hours.
'Fools…' he thought, though there was no hatred in it. Only something hollow.
A woman's hand—soft, warm—ran through his hair. Her long nails traced gentle circles on his scalp. The touch was unfamiliar. Strange.
But it lulled him to sleep.
....
The next time he woke up, only his father was still there… No, his mother was there too, but she had fallen asleep, her head resting on the bed beside him.
Clarsen glanced at the window. Night again.
How long am I going to stay like this?
A gentle voice broke the silence.
"Don't worry, Arthur… Your father has called for a good healer. He'll make you better by tomorrow."
Arthur scoffed at those words.
His father—just a mere Baron—was a man who could barely sustain his family after giving away most of his wealth for the sake of others. A noble too kind for his own good.
From Clarsen's memories, he knew what happened to people like this. Idealistic fools.
'A foolish wife… a foolish husband…'
And yet, this man—who could not even afford proper clothes—had called for a healer? Either he was lying, or he had given up something precious in exchange.
Baron Aston Stronghart leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Don't worry, son. Even if I have to sell myself, I will save you."
He kissed Arthur's forehead, then gently brushed his wife's hair with tired, calloused fingers.
Arthur stared at him.
'What kind of people are they…?'
He didn't understand them. He had never leaned on anyone before. Never needed to.
And yet, those words…
For some reason, they felt reassured.
Clarsen had always relied on himself. But tonight—just this once—he had no choice but to trust someone else.
A strange feeling.
....
Warm. It felt warm and comforting.
Clarsen's eyes barely opened. A blurry figure stood over him, a hand hovering just above his forehead. A soft green glow seeped into his skin.
Even in this weakened state, his instincts kicked in.
'This is pathetic…'
The spell was weak—inefficient, wasteful. Even with his muddled thoughts, he could tell. The mana flow was unsteady, excess magic bleeding uselessly into the air.
'At this level, it's not even worth casting.'
And sure enough, when the healer stepped back, he sighed and shook his head.
"His condition is… peculiar. I couldn't sense what was wrong, but I used an Intermediate-ranked healing spell on him. I hope he gets better."
Useless. Completely useless.
Clarsen felt nothing. No relief, no change—just the same dull ache in his body, the same heavy exhaustion pressing down on him.
Baron Stronghart, however, gave a nod of thanks. He turned to his wife, his expression calm—too calm.
Lady Virelle Stronghart silently left the room.
When she returned, she carried a wooden box in her hands.
Clarsen's gaze sharpened.
His mother walked over to the healer and slowly opened the lid.
A pearl necklace rested inside, gleaming under the dim candlelight.
Recognition struck him instantly.
That necklace.
A wedding gift from his father to his mother. Three thousand gold coins' worth—bought with his father's lifetime savings.
Clarsen remembered how she treasured it. She rarely wore it, only on the most special occasions. And every time she did, she would smile. A smile filled with warmth, love, and unspoken memories.
She had cherished it for years. Kept it polished, unblemished, untouched.
And now… she was giving it away.
For this?
For a second-rate healer who couldn't even diagnose the problem? For a spell that did nothing?
Clarsen's fingers twitched. His throat tightened.
'I… don't understand. Why? Why do they love their child this much?'
His mind tried to dismiss it. Fools. Naive, self-sacrificing fools.
But the words felt hollow.
A strange, unpleasant feeling twisted in his chest, something unfamiliar and heavy.
He closed his eyes, frowning.
Without realizing it, something within him had begun to shift.
Their actions, their love… it was starting to reach him.
.....
"Ah..."
Clarsen jolted awake, his body shifting as if moving on its own.
But he wasn't sleepwalking. He was still weak, still exhausted.
His vision gradually cleared, and as he focused on his surroundings—the warmth pressing against him, the soft rise and fall of breath—realization struck.
'What the…'
A deep frown marred his face. He was being cradled.
By his mother.
Virelle Stronghart rocked him gently in her arms, humming a soft melody.
It was soothing, almost hypnotic. Her embrace was warm—so warm, as if shielding him from the world itself.
But Clarsen couldn't allow himself to sink into it.
This was wrong. Unusual. A seven-year-old being held like this…?
'What is she thinking?'
His thoughts were soon interrupted by a voice.
"Virelle... what are you doing?"
Baron Stronghart stood at the doorway, astonishment in his eyes.
Yet, Virelle didn't stop. She continued stroking Clarsen's back, her touch impossibly gentle.
"When he used to get sick as a baby…" she murmured, almost to herself. "I would hold him like this, and by the next morning, he would always get better."
Her voice was trembling.
Clarsen stiffened.
Even without looking at her face, he could tell.
She was crying.
Grief, thick and suffocating, laced her every word.
The pain of seeing her child like this—helpless, weak, suffering—was too much for her to bear.
"But Virelle... he must be heavy," Baron Stronghart spoke again, trying to reason with her.
Yes. Yes. That's right. She needed to stop this foolishness.
He wasn't a helpless child. He didn't need to be held. He just needed time—just a little more time and he would—
"It's not just for him, dear…"
Her voice cracked.
"I need this too. If I don't do something, I'll break. I just… I just want Arthur to be okay… I just—"
And then she sobbed.
She broke down completely, her arms tightening around Clarsen, her body trembling with raw emotion.
Baron Stronghart moved closer, wrapping his arms around both of them.
A family embracing in grief, in warmth, in desperate love.
Clarsen's eyes remained open, staring at nothing.
His heart—so hardened by war, by solitude, by a life where no one ever held him like this—felt unbearably heavy.
It wasn't fair.
In his past life, he had no family.
No one cared when he left.
No one waited for him to return.
Even if he had died alone on some battlefield, his absence wouldn't have mattered.
And yet here… in this life…
He had a family that loved him so much it hurt.
His breath hitched.
'Is this… what it feels like?'
He didn't even realize when tears welled up in his eyes.
Silently, they spilled down his cheeks.
Tonight, Clarsen learned something undeniable—something even a hardened soldier could not refute.
The warmth of a family… was enough to make even a warrior cry.
*******
A/N:- I felt emotional writing this chapter. I hope you were able to connect.
Bring this book to your collection..