Darkness. Then light. Blinding, brutal.
A cry tore through the air, shrill and animalistic. His own cry. Han Iruma felt his tiny body thrashing uncontrollably as rough hands wrapped him in coarse fabric. New sensations overwhelmed him—the feel of cloth against hypersensitive skin, cold air rushing into brand-new lungs, the acrid scent of blood and medicinal herbs.
"A boy," announced a woman's voice—deep and authoritative. "A strong, healthy boy, Elina."
His mind was a chaos of impressions. A part of him—an old, buried part—knew he was Han Iruma, a senior executive at NexGen Industries, killed beneath a train by a vengeful employee. That part remembered his meeting with Dread, their pact, his defiance toward that so-called deity. But this awareness was trapped behind a veil, unable to influence the infant's body in which it now resided.
"Give him to me," murmured a second voice, exhausted yet melodic. "Let me see my son."
He was transferred into softer, gentler arms. Warmth enveloped him, and for the first time in his new existence, Han felt safe. A face appeared in his blurry field of vision—delicate features framed by sweat-matted chestnut hair, and eyes of such deep blue they seemed to swallow the light.
"Look, Adran," the woman said, turning the child slightly. "He has your eyes."
A man leaned over them. Tall, broad-shouldered, his face weathered by sun and labor. His steely gray eyes stared at the child with a mixture of awe and apprehension.
"A son," he whispered, voice choked with emotion. "We have a son, Elina."
The man—his father, Han realized with a strange sensation—extended a calloused hand and brushed the baby's cheek with his fingertips, as if afraid to break him.
"What shall we name him?" asked the mother, gently cradling the newborn to her chest.
The man was silent for a moment, gazing at the child with intensity.
"Han," he said at last. "We'll name him Han."
Within the infant body, the imprisoned mind of Han Iruma stirred. Was it a coincidence? Or had Dread orchestrated this detail as a cruel reminder of their pact? The question faded quickly, drowned by the primal needs of his newborn form.
The days that followed were a blur of sensations and urges—hunger, sleep, warmth, comfort. Han's adult consciousness was trapped within a body incapable of complex thought, reduced to observing passively, a mere spectator to his own rebirth.
The home where he was raised was modest yet cozy. A simple cottage with rough stone walls and a thatched roof, situated on the outskirts of a village called Kiernen. Through the eyes of a child, Han discovered a world vastly different from the one he'd known. No skyscrapers of glass and steel, no cars or electricity. Just low houses, muddy lanes, endless fields, and a dense forest that surrounded the village like a living wall.
His mother, Elina, was a respected healer. Every day, villagers came to her for various ailments—fevers, wounds, chronic pain. Han watched her craft ointments and teas from plants she gathered herself in the woods. Her nimble hands worked with precision, and her remedies, he realized, were remarkably effective.
His father, Adran, was a blacksmith. His forge, attached to their home, rang with the rhythmic sound of hammer striking anvil. Han spent hours watching him shape metal, fascinated by the transformation of raw materials into useful tools—swords, horseshoes, farming implements.
The adult mind within Han took note of every detail in this new world. It wasn't just a typical medieval setting, as he'd initially assumed. Some elements were familiar—the hierarchical social structure, the craft-based economy. But others were deeply foreign.
Sometimes, travelers passed through the village wearing garments adorned with glowing symbols. Once, he saw his mother treat a wounded hunter whose injuries healed visibly after she applied a greenish paste that emitted a soft light.
"Aura essence," she explained to his father. "I was lucky to find some before the rainy season. It's becoming so rare…"
Aura. That word came up often in adult conversations. A mysterious energy, seemingly natural in this world, but with properties that science from his previous life would deem supernatural.
As his body grew, Han's adult awareness gradually gained influence. By age two, he began understanding the language—a variant of what resembled an old European dialect, mixed with unknown terms. By three, he was speaking in full sentences, astonishing his parents with his precocity.
"He's so smart," Elina would say often, stroking his hair with pride. "As if he's lived an entire life already."
If only she knew, Han would think.
By age four, he was reading the few books his mother owned—mostly herbology and anatomy treatises. His thirst for knowledge was insatiable.
His father often watched him with an unreadable expression, a mix of wonder and unease.
"He's not like other children," Han overheard him say one night to Elina, thinking the boy was asleep. "Have you noticed the way he looks at everything? As if he's analyzing… judging…"
"It's a gift," his mother replied softly. "He's special, Adran. Maybe one day he could leave Kiernen. Study at the Soldrian Academy. Become someone important."
"Important people attract attention," his father murmured. "And attention isn't always a good thing, especially in troubled times."
These "troubled times" were another recurring topic. Though Kiernen seemed isolated and peaceful, troubling news reached them regularly. The Kingdom of Soldria, to which their region belonged, was in conflict with its neighbors—particularly the Empire of Ostérion.
One market day, at age four and a half, Han accompanied his father into the village. A royal messenger had arrived, reading a proclamation in the central square. All able-bodied men were summoned to join Soldria's forces to repel the "barbarian hordes of Ostérion."
"They burned three villages on the eastern border," people whispered. "They don't take prisoners."
"They say their aura-masters can set entire forests ablaze with a single gesture."
His father's hand tightened around his. Han looked up and saw the tension in his usually stoic face.
"Let's go home," he said simply. "Your mother is waiting."
That night, his parents spoke quietly by the fire. Han, lying on his straw mattress in the alcove that served as his room, strained to listen.
"I'll have to go," his father said. "If I refuse, they'll take our land. Maybe worse."
"You're not a young man anymore, Adran," Elina protested, voice trembling. "And we have a child."
"Exactly," he replied grimly. "It's for him—for his future—that I must fight."
A heavy silence followed, then Elina spoke again, so softly Han had to focus to hear:
"I had a dream last night. A dream of fire and blood. Kiernen in flames, and a child alone in the ashes…"
"Your dreams aren't always prophetic, my love," Adran tried to reassure her.
"This one was. I felt it."
A cold shiver ran through Han's small body. A part of him—the cynical, rational part that had been Han Iruma the financier—wanted to dismiss these superstitions. But another part, the one that had seen Dread with his own eyes, that now lived in a world where aura could heal wounds, couldn't help but feel a dull, creeping fear.
His fifth birthday was approaching. In his previous life, Han had never cared for birthdays—just meaningless social rituals. But his parents seemed determined to make this one special.
"Five years old," his mother said, preparing a honey and walnut cake. "The age of reason. You'll begin your formal learning after the celebration."
Han nodded, watching through the window as dark clouds gathered on the horizon. A sign, Elina would have said—an omen. A coming storm.
And deep within him, in that part of his soul that still remembered Dread, Han Iruma knew she would be right.