Pain came first.
Then cold.
He wasn't supposed to feel either. He remembered dying—slowly, quietly. A hospital bed. White lights. Beeping machines that marked each second closer to the end. His final breath was shallow, bitter, clinging to a body that had long since given up. No family. No final words. Just the sterile quiet of a life fading away.
And then—he woke up.
It wasn't violent. There was no gasp, no sudden jolt. Just breath. Deep and slow and alive.
> No… this isn't right.
The air was too still. The bed too soft. His hands—they felt wrong. Not his. Larger, calloused, hardened by time and war. His heart beat stronger, steadier. And when he opened his eyes, he saw nothing.
Not darkness.
Nothing.
A void.
At first, he thought it was the lights. Or his brain still adjusting. But slowly, the realization settled over him like a burial shroud.
> I can't see.
He reached up and touched his face, tracing unfamiliar features—a strong jaw, a high brow, a faint scar near the temple. This wasn't his face. This wasn't his body. This wasn't his world.
And then the memories began.
Not his own. They came like waves crashing against the shore, disjointed but vivid. A battlefield under a blood-red sky. Orders barked across the roar of magic. The burn of arcane energy channeled through his veins. A name spoken like a title: Cain Crestrion.
A general. A noble. A mage. A man of discipline, fear, respect. His life was etched into this body—not just in scars, but in the echo of emotions left behind.
He didn't just remember what Cain did.
He felt it.
The crushing weight of command. The isolation of leadership. The cold, sharp clarity of war. The pain of betrayal. The warmth of a younger brother's laughter. The dull ache in his chest when she never returned his letters.
All of it. Every heartbreak. Every triumph. Every sleepless night spent staring into nothing and wondering if the empire he bled for was ever worth the cost.
He sat still for a long time, breathing, letting the storm inside him settle. The body's instincts were so strong—even blind, he knew how to move, how to orient himself, how to command presence.
> So this is reincarnation, he thought. You don't just start over. You inherit a ghost.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor beneath him was polished stone—cold, smooth. He reached out and found a cane leaning nearby, its handle shaped like the head of a lion. Ornate. Heavy. Familiar.
He gripped it without thinking. The motion was natural, practiced.
He took his first step, and though his vision was gone, he didn't stumble. His body remembered.
Cain remembered.
The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic tapping of the cane as he moved. He found the edge of a desk, the leather of a chair, the spine of a book. Everything around him smelled of parchment, ink, and old magic.
> An office, he realized. Mine.
A knock echoed from the door.
He stiffened. The instinct to hide, to hesitate—it flared for just a moment before Cain's presence crushed it.
"Professor Crestrion?" a young voice called. Male. Nervous. "Your first lecture is in an hour. Shall I prepare your notes?"
> Professor? he almost laughed.
A general turned academic. A man who once commanded legions now expected to lecture noble brats on magical theory. It was absurd. And yet…
It was perfect.
He needed time. Distance. A mask. And this role gave him all three.
"No," he said, his voice calm and even. Deep. Commanding without trying. "I remember what I need."
A pause.
"Of course, sir."
Footsteps faded away.
He turned back to the desk, running his hand across its surface until his fingers brushed something familiar. A medallion. Heavy, round, engraved with the imperial crest and seven stars encircling it.
A symbol of rank. A mark of power.
A 7-Star Mage.
The memories surged again—burning spells cast under siege, magical theory dissected with surgical precision, duels that reshaped landscapes. The power he once wielded was vast, almost frightening. And now it was his.
> I could tear this academy apart if I wanted to.
But he didn't want to.
He was tired.
Not physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.
Two lives pressed into one soul. Two pasts. Two graves. And only one future.
He sank into the chair behind the desk and allowed himself a moment to breathe. To grieve. For the man he once was—a quiet strategist with a sharp mind and a soft heart, who died alone in a world that never saw him.
And for the man he now was—a legend gone blind, a warrior buried under medals and memories, reborn into a world that still expected him to fight.
> Cain Crestrion, he thought, closing his sightless eyes. I hope you found peace. Because now, I have to live for both of us.
The cane rested across his lap. The medallion sat in his hand. And in the silence of that office, the new Cain was born.
Not as a general.
Not yet as a professor.
But as a man standing at the edge of two lives, blind but not lost, waiting for the world to come