From the moment he could form thoughts, Ashborn knew he wasn't normal.
His body was small, clumsy, and fragile—but his mind was sharper than the steel his father swung. While other toddlers babbled nonsense, Ashborn observed, listened, learned. He didn't speak for a long time—not because he couldn't, but because he didn't need to. Understanding came faster than words ever could.
Even in infancy, his awareness was intact—a soul from another life now trapped in a newborn body.
He was no longer Cael Ledwick, the dying boy from the old world. He was Ashborn Blackhart, son of Lord Verrian Blackhart, a high-ranking noble of the Kingdom of Elarion.
His mother had died the night he was born. The midwives said it was peaceful, but Ashborn had heard the screaming in his first moments of life. His father never spoke of her. Not once. He raised Ashborn alone, like a soldier preparing a sword for war.
Their estate was vast—ancient stone halls, towers that reached to the sky, and a courtyard where swords rang at dawn. The Blackhart family was known for its martial arts prowess. They weren't scholars. They weren't spellcasters. They were warriors—border keepers, dungeon raiders, monster slayers.
So from the moment Ashborn could walk, he was trained like one.
By age three, he was shadowing sword drills.
By four, his hands were calloused from wooden practice blades.
And by five, he could already mimic his father's form with eerie precision.
But even back then… something else was happening.
Magic.
He saw it everywhere: how the castle maids whispered minor spells to clean the halls faster, how guards flicked mana bursts to reset target dummies, how the torches never burned out unless commanded to.
Ashborn didn't just notice it—he studied it. Quietly. Secretly.
No one thought much of it. After all, the son of Lord Verrian Blackhart was expected to become a swordsman, not a mage. No one watched him closely.
That's how he got away with it.
Late one night, alone in the shadowed corners of the old watchtower, Ashborn raised a hand… and focused.
A whisper. A breath. A push of something inside.
A silver light appeared, hovering above his palm.
It flickered, spun once… then held steady.
He stared at it.
Not in awe.
But in recognition.
"I didn't learn that," he whispered. "I remembered it."
And deep in his chest, something ancient stirred.
Something was waking up.
To be continued…