The rain never stopped that night.

Explosions echoed in the distance as fire lit up the urban skyline. Lucien Gray, decorated special ops commander of the United Earth Defense Corps, gritted his teeth as he sprinted across the collapsing battlefield. Drones fell from the sky like metal angels. The skies burned orange, lit by missile trails and arcane plasma—a desperate war fought with stolen technology and last hopes.

His unit had been wiped out. The military commander was dead—ambushed. And now, Lucien had taken charge, rallying the final defenses against the invading horde of augmented insurgents. His body ached, his vision blurred, and the gun in his hand shook from the recoil of too many shots fired without rest.

Yet he fought.

He always fought.

“You’re our last hope,” the commander had said with his dying breath. “Make it count.”

But as the enemy unleashed one final weapon—a bio-magical warhead that tore through matter and soul—Lucien stood his ground to buy his comrades time.

And smiled.

“At least… I won’t die running.”

The blast hit.

And everything went dark.

---

He expected pain. Silence. Oblivion.

Instead, there was warmth.

A strange, serene warmth that wrapped around him like a silken cocoon. He tried to move but felt weightless. He heard something—a voice. Not mechanical commands, not war cries or alarms… but a lullaby. A woman’s voice.

Soft. Gentle. Real.

Then came the blinding light.

His eyes opened slowly—blurry, unfocused. And above him… was a beautiful woman with golden curls and tears in her eyes. Her smile trembled with joy and awe.

“My little star… my Lucien…” she whispered, holding him to her chest.

A man leaned over her shoulder—tall, proud, draped in a regal black cloak embroidered with a silver phoenix. His gray eyes were sharp, but full of emotion as he touched the baby’s head.

“He bears the mark,” he said solemnly. “He’s ours. Our son. The heir of House Vaelthorne.”

Lucien tried to speak. He tried to scream.

What is this? Why can’t I move? Why do I feel so small—so weak?

Memories surged—gunfire, blood, Earth, the battlefield…

Then it hit him like a blade to the soul:

He had died.

And now… he was reborn.

---

Weeks passed in surreal confusion.

He was just a baby, helpless in body, but his mind—his soul—still bore the scars and knowledge of his previous life. He cried not from hunger, but frustration. Desperation. Disbelief. At night, he’d stare at the elegant ceiling and whisper internally to himself: Where am I? Why am I here?

And slowly, the pieces came together.

This was a world of nobles and kingdoms. Magic flowed like rivers through the land. Knights, sorcerers, and mystical beasts walked openly. His father, Duke Alaric Vaelthorne, was one of the kingdom’s most powerful lords—the Supreme Commander of the Royal Army. His mother, Lady Elenora Vaelthorne, was the Marchioness of the western provinces, a political force known for her brilliance and fire.

And he… he was Lucien Vaelthorne, their only son.

A noble child born under a sacred star. A life of privilege and prestige. But far from idle wealth, he saw something else:

A second chance.

He wouldn’t let this life slip through his fingers like the last. He would uncover the secrets of this world, master its magic, and wield it—not for war or death—but to build something real. To protect the people he would come to love.

Beneath the moonlight, swaddled in royal silks, the soul of a fallen warrior gazed up at the stars.

And for the first time in years—perhaps lifetimes—he whispered inside:

“…Thank you… for letting me start again.”

Five years had passed since Lucien Vaelthorne first opened his eyes in this new world.

Though his body was small and his magic untouched, the soul within him carried the weight of another life — a soldier of Earth, now reborn as the only son of a powerful noble house. Each day, Lucien wandered the halls of the grand manor, reading simple books, listening to courtly conversations, and watching knights train from behind high windows.

But books could only do so much. The world beyond the estate walls called to him, louder with each passing day.

One morning, just after breakfast, Lucien stood in the Duke’s solar — a richly furnished chamber with high glass windows and polished wooden floors — and looked up at his father with eyes full of determination.

“Father… can we go outside? To the city?”

Duke Alaric Vaelthorne, tall and commanding in his deep-blue tunic, glanced over the top of his parchment. “Outside?” he repeated. “You’ve never asked before.”

“I want to see the people. The city. I’ve only ever read about them…” Lucien hesitated, then added, “Please.”

Alaric narrowed his storm-gray eyes, then slowly nodded. “If your mother agrees.”

From behind, a gentle laugh floated across the room.

“You already know I do,” came the voice of Lady Elenora Vaelthorne, as she stepped in, her violet gown sweeping across the floor. Her beauty was matched only by her sharp presence — a noblewoman of elegance and iron resolve.

She knelt beside Lucien, brushing a strand of his silver hair aside. “But no running off, little star. And stay close. It’s a market day.”

---

The city of Valemont, capital of the Vaelthorne duchy, was vibrant beyond anything Lucien had imagined.

The stone-paved streets bustled with life. Colorful banners flapped above alleyways, and rows of merchant stalls stretched as far as his young eyes could see. The scent of baked bread and spiced meats filled the air. Music drifted from corners where performers sang and juggled glowing orbs of light.

Lucien clutched his mother’s hand tightly as he walked between his parents, his eyes wide with wonder.

But what truly amazed him were the people.

Not just humans, but all kinds — an elf with long silver hair offered healing charms near a fountain, while a burly beastkin carpenter carved toys for children. A demon couple with obsidian horns strolled hand-in-hand through the crowd, stopping at a bakery stall with their young daughter.

Lucien’s steps slowed as he turned to his father. “Are they… really part of our land?”

Alaric gave a single nod. “Yes. Our duchy lies between two borders — one with the Crimson Dominion of the Demons, and one with the Sylvan Enclave of the Elves. There was war, long ago. But now, there is trade. Peace. A fragile, but valuable balance.”

Lucien looked around again, taking in the smiling faces, the different languages blending like music. “It’s so… different from what I imagined.”

Elenora smiled softly. “This is the world you’ll grow up in, Lucien. One day, you’ll inherit our name — and with it, the duty to protect this harmony.”

Lucien nodded slowly, a new kind of seriousness in his heart.

But his stomach quickly reminded him of his age with a very loud grumble.

Elenora chuckled. “That settles it. Would you like something, Lucien? A sweet from the market?”

He pointed eagerly to a nearby stall where glowing sugar petals floated in glass jars. “That one!”

They spent the afternoon exploring together — watching performers, tasting magical fruit, and hearing old traders tell stories of distant kingdoms. Lucien’s cheeks were sticky with sweet syrup, his boots scuffed from running over cobblestones, and his eyes sparkled with endless questions.

As the sun dipped below the towers of Valemont and the sky turned gold, Lucien stood between his mother and father at the edge of a hilltop plaza, gazing at the sprawling city below.

He didn’t know any spells. He hadn’t drawn a single rune or cast a single flame.

But deep inside, something awoke that evening — a quiet, growing desire.

Not just to be strong.

But to understand, protect, and one day belong to this world completely.

The days passed like pages in a book, and soon years slipped by in quiet harmony. By the time Lucien turned eight, the once-confused child of two worlds had grown into a boy with poise beyond his age — the kind that drew admiration and unease alike.

It began when his father, Duke Aldric Vaelthorne, declared it was time to begin his training.

"Magic without discipline is like a blade with no hilt," the Duke had said on their first lesson, his deep voice echoing through the training yard.

Aldric was a towering man with scars carved into his skin like a battlefield’s memory. He taught Lucien not with indulgence, but with precision. Fire, wind, earth, and water — Lucien grasped them all with frightening speed. By his tenth lesson, he had already awakened his mana core, something most children didn’t manage until their teens.

Swordsmanship followed. His small hands struggled at first to hold the practice blade, but Lucien’s determination was ironclad. His father’s strikes were swift and unrelenting, but so was the boy’s will. Time and again, Lucien fell… and time and again, he rose.

But it wasn’t only the battlefield that demanded strength.

In the cool shade of the estate’s solar, Lady Evelyne Vaelthorne — Lucien’s mother — oversaw her son’s education in estate management, diplomacy, and finances. Unlike her husband's steel, her world was built of ledgers, treaties, and trade routes.

“You may be a warrior, my son,” Evelyne said, her silver quill poised elegantly over parchment, “but a true ruler builds more than he conquers.”

Lucien absorbed it all — taxes, grain supply, border negotiations, literacy programs for peasant villages — with uncanny ease. The maids often whispered that the young heir was a reincarnation of a sage. If only they knew.

Using knowledge from his past life, Lucien proposed improved irrigation systems and new taxation models that stunned his tutors. Soon, his ideas were being implemented across the duchy, and Evelyne began to rely on him as more than a student — he was becoming her partner.

But not all of Lucien’s time was spent under the watchful gaze of his noble parents.

When the stars blanketed the sky and the manor slumbered in quiet luxury, Lucien sometimes slipped away beyond the guarded walls. Deep into the forest, he wandered alone — not foolishly, but with purpose. There, among the shadows, he hunted monsters: twisted wolves, corrupted boars, and even a lesser wyvern once.

He told no one.

Each hunt was a test — of body, of instinct, of the power flowing through his veins. He never sought glory. Only understanding.

And in those moments, in blood and silence, Lucien remembered who he had been… and who he was becoming.

By the time he turned ten, Lucien Vaelthorne was already the talk of noble circles. Letters from academies, guilds, and foreign lords arrived at the estate in waves. Most were ignored. His parents had already decided.

It was time for Lucien to be presented at the Royal Capital.

The invitation came in golden script sealed with the royal crest: a noble gathering hosted by the crown, an annual affair where heirs of great houses mingled and alliances were shaped in hushed whispers and careful smiles.

For the first time in years, Lucien would step beyond the borders of the duchy — not as a child, but as the heir of House Vaelthorne.

As the family’s carriage rolled toward the horizon, wheels cutting through sun-dappled roads, Lucien peered out at the world awaiting him.

The capital was no longer a place he had only heard of in lessons or maps. It was real. Alive.

And it was time for him to step onto its stage.