But it wasn’t the kind of cry one would expect.

It was sharp. Controlled.

As if the one crying was not desperate or afraid, but… aware.

Nurses rushed in, smiling and chattering about the birth of the royal heir.

“A healthy boy, Your Majesty!” one exclaimed.

The queen, pale from labor but radiant with joy, smiled weakly.

“Let me see him…”

In her arms, the newborn opened his eyes—not dull or cloudy, but a striking sky-blue, alert far too soon.

And yet, he did not smile.

He did not wail.

Ashar was back.

---

The Mind Behind the Eyes

So this is rebirth, Ashar thought.

No heavenly voice. No contract. No systems.

Just another life... another battlefield.

His thoughts were sharper than any infant should possess, a relic of the life he once lived. Strategy, knowledge, memories—he retained them all.

He cataloged everything: the warmth of his mother’s arms, the magical auras radiating from the palace, the structure of the ceiling tiles—everything was data to him.

He would not waste this life. Not like the last.

---

Father of the Sword, Mother of the Mind

Days passed in royal celebration. The kingdom rejoiced—their prince, born under a rare celestial convergence, was said to be “blessed by fate.”

Only fate had nothing to do with it.

His father, Alric Celestra, stood like a mountain beside the cradle.

Muscles hardened by war, eyes stern but filled with pride.

A sword hung at his side, etched with dragon-blood runes.

“My son will be strong,” he said—not as a hope, but as a promise.

His mother, Lira Celestra, watched him with a knowing gaze.

“His aura is strange… ancient,” she whispered, stroking his hair.

She was no mere queen—she was a scholar of lost magics, a woman who had stared down archmages and negotiated with elves.

She sensed something more in her son.

And yet, they loved him—genuinely.

Something Ashar had not felt in his previous life.

It stirred something in him.

A weakness, perhaps.

Or a strength he had yet to understand.

---

A Vow in Silence

At night, while his parents slept, Ashar lay in a crib woven from mana-thread and dragonhide.

Above him, a crystal mobile spun slowly—shaped like the races of the world.

Elf, Dwarves, Human, Beastkin, Spirits,

And at the center… Dragon.

Even as an infant, his mana stirred slightly.

Not explosive. Just steady—like a river that had no beginning and no end.

He stared at the dragon-shaped piece.

You rule this world, huh? he thought.

His tiny fingers clenched.

Then I’ll surpass you.

Not for glory. Not for vengeance.

But because I must.

Because if this world burns, I won’t be a victim again.

I’ll be the one who chooses whether it burns or not.

---

End of Chapter 1