Chapter 1 — New Life - Part 1: Miracle

Author’s note: Before moving on to the next chapters, I sincerely recommend that you read the prologue carefully. It isn’t here just to “start the story” — it’s where the protagonist’s emotional foundation lives.

The prologue shows where he comes from, the kind of world that shaped him and, most importantly, the kind of scars he carries inside. Without that context, some of his actions later on might seem cold, exaggerated, or even contradictory. With it in mind, you’ll understand what’s going on in his head — and why certain choices aren’t just “unnecessary,” but a direct consequence of who he is.

♦

After being pulled from that void that surrounded him, came the heat.
Not the dry heat of asphalt burning under the sun, nor the stuffy heat of a windowless room. This was a humid heat, clinging to his skin, too close. The air felt heavy, saturated with smells.
Blood.
Sweat.
And something bittersweet, warm and organic — like life freshly opened.

The sounds arrived right after, as if someone had slowly turned a volume knob. First a distant buzz. Then broken echoes. Finally, voices: one older, rough and firm; another younger, trembling in pain.

He tried to open his eyes.

It was like lifting stone lids with gelatin muscles. Still… he managed. Vision came in blurred flashes. Light flickering in orange tones. Shadows cutting across his field of view. A face leaning closer.

Before anything else, he noticed the weight — or rather, the lack of it.

Different from every other time, now it was far too light. His body felt small, his center of gravity low, his movements ridiculously limited.

He tried to lift an arm. What rose was a chubby little stub, soft and clumsy, floating in the air for a few centimeters before dropping back down.

“…No. Wait. Small body… there’s no way.” The denial ran cold up the spine he’d barely recovered.

A figure filled almost his entire vision.

An old woman.

Wrinkles ran up and down her face like maps of a life that had lasted too long. Her hair was tied into a low, messy bun, gray strands escaping along the sides. Her eyes, however, were alive — clear and sharp — with the look of someone who had seen too much and had no patience left for drama.

The hands holding him were far too big for his tiny body. Rough palms, thick fingers packed with calluses and raised veins. The professional way she supported his neck and back left no doubt: she had done this for decades.

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes to examine his face.

— ...Lia, your boy really is strong — she murmured in a language he didn’t recognize, her voice low and tired, but firm.

Beside her, on a wide straw bed, a woman panted. Her shoulders rose and fell in an uneven rhythm. Her hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. Her pale face looked like it had lost half its color over the last few hours.

She turned her head toward the baby in the old woman’s arms, forcing her eyes to stay open despite the weight on her body.

— My baby… — her voice cracked in the middle, hoarse. — He… he really survived, Yana?

The old woman — Yana, then — breathed out slowly through her nose, like someone who had carried that weight the whole time.

She lifted him a little, bringing him closer to the oil lamp hanging from a crooked nail. The wavering flame carved long shadows into the folds of her face.

— You got lucky, Lia — she said, her eyes moving attentively over the newborn’s features. — The child survived. I’d say it was almost a miracle.

“I didn’t understand a single word… just the tone. Relief. Exhaustion. The voice of ‘he lived by a thread.’ Great. So this is real. I’m… really alive again, but how—” His mind spun in circles, trying to grab onto any logic before it turned into panic for good.

Yana adjusted her grip, tucking one hand more securely under his neck. She pressed her thumb right in the middle of his tiny chest, feeling his breathing rise and fall with cold precision. Her other hand steadied his back.

Lian felt the contact of aged skin against his newly formed body. Warm, dry, firm.

The old woman brought the fingers of her free hand together over his chest like someone closing a shell, and murmured something low:

— Purificatio totalis.

He didn’t need to understand the language to feel the weight of it.

The effect came instantly.

A different warmth bloomed from the midwife’s palm. Not the room’s humidity, not physical human heat — this was… alive. A soft flow that spread through his tiny body, inside and out.

The sensation was like peeling off a thick, sticky layer from his skin all at once. The viscosity vanished. The damp discomfort evaporated without ceremony. In seconds he was clean, dry, scentless — as if he’d just stepped out of a bath.

“For Einstein’s sake… that was magic? What the hell… it really was magic!” Fascination and irritation hit at the same time, like watching an absurd trick being used just to clean filth.

On the bed, Lia tried to prop herself up, gripping the sheet with trembling fingers.

— But he… he isn’t crying — her voice rose, nervous. — Is that normal? None of my other children were like this. They all cried from the first second.

Yana’s lips twitched in impatience. She tilted the baby, pressing her ear to his chest for a moment. Her expression grew more serious.

— It isn’t common, that’s true — she admitted, leaning back a little and studying his face with renewed attention. — But he’s breathing. His heart is strong. Hmm… let’s check something else.

She turned to Lia.

— Pass him to me again.

Lia raised her hands carefully, as if she were afraid to break him, and handed the baby back. The husband beside the bed leaned forward, watching every movement, hands clenched on his knees, fingers crushing his pants in anxiety.

Yana turned her back to the couple, repositioning him into a more “working” hold — one hand under his back, the other holding his little legs.

She pulled in a breath, murmured another string of difficult words, then said clearly:

— Manus invisibilis.

Lian’s instincts screamed a warning a millisecond before it happened.

“This isn’t gonna b—”

An invisible pinch hit exactly the most sensitive part of his freshly made body. No hand, no tool, nothing he could see — just a precise pressure, squeezing with surgical cruelty.

His reaction was instant.

“HEY, YOU CRAZY OLD LADY! GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY PRECIOUS BALLS!” he exploded mentally, humiliated and furious, while his tiny body answered with a sharp, crooked cry.

In practice, what came out was a high wail mixed with squeaks and a desperate gulp of air.

His miniature body stiffened, then relaxed. And then came another sensation far too familiar: pressure rising in his belly, rolling through his guts, demanding release.

“Fine. You started this… now deal with the consequences.” he decided with petty little revenge, accepting the impulse like a planned counterattack.

He didn’t hold back. Didn’t resist.

A hot wave burst out with insulting efficiency right onto the midwife’s dress. First the stream of urine, splashing a dark blot. Then the solid follow-up, completing the humiliation with style.

Yana froze.

She lowered her gaze slowly, staring at the damage on the fabric that had been spotless seconds ago.

She took a deep breath, nostrils flaring.

Her shoulders sank a fraction.

— …I must have really pissed off some god today — she muttered, lifting an eyebrow. — A baby that doesn’t cry but has aim. That’s what I get for insisting on this job.

“Pinch my balls again, witch. Next time I’m aiming for your face.” Lian thought, satisfied in a ridiculously infantile way, hiding behind the innocent expression of a newborn.

She set her jaw, accepting a small but memorable defeat. Then she brought her hands together again — one still holding him, the other hovering over her own dress.

— Purificatio totalis.

The same warm wave ran through his body and then through the soaked fabric. In a blink, the dress was impeccable again. The nasty smell vanished as if it had never existed.

“But what…” Lian went still. That was way too clean to be just a “trick.”

Yana sighed again.

— Done — she murmured, not bothering to hide her exhaustion. — Better this way. Here, Lia.

With renewed care, she brought the baby toward his mother.

— Take your little miracle. For someone who was just born, this brat has far too much personality.

Lia held out her arms — less steady than she wanted, but determined. Her still-trembling fingers wrapped around his tiny body and pulled him to her chest. The rumpled sheet brushed his delicate skin.

She cradled him with the gentleness of someone holding something too rare to risk.

Her eyes filled with fresh tears — not of pain, but of a relief so deep it almost hurt.

— My boy… — she whispered, touching the tip of her nose to his forehead, breathing him in as if she wanted to memorize his smell. — My little one…

She paused, choosing her next words with exaggerated care.

— Christian.

The name settled onto him like a new label.

“Christian, huh?” he repeated mentally, testing the sound in his head like a piece of clothing he didn’t yet know if it fit.

— Christian Raymond — she finished with a crooked smile full of tenderness. — That will be your name...