A sudden warmth.
That was the first thing Lukas felt. It wasn't light, nor pain, nor even confusion. It was warmth. Thick and steady, wrapping around him like a shield.
He blinked. The world was blurry at first—the shapes, the light, everything swimming before his eyes. Then, slowly, his vision cleared, and he saw two people in front of him.
A man was holding him gently in his arms. He had broad shoulders, sharp facial features, and blue eyes. His golden hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. His expression was calm, as calm as a flowing river, but his eyes held a deep sense of pride.
Beside the man stood a woman, her hair falling past her shoulders. Her eyes were full of affection, and one hand hovered near her mouth as she gazed down at him.
"My dear son," the man whispered under his breath, his voice deep and resonant. "Your name will be… Lukas. Welcome to the world, my son."
The name the man spoke echoed in Lukas's mind. It wasn't unfamiliar—but it wasn't quite familiar, either.
He turned his tiny head slightly. His body felt impossibly small, his movements awkward and jerky. When he brought his hand up near his face, it was delicate, the fingers so tiny they could barely form a fist.
Lukas thought silently, These are not mine.
He didn't know how he knew this—but he did.
He couldn't remember who he was in his past life. No name, no face, no family. He remembered nothing concrete. Yet a strange feeling sat lodged in his chest, sharp as a knife.
I have lived before. I know I did. I'm sure. And now… now I'm here. Reborn into some random universe.
Ten years later.
The courtyard rang with the sounds of clashing wooden swords and loud laughter. Boys trained in groups under the watchful eyes of instructors and family retainers. This was the training ground of the Earl's estate, where noble sons were expected to learn how to stand tall and grow strong.
Lukas leaned against the wooden fence, his arms folded over his chest. His hair had turned platinum—a shimmering color somewhere between silver and ice-blonde. His golden eyes were sharp and cool as they swept over the field.
"You talk big, but I bet you're all talk and no action, Lukas," said a boy standing nearby. "You just stand alone near that wall, acting like you're better than everyone else."
The kid's name was Reid. He was the son of a Baron, two years older than Lukas, and already convinced he would be a war hero one day.
Lukas raised one eyebrow. "If I'm better, it's not an act. I know that I am. Because none of you have ever come close to even putting a scratch on me."
Reid made a huffing noise. "You fucking little brat."
"I'm just saying," Lukas replied calmly. "If talking ever made you strong, I'm damn sure, Reid, you'd be the greatest knight in the kingdom by now."
A few of the other boys laughed. Reid's face turned red.
"You think you can take me on, huh? You've barely even trained."
"I don't need to train to beat someone who leads with his chin."
The instructor stepped aside without a word, and a circle began forming around them.
Reid charged forward, his wooden sword raised high.
Lukas didn't move until the last possible second. Then he sidestepped, quick and smooth. His own practice blade tapped Reid's wrist and shoulder in two precise strikes.
"You're way too open, Reid," Lukas said simply.
Reid stumbled back, spun around, and lunged at Lukas again, rage burning in his eyes.
"You're still too wide," Lukas said with a bored yawn.
Another tap on Reid. A light sweep at his ankle.
Reid hit the ground hard.
Lukas let the wooden sword rest on his shoulder, calm as always.
"I told you—you're all mouth and no action."