I never believed in the idea of rebirth or life after death. To me, those concepts were neither believable nor compelling. But one thing I was certain of: there had to be a god.

And yet, here I am, surrounded by a bright, almost blinding light. It feels as if I've died. Of course, that day had to come eventually. I've killed so many people in my lifetime that I can no longer count them all. It was only a matter of time before my deeds caught up with me. But what would you expect from a royal knight?

Maybe this is my punishment, my atonement for taking so many lives—men, women, even children. If I had a second chance, perhaps I would live differently. But maybe I should accept my fate, die with the sins I bear for following the orders of a corrupt king like Aldric Valebrook.

As the light fades into darkness, a strange voice reaches my ears. My body feels cold and wet. "Could this be heaven?" I wonder. "No, a man like me would surely be bound for hell."

When I open my eyes, I'm expecting flames and eternal torment, but instead, I see… a face. A beautiful woman with long black hair that brushes softly against my face, her bright blue eyes sparkling as she smiles down at me.

"What the hell?! Am I in heaven or hell? I know I'm dead!" I try to move, to raise my hands, but something's wrong.

"Why are my arms so tiny? And why does my face feel so soft?" The realization hits me like a bolt of lightning. "Am I… a baby?!" I try to shout, but all that comes out are infantile grunts.

I look around, my vision blurry but slowly sharpening. The room has the look of a medieval chamber, with a simplicity that feels ancient. Another woman dressed in white stands nearby, likely a doctor by the look of her. Her hair is light blue—an unusual color, but it seems natural, as if she was born with it. Her eyes are a piercing blue as well.

She speaks to the woman holding me, though her words are hard to make out. It appears I've been reborn, and this beautiful woman is my… mother?

I search the room for any sign of the man who might be my father, but I don't see anyone. Just as I'm wondering if he's abandoned us, a loud voice erupts from the corridor, growing louder with every step. Suddenly, the door bursts open, and a man rushes in.

From his expression, he's clearly overjoyed. His face, handsome and weathered, is framed by messy brown hair, and his dark eyes have bags under them, as if he hasn't slept in days. His clothes look rugged, more suited to a hunter than a soldier. He's saying something, and though I can't understand all the words, a few manage to reach my ears:

"My son… he's really here!"

He approaches with a beaming smile, and I glance back at my mother. She, too, is smiling, her beauty somehow even brighter now. My father speaks to her, holding her face, kissing her tenderly. Though the language is foreign to me, I start catching bits and pieces of their conversation.

"Honey, you look exhausted."

"I was rushing back to see our son, Alex, being born."

Alex. That seems to be my name. And from the sound of it, my father had hurried back to witness my birth.

"Miss Valen, please rest," the doctor says to my mother. "You need to recover."

"Yes, of course."

The following weeks are grueling. I wouldn't wish the helplessness of infancy on my worst enemy. I have no control over my body functions, no way to communicate except by crying, and only the smallest control over my limbs. Every attempt to move feels like a monumental struggle. Now I understand why babies cry so much.

If you've never been a baby before, let me tell you: when someone plays with your hands, you lose all sense of control in your fingers. It isn't painful, but it's a strange feeling.

And then there's the breastfeeding. It's not that I don't appreciate the nutrition—on the contrary, it's perfect for a baby. But being a grown man trapped in a baby's body, feeding from a much younger woman who is now my mother? It feels… wrong.

The room I was born in is my parents' bedroom. From what I can tell, this world seems peaceful, unlike my own.

As I pick up fragments of conversation between my parents, I realize this world is nothing like the one I left behind. I'm certain of this when, one day, my father returns home covered in mud. My mother raises her hand, and with a gentle flick, water appears from nowhere, washing him off. I'm stunned, realizing that magic exists here. I'm so excited, I even… well, wet myself.

"What kind of world have I been born into?"

My mother, Mira Valen, and my father, Arthur Valen, are both good people, as far as I can see. Mira is warm-hearted and gentle, almost angelic, while Arthur seems stern around others but acts playfully with his family. And to think they can use magic—this changes everything.

One day, when I'm around four months old, my mother takes me into town. It's more of a small village, with stalls everywhere and people openly carrying weapons. I already knew this world was different, but it's still jarring to see armed people so casually walking around. My mother talks to me constantly, pointing things out, perhaps trying to help me learn. I just look around, absorbing everything, until she buys some fruit with strange currency, and we head back home.

More time passes, and by the time I turn one, I've learned a great deal. The strange magic my mother used is called "Sen." It allows people to manipulate the six elements—fire, water, earth, wind, light, and dark—by drawing on Sen energy in the air. If both parents are Sen users, their children inherit a stronger connection to it, though they typically specialize in a single element. We live on a continent called Lumina, and our village is known as Nasia.

My father, as I discover during one of his training sessions, is a fire-type Sen user. Watching him was one of the most exciting experiences of my life. With a few strange chants, he conjured a fiery spear and hurled it at a massive boulder, shattering it to pieces.

By the time I can walk and understand the language of this world, I know exactly what I want: a book on Sen and Sen energy. Somewhere in the village, there has to be a source of knowledge, a bookstore, perhaps.

As I wander through the bustling marketplace, holding tightly to my mother's hand, I scan every stall, searching for a glint of leather-bound books. Despite the village's size, there must be some place selling knowledge. After all, knowledge is the foundation of power.

We pass a bakery that fills the air with the scent of fresh bread, stalls brimming with vibrant fruits, and blacksmiths hammering away at iron. The energy around me is intoxicating. Then, at the far end of the market, I spot a small booth. An old man's stall, cluttered with scrolls and dusty books.

I tug on my mother's hand, pointing at the booth. "Book," I say, struggling to sound clear in my childish tone.

She looks surprised but smiles, amused by my interest, and walks us over to the old man.

"Ah, young one, what brings you here today?"

My eyes scan the books, and there it is: an old, yellowed tome with the title The Fundamentals of Sen and Sen Energy.

"That one," I say, pointing. My mother seems taken aback by my choice.

"That'll be fifty silver chips."

She reaches into her bag, pulls out the money, and pays the old man.

I've learned this world's currency system by now:

100 copper chips = 1 silver chip

100 silver chips = 1 gold chip

With this book on Sen energy in my hands, I can finally start my training. If I play my cards right, I may soon be able to use Sen myself.