High above the world, suspended in the vast expanse of the sky, there existed a throne—ancient, weathered, and untouched by time. It was not a throne placed in a hall of grandeur or a palace of stone. No, this throne sat alone on a platform of clouds, surrounded by an endless void. The heavens above stretched infinitely, and below, the world seemed a mere whisper in the distance. Here, in this suspended realm, sat a man on the edge of death.
He was not a king, nor a ruler of a kingdom. He had no crown, no kingdom to protect. What he had sought in life was power—power to fulfill a promise he had made long ago to his mother, who had died too young. Her death had left a hollow space in his heart, a burning desire to never be weak again. His promise was simple: to become strong enough to never feel helpless again.
And now, as his body lay on the cold throne, a throne that had once been a symbol of his greatest achievement, he realized that he had reached the pinnacle of power. But it wasn't enough.
His breath came in shallow gasps, each exhale more labored than the last. His body, scarred and battered from the countless battles he had fought, had long since surrendered to the inevitable. His blood had soaked into the very fabric of the throne he sat upon. The weight of years, of sacrifices, crushed him.
He had achieved power—limitless power. Magic flowed through him like an endless river, a mastery over elements, beasts, and even time itself. But none of that mattered now. None of it had been enough to save him.
As his vision dimmed, he felt it—a presence, drawing near. At first, it was nothing more than a vague blur, but soon, it took shape. A figure, dark and foreboding, stepping out of the shadows of his dying consciousness. The air around him seemed to grow colder, charged with an energy that was alien, terrifying.
And then, as his mind slipped further away, he heard it—a voice, deep and mocking, cutting through the silence.
"Death is the gift I bestow upon you, filthy human."
His heart stuttered in fear, even as his body succumbed to its wounds. Who is this? he thought in his last fleeting moments, though he could not comprehend it. The voice was not human, not any creature he had ever known. It was something far darker.
In that moment, he saw the being clearly—a shadow, taller than any man, its eyes burning with malice. And though he could not move, could not defend himself, he understood one thing: this being had killed him. Not by blade or spell, but by something far deeper, something that reached into his very soul.
The final remnants of his life flickered like a dying candle, and then—darkness.
Warmth.
It was the first sensation that broke through the haze of his death. Slowly, the fog of unconsciousness lifted, and he felt the comforting embrace of warmth against his skin. Soft hands cradled him, gentle yet strong. His mind, fogged with confusion, could scarcely understand what was happening.
I should be dead, he thought, struggling to piece the fractured memories together. But his body—his small, fragile body—was alive, breathing. He was not cold anymore. He was no longer surrounded by an endless void, the throne now just a distant nightmare.
His eyes fluttered open, slowly, painfully. The world around him was nothing like the sky-throne he had known. No, this was... softer. A room with soft light filtering through windows, the scent of something fresh—fragrant flowers, perhaps. There were voices, too, warm and familiar.
A face appeared above him—a man, older, with eyes full of concern. He was holding him, cradling him with an expression of love, as though Soul were a precious treasure.
"You're awake, Soul. You're safe," the man murmured, his voice breaking the fog in Soul's mind.
His mother—her face hovered into his vision, her features filled with an unspoken love, her hands running through his hair. Soul. The name they had given him. But it wasn't just a name. It was his second life, his rebirth.
Confusion clouded his thoughts. What happened? He remembered. He had died. His body had been broken on the sky-throne, his life fading away under the weight of the mysterious being's curse. But now, he was here, alive, in the arms of strangers who felt like family.
His parents—Tom and Mariyam. They called him their son, a miracle they had longed for, their only child. He was no longer the powerful, battle-worn man who had once sought to become the strongest. No, he was now a seven-year-old boy, with no power, no memories of his past life except for the ones that lingered in his mind like a heavy fog.
As time passed, Soul grew. His body remained young, but his mind was sharp, sharp enough to remember everything—the throne, the promise, and the dark being that had killed him. He remembered the promise to his mother, a vow to never be weak again. He had achieved power, but it had all been taken from him. And now, in this new life, he would reclaim it.
Magic still existed in this world—warriors, mages, angels, demons, and beasts roamed the lands. The very air was alive with energy. And Soul, though young, knew that he had once been a master of magic, with power beyond most beings. But there were two magics he had never fully understood—the magic of the gods and the dark, twisted magic of evil.
And it was this evil magic that had killed him.
I will learn it, he vowed silently, no matter the cost.
He would uncover the truth. The being who had killed him, who had cursed him with death—it was not of this world. It was something beyond anything he had ever encountered. And this time, Soul would not allow himself to be caught unaware.
This world, his second chance, would be different. He would protect his family, grow stronger, and unravel the mysteries that had led to his death.
And he would find the one who had killed him.