Chris woke up gasping for air, as though surfacing from a deep, dark ocean. His chest heaved, his fingers clawing at the unfamiliar fabric beneath him. He was no longer on a cold, bloodstained battlefield. No burning villages. No piercing cries of the dying. Instead, the scent of freshly laundered sheets and the faint hum of a ceiling fan greeted him.
He bolted upright, his heart hammering. The room was blindingly bright compared to the eternal gloom of his past. Sunlight streamed in through the open window, illuminating a tidy room filled with things he didn't recognize. Posters of smiling people, books stacked neatly, and a desk adorned with trinkets that seemed impossibly mundane. The air smelled clean—too clean.
Chris ran his hands over his arms and chest, expecting to feel scars. The jagged remnants of battles fought and lost. But there were none. His skin was smooth, unmarred. He caught sight of his hands, smaller and softer than they had been in his other life, trembling as though they belonged to someone else.
"What… is this?" he whispered, his voice cracking. It sounded younger, unscarred by the weight of command or the screams of the ones he couldn't save. He scrambled out of bed and stumbled toward a mirror hanging on the closet door.
The reflection startled him. The boy staring back had messy black hair, wide green eyes, and a face that looked no older than fifteen. This wasn't his face. Or rather, it was, but not the one he'd grown used to seeing—a face hardened by years of suffering, eyes dulled by loss.
His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, gripping the carpet like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. Memories of his previous life surged forward like a flood, threatening to drown him.
The first time he'd held a sword, his father's proud smile etched into his mind. The warm embrace of his mother as she hummed him to sleep during restless nights. His little sister, Lily, giggling as she chased fireflies in the meadow near their village.
Then came the fire. The screams. The blood.
Chris choked on a sob as the images seared his mind. The monsters that razed his home. The look of horror on his mother's face as she shielded Lily with her body. His father's desperate shouts as he pushed Chris to run. To live.
"I'm sorry," Chris whispered, his voice breaking. Tears spilled down his cheeks, hot and relentless. "I tried… I tried to save you…"
But he hadn't been strong enough. No matter how many battles he fought, no matter how many monsters he slew, it was never enough. The hole in his heart remained.
And now he was here, in a world that seemed so quiet, so safe. A world where wars weren't fought with swords and magic but with words and ambition. A world where the dead stayed dead, and families weren't ripped apart by cruel fate.
A knock on the door startled him, and a woman's voice called out, "Chris? Are you awake? Breakfast is ready."
It was gentle, kind. He froze, his heart pounding. Slowly, he stood, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. His legs felt like jelly as he opened the door.
A woman stood there, her warm smile lighting up the hallway. She looked nothing like his mother, but something in her eyes held the same tenderness.
"Are you okay, sweetheart?" she asked, tilting her head. "You look a little pale."
Chris couldn't speak. He just stared, his mind struggling to reconcile this new reality. This woman… was she his new mother? Did he have a family here? Could he allow himself to hope again?
"Come on," she said, taking his hand and gently pulling him toward the kitchen. "I made pancakes. Your favorite."
The word "favorite" hit him like a dagger. Someone cared enough to know his likes and dislikes. Someone wanted to make him happy. It was such a small thing, but it felt monumental.
As he sat at the table, watching her bustle around the kitchen, something inside him cracked open. The heavy weight he'd carried for so long shifted ever so slightly. For the first time in years—maybe lifetimes—he allowed himself to imagine the possibility of healing.
But as he took a bite of the warm, fluffy pancake, his heart clenched. Could he really deserve this? A second chance? A family?
Chris stared out the window at the blue sky, his hands trembling around the fork. He made a silent vow, his green eyes filled with determination.
"I won't waste this life," he whispered to himself. "No matter what it takes, I'll protect them. This time… I won't lose anyone."
And so, the boy from a world of tragedy began his journey in a world of peace, carrying the scars of his past and the fragile hope for a better future.