The years passed slowly in Volgrath, the small farming village where Juri Winkler's second life had begun. To the outside world, it was an unremarkable place: a quiet settlement surrounded by fertile fields, where magic was as commonplace as the wind. But to Juri, Volgrath was a prison—a cage of mediocrity filled with small minds and smaller dreams.
Even as a child, Juri knew he didn't belong.
His lack of magic, once dismissed as a harmless quirk, became a constant reminder of his otherness. The other children—boys and girls who conjured glowing orbs, summoned small gusts of wind, or sparked harmless flames—avoided him, their curiosity about his "magicless" state quickly replaced by mockery.
"Look, it's Juri the powerless!" they'd tease, laughing as he sat alone in the shade of the village's ancient oak tree. "Careful, don't let him touch you—he might drain your magic!"
At first, Juri ignored them. After all, he'd endured far worse in his previous life. Mockery was nothing compared to the battlefield, where survival depended on quick thinking and unrelenting focus. But as time wore on, the whispers began to eat at him.
Weak. Worthless. Magicless.
The words echoed in his mind like the pounding of a war drum. And with each insult, Juri's resolve hardened.
One day, as Juri sat beneath the oak tree sketching designs in the dirt, a shadow fell over him.
It was his father, Anton Winkler, a tall man with broad shoulders and calloused hands from years of working the fields. He crouched beside Juri, his sharp eyes scanning the crude diagrams etched in the soil.
"What are you drawing, son?" Anton asked, his voice gruff but curious.
Juri didn't look up. "Machines," he said simply.
Anton frowned, tilting his head. "Machines? What kind of machines?"
"Machines that don't need magic," Juri replied, his tone distant. "Machines that can do what magic can't."
His father chuckled, shaking his head. "There's not much in this world that magic can't do, Juri."
Juri paused, his small fingers tracing the outline of a gear. "Magic can't make a man who doesn't have it strong."
Anton's smile faded. He studied his son for a moment, his expression unreadable, before placing a hand on Juri's shoulder. "Strength doesn't just come from power, Juri. It comes from here." He tapped his chest, just above his heart. "And here." He tapped his temple.
Juri met his father's gaze, his sharp blue eyes filled with a determination far beyond his years. "Then I'll be the strongest of all."
Anton chuckled again, though there was a hint of unease in his voice. "You've got ambition, I'll give you that. But don't lose sight of what's important, son. This world isn't kind to dreamers."
Juri watched as his father stood and walked away, his broad frame silhouetted against the setting sun.
This world isn't kind to dreamers, Juri thought. Good thing I'm not just a dreamer.
An Encounter with Magic
As the seasons turned, Juri's frustration with his lack of magic continued to grow. He couldn't ignore its importance. Magic wasn't just a tool in this world—it was everything. It powered mills and forges, healed the sick, and protected villages from wild beasts. Without it, a man was nothing.
But Juri wasn't just a man.
One crisp autumn morning, he decided to test the limits of his disadvantage.
Near the edge of the village, a small group of children gathered by the riverbank, their laughter carrying on the breeze. They were practicing their spells, competing to see who could create the brightest light or the largest splash. Juri approached slowly, his hands in his pockets, his expression carefully neutral.
The children noticed him immediately. Their laughter faded, replaced by whispers.
"Hey, it's the magicless one," a boy said, grinning cruelly. He was taller than Juri, with a mop of unkempt blond hair and a confident swagger. "What are you doing here, Winkler? Hoping to learn some magic tricks?"
Juri shrugged. "I'm just watching."
"Watching?" The boy laughed, stepping closer. "You'd better watch carefully, then. Maybe if you stare hard enough, you'll finally figure out how to cast a spell."
The other children laughed, their taunts echoing in Juri's ears. But he didn't flinch. Instead, he tilted his head, his gaze fixed on the boy's outstretched hand.
"Show me something impressive," Juri said, his voice calm.
The boy smirked. "Something impressive, huh? All right, watch this."
He raised his hand, summoning a glowing orb of blue light. The orb crackled with energy, growing brighter and larger with each passing second. The other children ooh-ed and aah-ed, their eyes wide with admiration.
But Juri wasn't impressed.
"Is that it?" he asked, his tone almost bored.
The boy's smirk faltered. "What do you mean, 'is that it'? This is a level-three mana orb! Do you even know how much focus it takes to keep it stable?"
Juri stepped closer, his sharp gaze never leaving the orb. "Focus, huh?"
Before anyone could react, Juri reached out and shoved the boy's arm. The orb flickered and exploded in a harmless burst of light, sending the boy stumbling backward.
"Hey!" the boy shouted, his face red with anger. "What's your problem?"
"No problem," Juri said with a faint smirk. "I just wanted to see how 'stable' your magic really is."
The boy lunged at Juri, his fists clenched, but Juri sidestepped easily, sticking out his foot and sending the boy tumbling to the ground. The other children gasped, their expressions a mix of shock and amusement.
"You think you're tough just because you have magic," Juri said, his voice cold. "But magic is nothing without control. Without discipline. Without strength."
The boy scrambled to his feet, glaring at Juri. "You're crazy, Winkler! Just wait—someday, you'll regret not having magic!"
Juri's smirk widened. "Maybe. But I wouldn't count on it."
That night, Juri sat alone in the barn behind his family's house, a lantern casting flickering light over his makeshift workbench. He had spent months scavenging bits of metal, wood, and rope, hiding them here away from prying eyes. Now, with the day's events fresh in his mind, he felt a renewed sense of purpose.
He picked up a piece of charcoal and began sketching on a scrap of parchment.
The lines came easily, his hand moving with precision born from his previous life. He drew gears and pistons, springs and levers, assembling them into the shape of a small, humanoid figure.
"A machine," he muttered to himself, his eyes gleaming. "Something that doesn't need magic. Something better."
The image of the mana orb flashed through his mind. The raw energy, the crackling power—it was impressive, yes, but it was also unstable. Juri's machines wouldn't rely on such unpredictable forces. They would be built with logic, precision, and ingenuity.
By the time the lantern burned low, Juri had filled the parchment with designs. His hands were black with charcoal, his body exhausted, but he felt alive in a way he hadn't since his rebirth.
He stared at the blueprint, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"This world belongs to magic," he said softly, "but it won't for long."
The next day, Juri began collecting materials. It was a slow, tedious process—scavenging scraps from the village blacksmith, "borrowing" tools from his father's workshop, and even breaking apart an old plow for its metal parts.
The other villagers mocked him as he worked, calling him "the tinkerer" and laughing at his strange contraptions. But Juri paid them no mind.
Over the next few weeks, the machine took shape. It was small—barely the size of a dog—but it was functional. Powered by a series of cranks and pulleys, it could move on four legs, carrying a small load of firewood across the barn floor.
Juri watched it move with a mixture of pride and determination. It was crude, yes, but it was a start.
"Soon," he murmured, his eyes gleaming. "Soon, they'll see what I can do."