Kazel's eyes snapped open.
His instincts flared. His body moved before his mind could process—his hand lashed out, slapping away the object approaching his face.
Clink!
The spoon flew from the woman's hand, hitting the wooden floor with a dull bounce.
"What are you trying to feed me?!" His voice came out sharp, demanding, though weaker than he expected. His blue eyes narrowed as he glared at the woman before him.
"K-Kazel!?"
Her voice trembled. The woman, with long black hair glistening with faint brown under the light, stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. Then, tears welled up. In the next moment, she threw herself forward, wrapping him in a tight embrace.
"Woman, what are y—"
"Mother is so happy!" she sobbed, clutching him tightly. "I thought the disease would have taken you!"
(Mother?)
His mind reeled. The word felt foreign on his tongue.
He stiffened, his body unresponsive for the first time in his life. Slowly, his gaze dropped to his hands.
Small. Pale. Frail.
The rough, battle-worn skin he once knew was gone. The hands that had once gripped a sword powerful enough to split mountains were now weak, trembling under their own weight.
He lifted his gaze, taking in his surroundings.
A modest room. Unadorned walls. A single wooden desk in the corner, next to a small wardrobe. A bed barely fit for one. A lone potted plant sat by the window, its leaves swaying gently from the passing breeze.
Nothing about this place was his.
This wasn't a warrior's chamber, nor the lavish halls of a ruler.
This was a peasant's room.
"What's going on?" he muttered, but before he could demand answers, the woman pressed a finger to his lips.
"Shh, conserve your energy," she whispered, still smiling through her tears. "I'm going to tell your father! He must be so elated!"
She scurried out before he could utter another word, leaving Kazel in stunned silence.
Then—
"Tch!"
He threw off the blanket and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet touched the floor, the old wood creaking beneath him. As he pushed himself up, a wave of dizziness struck, but he gritted his teeth and steadied himself.
His steps were unsteady, his body foreign.
Reaching the mirror, he froze.
Black hair, slightly disheveled. Skin pale from sickness. And eyes—blue.
His own reflection glared back at him, unfamiliar and frail.
Kazel's fingers twitched as he reached up, tracing his face.
"…I'm a kid again?"
His blue eyes darkened, thoughts racing.
This wasn't a dream.
"Kazel!"
A deep, firm voice filled the room.
Kazel turned, his blue eyes narrowing at the man who strode inside. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and bore a strong resemblance to the woman from earlier. His black hair was streaked with the first hints of gray, his face weathered with the marks of a hard life.
This man—his father—froze upon seeing him. His breath caught, his hands tightening at his sides as emotions flickered across his stern features.
"You're awake," the man exhaled, his voice thick with something Kazel couldn't quite place.
Kazel studied him. There was strength in his posture, discipline in his movements. A warrior, perhaps? A soldier? But his eyes... those were not the eyes of a man who had seen endless war.
The silence stretched before his father finally moved closer, kneeling by the bed.
"You don't know how long we've prayed for this moment," he said, his hand trembling as it hovered near Kazel's shoulder, hesitant to touch him. "You've been bedridden for so long, my son. We thought we had lost you."
( Son... )
The word felt distant. Unfitting.
Kazel did not answer. His father took his silence for fatigue and smiled, though it was weighed down by relief. "Rest, Kazel. There is no need to push yourself. The worst is over."
The man stood, squeezing Kazel's shoulder lightly before leaving the room.
Kazel sat there for a long time.
***
Days passed.
Kazel absorbed everything like a tactician before battle. He listened, observed, and tested the limits of his new body.
This world... it was not the one he had ruled.
There were no great empires bearing his name. No legends of the tyrant who once dominated the battlefield.
The customs were different. The lands, unfamiliar.
He had been reborn into a place devoid of the history he once carved with blood and steel.
He stood at the edge of a small pond, the sun dipping low in the sky. The water reflected his pale face, his black hair swaying slightly in the breeze.
( This body is weak... but I am not. )
He picked up a rock and tossed it into the pond.
Plunk.
Ripples spread across the surface, distorting his reflection.
Kazel exhaled slowly.
"This is not my world," he murmured. His fingers curled into a fist.
"...But it is now."
Kazel stood up, slipping his hands into his pockets. His robe, slightly oversized for his thin frame, swayed as he turned away from the pond and made his way back toward the house. His strides were measured, his mind turning over everything he had learned in the past few days.
This world was different, but his instincts remained the same. Understand the field before waging war.
As he neared the house, he slowed his pace. Voices carried through the open window.
"Kazel is cured! Isn't that great?!" his mother's voice rang with relief and excitement.
"But what about the cancellation of the arranged marriage?" his father sighed.
Kazel's right brow arched.
( Arranged marriage? )
"Well, we need to tell him," his mother continued. "And by 'we,' I mean you."
"Do I have to be the bearer of bad news?" his father groaned. "Or maybe… we can tell them that he's cured."
"They must have heard already," his mother replied, shaking her head. "But they didn't even bother to visit us. I don't think they have any interest anymore... and the words they say about our son..." Her voice softened, pained. "It's hurtful."
Kazel stopped just outside the door, his expression darkening.
( People speaking ill of me? That's nothing new. )
But this? This wasn't about him—it was about this body, this frail, sickly version of himself that had apparently been thrown aside.
He furrowed his brows.
His name still carried weight. Even if he had no empire here, no throne to sit upon—he was still Kazel.
And if someone thought they could toss him away like unwanted baggage...
They were about to learn why that was a mistake.
Kazel stepped through the doorway, his presence immediately cutting through their conversation. His sharp blue eyes flickered between his parents, who were too caught up in their discussion to notice him until he spoke.
"What's this about an arranged marriage, Father? Mother?"
The room fell silent. His father tensed, while his mother turned, her lips parting slightly in surprise.
"Kazel," she started, as if searching for the right words.
His father cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well... since you turned sixteen, we had an arranged marriage set up for you," he admitted. Then his brows furrowed. "Wait—don't you remember?"
Kazel met his father's gaze steadily before shaking his head. "I don't remember much about the past."
( Except for the part where I ruled the world. )
His father exhaled through his nose, exchanging a quick glance with his wife. "Hmm… do you at least remember Salma? The beautiful genius of the Rising Stone Sect?"
Kazel tilted his head slightly. "Not a single thing."
His mother sighed, her expression turning melancholic. "She was once your childhood friend. You two used to get along so well… but ever since your health declined, they slowly distanced themselves from us."
His father crossed his arms, his tone more bitter. "And when we finally called off the arrangement, they didn't even feign disappointment. They never visited. Never checked on you. To them, you were just—" He stopped himself, his jaw tightening.
Kazel's eyes narrowed slightly. He could see it—the quiet anger in his father's stance, the sadness in his mother's voice. This wasn't just a canceled engagement. It was an insult. A rejection.
This Salma and her sect had deemed him unworthy the moment he fell ill.
Kazel scoffed. "So, they abandoned a sinking ship the moment the waters got rough."
His mother winced. "Kazel, it's—"
"It's the truth, isn't it?" He looked at his father. "And now that I'm 'cured,' do they suddenly want back in?"
His father hesitated before shaking his head. "No… they haven't even acknowledged your recovery. They likely don't care anymore."
Kazel's lips curled into a smirk, but there was no humor in it. ( How interesting. )
"I was sick, and they saw me as dead weight." Kazel's fingers curled slightly. "Now I'm healthy, and they'll suddenly remember our arrangement? No." His voice was quiet, but there was steel behind it. "That's not how it works."
His mother looked at him, concern in her gaze. "Kazel..."
He turned toward the window, staring at the sky.
"If they cast me aside," he murmured, "then I'll make them regret it."
Kazel furrowed his brows before stepping toward the door.
"Kazel, dear, where are you going?" his mother called after him, her voice laced with concern.
He paused at the threshold, the afternoon breeze ruffling his black hair. Then, with a smirk tugging at his lips, he glanced over his shoulder.
"Catching some wind," he said.
But his sharp blue eyes were already set in the direction of the Rising Stone Sect.