Zhoung Feiyon didn't remember dying.
He remembered falling.
The cold night air rushing past his face. The distant hum of the city below, a world that never once cared about his existence. The lights blurred together, beautiful in a way he had never noticed before.
For the first time in his life, he felt light.
Weightless.
Then—nothing.
---
When Feiyon opened his eyes, the world was white.
Endless, silent, suffocatingly empty.
There was no ground beneath him, no sky above. He stood, or maybe he floated—it was impossible to tell. He wasn't cold or warm, just… there.
"Where am I?" His voice came out quiet, barely above a whisper.
"You really went through with it."
Feiyon turned sharply, his pulse quickening at the sound.
A man stood a few steps away, dressed in flowing white robes that seemed to melt into the void. He had sharp features, his expression calm, almost bored. But his eyes—his eyes carried something deeper. Something ancient.
"Who are you?" Feiyon's voice was hoarse, like he hadn't spoken in days.
The man didn't answer right away. He took a slow step forward, his hands clasped behind his back. "You could say I'm the one who greets souls like yours. The ones who die before their time."
Feiyon's breath caught.
Before my time…
"So, I really—" He couldn't even say the words.
The man nodded.
A strange numbness spread through Feiyon's chest. He had imagined this moment before, but standing here now, hearing it spoken aloud—it felt different. More real.
The man studied him for a moment, then asked, "Do you regret it?"
Feiyon blinked.
And then—
The world shifted.
Suddenly, he was back in the alley behind his school. The air was thick with the stink of cigarette smoke and damp concrete. His heart pounded, not from fear, but from something deeper—something raw and familiar.
Laughter echoed in his ears.
"He's so weak, it's pathetic."
Pain exploded in his ribs. Feiyon grunted, his body crumpling to the ground as a foot drove into his side.
"Come on, stand up, Feiyon. Or are you just gonna lie there like a little bitch?"
The voice belonged to Li Wen.
Tall, lean, and always grinning like he was in on some joke no one else could hear. His school uniform was pristine, untouched by the dirt and grime of the alley—he made sure he never got his hands dirty.
The second boy, Guo Lin, let out a bored sigh. He was big, round, and slow-moving, but his punches landed like bricks.
"He never fights back," Guo muttered. "What's the point of this, Li?"
Li rolled his eyes. "The point is that it's fun."
He crouched down in front of Feiyon, tilting his head like he was inspecting some broken toy.
"Look at you," he said, almost mockingly. "No friends. No one waiting for you at home. Not even a mom."
Feiyon flinched.
Something sharp twisted in his chest, deeper than the pain in his ribs.
Li Wen smirked. "Oh? That got a reaction. What, don't like being reminded? Your dad's barely home, isn't he? When's the last time you even saw him?"
Feiyon swallowed hard, his throat dry.
One week ago.
That was the last time his father had come home. And even then, it was just to grab some papers before leaving again. He hadn't said a single word to Feiyon. Hadn't even looked at him.
Li leaned in closer. "No one cares about you. Not your dad. Not your teachers. Not a single person in this world would miss you if you were gone."
Feiyon stared at the ground.
It was true, wasn't it?
No one had ever stood up for him. No one had ever noticed when he was hurting. He was just… there.
Li Wen's grin widened. "You should just disappear."
The words sank into Feiyon's mind like poison.
Something inside him cracked.
He didn't even realize he was standing up until Li Wen's smile faltered. He didn't even register his own movements as he turned, his legs carrying him away from the alley, away from school, away from everything.
He just ran.
The laughter followed him. The insults. The words that had carved themselves into his bones.
You should just disappear.
He ran away, ran and ran.
After about 30 minutes he was at a rooftop and heavily breathing.
The rooftop was quiet.
Feiyon stood at the edge, staring down at the streets below. The city moved on, oblivious to his existence. Cars passed by. People walked, laughed, talked.
He closed his eyes.
For a brief second, he imagined what it would be like to step back instead of forward.
To keep going.
To keep existing in a world where no one cared.
A world where he didn't matter.
The wind howled against his ears.
He took a step forward.
And then—
Darkness.
The white void returned.
Feiyon gasped, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if he had just been pulled from deep water.
The man in white watched him quietly.
Feiyon clenched his fists. His breathing was ragged, his whole body shaking, but he forced himself to meet the man's gaze.
"Do you regret it?" the man asked again.
Feiyon opened his mouth. No words came.
Did he regret it?
He had expected peace. He had expected the pain to finally stop. But all he had found was… this.
A bitter laugh bubbled up in his throat. "I don't know."
The man nodded as if he had expected that answer.
After a long pause, he spoke again. "Suicide is a sin."
Feiyon felt his chest tighten, but the man continued before he could respond.
"And yet… you were still a child."
There was something almost gentle in the way he said it. Not pity, not sympathy—just a simple statement.
"And because of that," the man said, "I will give you another chance."
Feiyon's breath hitched.
His fingers twitched. "Another… chance?"
The man extended a hand. "Not in your old world. That door is closed. But in another world, one where you can start again."
A new world?
Feiyon swallowed hard. "What kind of world?"
"A world where power determines everything. Where, on your seventh birthday, you are granted a class that shapes your future. A world where you can carve out your own fate, if you have the will to do so."
A world where power determined everything.
The words clung to Feiyon's mind, wrapping around something deep inside him.
A world where power mattered.
A world where he could matter.
"...Fine," he muttered. "I'll take it."
The man smiled faintly.
"Then live, Rowan Demta."
The void shattered.
A rush of color and sound swallowed Feiyon whole. His mind blurred, his body stretched and compressed all at once.
The last thing he heard was his own heartbeat—steady, alive—before everything faded to black.
A dull pain throbbed in the back of his head.
Rowan Demta opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—smooth white stone with elegant carvings etched into its surface. Sunlight streamed in from a grand arched window, bathing the room in a soft golden glow. The scent of fresh linen and polished wood filled his nose.
His fingers twitched. His body felt small. Too small.
Slowly, he sat up.
His hands… they were tiny. His arms, his legs—his entire body was that of a child.
What the hell…?
Panic rose in his chest. He threw the blanket off himself and stumbled toward a large, ornate mirror standing against the wall.
The reflection staring back at him was not Zhoung Feiyon.
A boy no older than seven, with soft platinum-blond hair and deep emerald-green eyes, gazed at him in shock. His skin was fair, untouched by the bruises and scars he had carried in his past life. His features were delicate, but there was a sharpness in his eyes—something that didn't belong in a child's face.
This… is me?
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
A rush of memories—not his own—flooded his mind.
His name was Rowan Demta, the youngest son of House Demta, one of the noble families of the Aurelan Kingdom.
A noble. A lord's son.
The thought made him sick.
The last time he had heard the word 'noble,' it was from Li Wen's mouth, laughing about how people like him were born to be on top while trash like Feiyon was meant to grovel in the dirt.
And now he was one of them?
His stomach churned.
A knock on the door made him snap out of his thoughts.
"You awake, runt?"
The door creaked open, and a boy about ten years old stepped in. He had short, sharp brown hair and piercing green eyes—eyes that reminded Rowan of a wolf staring down its prey. His uniform was neatly pressed, his boots polished to a mirror shine.
Eldric Demta.
Rowan's eldest brother.
Behind him followed another boy, a year younger, with a thinner frame and an arrogant smirk.
Gareth Demta.
His other older brother.
Memories resurfaced.
The way they would trip him in the hallways. The way they'd shove his face into the dirt during training. The way they laughed when he tried to fight back—because no matter how hard he tried, he was weaker.
Rowan's hands curled into fists.
Nothing had changed.
A different world. A different body. But the same damn feeling.
Eldric scoffed. "You're finally up. Don't tell me you were hoping to sleep through your big day."
Gareth grinned. "Yeah, it'd be a shame if the 'great Rowan Demta' didn't get to pick his class, right?"
His class.
Rowan forced himself to breathe.
He had nearly forgotten.
Today was his seventh birthday.
And in this world, when a child turned seven, they received their class—the foundation of their future.
This was the moment that determined everything.
And now, it was his turn.
"You better pray to the gods you don't get something embarrassing," Eldric sneered. "Father barely tolerates you as it is."
Rowan's jaw tightened.
Father…
Lord Garros Demta.
A man known for his discipline, power, and complete lack of interest in his youngest son.
Rowan had never spoken to him for more than a few minutes at a time. He was a man who only valued strength. Eldric and Gareth had inherited that strength—Rowan, however, had always been the sickly, fragile child.
At least… the old Rowan had been.
Rowan straightened his posture, brushing past his brothers without a word.
Gareth blinked. "Oho? No stuttering? No whining? The runt grew a backbone overnight."
Eldric narrowed his eyes.
Rowan ignored them.
For the first time in this life, he felt something sharp in his chest.
It wasn't fear.
It wasn't sadness.
It was determination.
He had been weak before. Powerless. A punching bag for those who saw themselves as above him.
Not this time.
Not in this world.
He had a second chance, and he would not waste it.
With quiet resolve, he stepped out of his room and made his way toward the church.
Today, Rowan Demta would claim his class.
The streets of Aurelan bustled with life. The kingdom's capital was a sight to behold—cobblestone roads lined with vendors selling fragrant pastries, shimmering silks, and gleaming weapons. Merchants shouted prices, children weaved through the crowds, and knights in polished armor patrolled the roads.
But Rowan barely paid attention.
His mind was fixed on what was ahead—the Church of the Sacred Path.
Every child, upon turning seven, was required to undergo the Class Bestowal Ritual. They would place their hand upon the Divine Sphere, and the gods would grant them a class suited to their fate.
Most nobles ended up as Knights, Mages, or Holy Paladins—prestigious classes fitting of their status.
The thought made Rowan's stomach twist.
What if I get something useless?
Would history repeat itself? Would he be powerless again?
His fingers curled into fists.
No. Not this time.
This time, he had lived before. He understood pain, loss, and cruelty in a way no child ever should. If the gods thought he would accept being weak again—they were wrong.
Rowan lifted his head as they arrived at the grand cathedral.
Towering marble pillars stretched toward the sky, golden stained-glass windows reflected the light of the afternoon sun, and at the very center stood a massive double-door entrance, flanked by armored priests in white robes.
Children and their families gathered on the stone steps, whispering among themselves. Rowan could see noble children—some trembling in nervous anticipation, others standing with arrogant confidence.
Among them, Eldric and Gareth stood tall, exchanging smirks with other noble heirs.
Rowan ignored them.
A priest in silver and gold robes stepped forward. His expression was serene, his eyes wise with age.
"Children," he began, "today, you walk the path chosen for you by the gods. Approach the Divine Sphere with faith, and embrace the future destined for you."
The grand doors groaned open.
Inside, the cathedral's interior was vast, with an arched ceiling so high it felt like it touched the heavens. At the center of the room, raised upon a marble pedestal, was the Divine Sphere—a shimmering crystal orb, brimming with mystical energy.
One by one, the children were called forward.
Rowan watched in silence as the first noble boy placed his hand upon the orb. Light flared, and glowing letters formed in the air.
[Swordsman]
A common but respected class. The boy grinned and stepped aside, his family nodding approvingly.
The next child, a girl with delicate features, placed her hand on the orb. The letters shimmered.
[Wind Mage]
Gasps of admiration rippled through the crowd. A mage—rare and powerful.
More children stepped forward. Paladin. Warrior. Archer. Healer. Each new class drew murmurs from the nobles gathered.
Then—
"Rowan Demta."
His name rang out.
The cathedral fell silent.
Rowan could feel the gazes burning into his back—his brothers, the other nobles, the priests.
With steady steps, he approached the pedestal.
The Divine Sphere pulsed with energy.
Rowan exhaled slowly.
Then, he placed his hand on the orb.
A cold sensation rushed through his fingers. The air around him hummed with an unseen force. His heart pounded.
The light within the orb began to shift—deep purples, eerie blacks, a flickering gold.
And then—
Glowing letters formed in the air.
The entire cathedral went silent.
[Card Necromancer]
A single breath passed.
Then—
Murmurs. Gasps. Disbelief.
A priest staggered back. "T-This class… It is neither holy nor arcane…!"
Nobles whispered among themselves.
"A necromancer? Is that even a real class?"
"How can this be? Necromancy is forbidden in the church!"
"Impossible! No noble should wield such a thing!"
Rowan barely heard them.
His own breath was caught in his throat.
Card Necromancer.
It wasn't a warrior class. It wasn't a mage or a knight or anything traditional.
It was something else.
Something entirely new.
The priest in gold robes stepped forward, his expression unreadable. He studied Rowan for a long moment before finally speaking.
"Rowan Demta," he said, voice firm yet cautious. "Step forward and receive your Blessing of the Path."
Rowan did.
As he stood before the priest, he caught a glimpse of his brothers.
Eldric's face was twisted in disgust. Gareth's eyes gleamed with something between amusement and curiosity.
Rowan ignored them both.
The priest raised a silver staff.
"May the gods guide your fate," he intoned. "And may you walk the path of your class with wisdom and strength."
A gentle light descended upon Rowan.
And in that moment, he felt it—a shift deep within him.
A power.
A presence.
Like a deck of unseen cards, shuffling in the depths of his soul.
For the first time in both lives…
Rowan Demta felt powerful.