Consciousness returned in a sudden, deafening jolt.
First came the sensation. Piercing, all-encompassing, tearing him apart. Cold. Not the mere chill of an autumn day or icy water—this was a primordial cold that clung to every cell of a body that, it seemed, no longer belonged to him. It was helpless, alien, incapable of even the simplest movement to warm itself.
Then came the sound. A formless, crushing drone, composed of hundreds of echoes merged into one. It beat against his eardrums, distorting, transforming into an unintelligible cacophony in which the distantly familiar, yet now alien, intonations of human speech were drowning.
And finally, the light. A merciless, blinding flood that struck his eyes, which had opened involuntarily. It was so bright it caused physical pain, forcing the world to blur into one solid white smear, across which blurred, gigantic figures slid like shadows.
Panic, cold and clammy, rose in his throat. He tried to scream, but only a thin, piercing cry escaped his lungs—a sound he did not recognize. It was the wail of an infant.
His body, small and weightless, was lifted by someone's hands. Figures flickered before his eyes, passing him from one to another like a fragile parcel. The world spun, a kaleidoscope of light and shadow changing with dizzying speed, until, finally, he found himself in a new embrace.
And in that moment, everything changed.
The cold receded, replaced by a wave of enveloping warmth. The noise subsided, giving way to a quiet, rhythmic beat that resonated somewhere deep inside, calming and lulling. The bright light dimmed, obscured by something soft and large. He sensed the gentle, subtle scent of milk and a woman's skin. The hands holding him were incredibly tender, and the touch was filled with a care he hadn't felt in an eternity. He didn't know who this figure was, but he instinctively pressed closer to the source of warmth, seeking protection. The body, still disobedient to his adult mind, found peace in this on its own. The struggle ceased. The endless fatigue, accumulated over a long past life and the shock of a new birth, took its toll. He fell asleep, feeling completely safe for the first time in a long, long time.
Five years passed.
The village was a lost island of civilization in the midst of a boundless ocean of ancient forest. A few dozen crude but sturdy wooden houses with thatched roofs were scattered across a small valley, surrounded by ancient, towering trees. A winding dirt road, the only thread connecting the settlement to the outside world, was lost in the green thicket. Life here flowed slowly and measuredly, subject to the changing of the seasons. In the morning, trickles of smoke rose from hearths above the roofs; by day, the sound of the woodcutter's axe and the lowing of cattle carried on the air; and in the evening, the village sank into a thick, ringing silence, broken only by the chirping of cicadas and the distant hooting of an owl.
On the very edge of this backwater, at the forest's hem, a new structure, strange for these parts, had recently appeared. Someone had cleared a small patch of land of bushes and stones, carefully leveled it, and turned it into an impromptu training ground. In the center of this circle, dug deep into the earth, stood a wooden training dummy. It was carved from the solid trunk of a thick tree, and the places imitating the arms and torso were wrapped in old, worn fabric for durability.
On this training ground, all alone, was a black-haired child. He couldn't have been more than five years old, but his movements held no trace of childish clumsiness. He methodically struck the wooden idol, and with each impact, a dull, confident thud resounded.
The boy was strikingly beautiful. His hair, black as a raven's wing and of medium length, was tossed about by his sharp movements. His face, which had not yet lost its childish plumpness, already possessed sharp, noble features that promised to mature into something extraordinary. But most captivating of all were his eyes—large, almond-shaped, they shone with a bright, vivid amber color. In them, despite his young age, one could read an unchildlike depth and awareness.
He was reflecting, as he always did during training. His thoughts flowed evenly, in time with his strikes. "Strange, all of it..." he thought, landing a precise punch on the wrapped fabric. "I always believed that memory should disappear. A new life—a clean slate. But I... I remember everything. Every wrinkle on my wife's face, every victory and every defeat, the bitterness of loss and the warmth of the family hearth. It's as if I didn't die at all, but simply moved into a new house. Into a new, tiny body."
He shifted, moving off the line of his imaginary opponent's attack, and delivered a series of rapid strikes to the carved sections of the dummy imitating arms.
"The first few years were sheer hell. The mind of an old man, trapped in the body of an infant. Utter helplessness. The inability to speak, to walk, even to control my own needs. And this new language... I had to learn it from scratch, listening as my new parents cooed over me."
His father, Arthur, turned out to be a strong, silent man, a forester, whose hands were covered in calluses from his axe, and whose clothes always smelled of pine and tree resin. His mother, Livia, was a kind and caring woman with a warm smile, whose life revolved around the home, a small vegetable garden, and a few livestock—a pair of goats and a dozen chickens. They were simple, good people, and he, Raine—that was the name they had given him—had grown genuinely attached to them over time.
The strikes against the dummy became faster and stronger. The wood creaked in protest under his assault.
"This place... it's different. Not just a different country, but a different world." He remembered how his father, putting him to bed, would tell him fairy tales. But they weren't the tales he was used to. They were legends. Legends of monstrous beasts that had once nearly destroyed the world. Of the sea serpent Leviathan, whose body could encircle an entire island, and of the land colossus Behemoth, whose tread made the earth tremble. The heroes of antiquity had defeated them, but these stories, told in a whisper by the light of an oil lamp, made him, a grown man, feel a primal terror.
And they weren't just fairy tales. He had already managed to confirm that the world was not inhabited solely by humans. Several times, merchants had passed through their village—and among them, he had seen sharp-eared, graceful elves and stocky, bearded dwarves. And sometimes, armed people whom the locals called "Adventurers" would pass through the village.
A loud crack echoed. One of the dummy's "arms," unable to withstand another powerful blow, broke off and flew to the side. Raine froze, breathing heavily.
"Yes... And the people here are much stronger," he concluded. Ordinary folk, like his forester father, were hardier and tougher than the average person from his previous world. But the real gap lay in the strength of those Adventurers. He had overheard scraps of conversation about "levels" and "blessings of the gods," which gave them inhuman might. This explained why the few Adventurers who passed through their village moved with such ease and confidence, like hidden predators.
He came out of his state of combat concentration. His small body was covered in a light sweat, which ran in streams down his temples and back. Raine closed his eyes and began to perform breathing exercises, steadying his ragged breath.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by a loud, thin shout, which came from the edge of the training ground.
"Raine!!"
He turned. Stumbling over the uneven ground, a boy with a shock of dazzling white hair and large ruby-red eyes was running toward him. It was Bell Cranel. His first and only friend in this new world.
Raine watched Bell run up, a warm smile appearing on his lips. "Grandson..." flashed through his mind. He just couldn't perceive this shy, tearful child any other way. Bell was kind, sincere, and trusting to a fault—the complete opposite of himself, with his cynicism and wisdom of lived years.
They had met a couple of years ago. One evening, a decrepit but suspiciously sturdy old man had knocked on their door, with a little boy hiding behind his leg. They introduced themselves as their new neighbors. Back then, Bell was a total crybaby, constantly clinging to his grandfather and bawling for any reason.
Bell ran up, bent over, and rested his hands on his knees, desperately trying to catch his breath.
"Hah... hah... Raine! Why didn't you... wait for me! We were supposed to... play together!" he panted reproachfully, pouting.
Raine just chuckled and paternally ruffled his snow-white hair.
"I wasn't playing, just doing my warm-ups. I was waiting for you to arrive to start the real training," he replied calmly.
Bell's face immediately lit up. As was their tradition, he pulled his simple village shirt off over his head, remaining in just his trousers. Together, they began to perform simple exercises: squats, push-ups, and then they ran several laps around their training ground. As they ran, they chatted about all sorts of childish trifles.
"...and Grandpa's going to tell a new story about the hero Argonaut today! He said I could invite you to listen! He's really looking forward to seeing you, too!" Bell shared with delight.
Raine nodded, and as he moved on to the next exercise—a stretching routine taken from his past life—he couldn't help but think about Bell's grandfather. That old man always gave him a strange feeling. On the surface—just a decrepit hermit, with an eternal, dopey grin and a supply of lewd jokes. But one look into his eyes, or just being near him, and Raine, with his veteran's intuition, sensed an aura of colossal, restrained power emanating from him. It was a subtle sense of danger, like that of a sleeping predator. At first, it had been unsettling, but over time Raine had simply gotten used to this strangeness and stopped paying it any mind.
After the warm-up, they stood facing each other. They had only started practicing sparring a couple of months ago.
"Ready?" Raine asked.
Bell nodded seriously and took the fighting stance Raine had shown him. Their usual session began. Raine didn't just fight him; he taught him.
"Don't lean forward, Bell. Weight on both feet," Raine commented calmly, easily dodging an uncertain punch. "You don't strike with your hand, but with your whole body. Rotate your hip. Like that, much better."
As the fight progressed, Raine never ceased to be amazed. "This kid is incredible. His potential is just enormous," he mused. Bell was like a sponge. He absorbed everything he was shown. Raine made a light feint, showing a strike to the body but actually aiming for the shoulder. Bell, not yet able to read such deceptive movements, should have reacted to the first, false threat. But instead, his body swayed to the side with a kind of animal intuition, moving his shoulder out of the line of attack. Raine's strike passed millimeters away. "There it is," Raine noted mentally, taking a step back. "I didn't teach him that. That's pure instinct. A reflex that natural-born fighters have. He didn't even realize what he did; he just sensed the danger." This only strengthened his conviction: before him was a flawless, uncut diamond.
The match ended, as it always did. Raine made a deceptive move, forcing Bell to shift, and immediately executed a neat sweep. The boy, losing his balance, fell softly onto the grass. He lay on his back, exhausted but happy.
"You're getting closer, Bell. Your strikes are already much stronger than they were a month ago," Raine praised him.
At these words, Bell's eyes shone brighter than rubies. For him, praise from Raine was the highest reward.
"Want to go for a swim?" Raine suggested, noticing they were both drenched in sweat.
Bell happily agreed. Following their established tradition, they headed to the nearby river. The water was clear and icy, pleasantly cooling their skin, heated from the training. They splashed each other and tried to race the minnows darting near the bottom until they were completely worn out.
Their walking route today took them through the village. Their appearance always evoked fond smiles from the neighbors.
"Oh, look, our handsome boys are here!" an elderly neighbor cooed after them, waving her hand. "Such cuties, one dark-haired, one white-haired!"
At these words, they both blushed, but for different reasons. Bell—from embarrassment, and Raine—from the awkwardness of being called a "cutie" when he was an old man at heart.
On the way, they stopped by Raine's house. His mother, Livia, caught them on the porch. She was a beautiful woman with long, raven-black hair, just like his, and slightly darker skin than the other villagers. Her features were finer and more delicate, which betrayed her as a foreigner. Raine had long since realized that it was from her he had inherited his unusual appearance for these parts.
"My heroes!" she exclaimed, immediately pulling them both into her arms, starting to squeeze and kiss them on both cheeks. "You must be tired! I'll give you something to refresh yourselves!"
Raine, having long since resigned himself to such displays of motherly love, simply surrendered, allowing himself to be turned into a doll for hugging. Bell, however, not used to such affection, stood as red as a beet, shifting awkwardly. Soon, Livia had supplied them with a flask of water and several hefty sandwiches with cheese and cured meat.
Refreshed, they headed to Bell's house. His grandfather, as always, was sitting on the porch in an old rocking chair. He was a gray-haired old man with a sly squint and a beard, perpetually dressed in a simple shirt and trousers. Noticing them, he broke into a wide, good-natured smile, which gathered a net of wrinkles around his eyes.
"Oh, Raine, my friend! Come in, come in! Bell's been bending my ear all about you!" he greeted him warmly.
The boys went into the living room, which was lined with bookshelves. This was an incredible rarity. Raine knew that books were very expensive in this world, and such a quantity of them in a poor old man's house only added to his suspicions about him.
They sat on the floor and began to read. Bell, as always, was glued to the books with stories of heroes, their exploits, and their journeys. His eyes burned, he followed the adventures of the brave warriors with his mouth open, and in those moments, Raine could clearly see how in the soul of this tearful child, a great dream was being born—to become just like them. To become a hero.
Raine, however, was interested in more down-to-earth matters. He greedily devoured books on history and geography. He read about the great kingdoms, about the races inhabiting the world, about the gods who descended from the heavens to live among mortals—which seemed to him like an amusing mythology. He learned of the existence of the giant labyrinth city, Orario, the only place in the world where the entrance to the Dungeon was located. This world was amazing. Full of unknown creatures, monsters inhabiting deep forests and mountains. And magic. What had been only fiction in his past world was very real here—he himself had seen visiting adventurers create fire or water from thin air.
Perhaps the childish nature of his new body was speaking, or perhaps the newfound possibilities of this incredible world had awakened a long-forgotten excitement. Looking at the engrossed Bell, Raine realized that a dream had sparked in his own soul as well. And though their dreams were similar, they were still different. While Bell wanted to become a Hero with a capital H, saving princesses and defeating evil, Raine wanted something different. He wanted to become an Adventurer. An Explorer. A man who would descend into the darkest depths, see all the wonders of this world, and gather its countless treasures.