Evening light filtered through the canopy, scattering gold across the forest floor. Beneath the trees, a narrow stream ran clear and shallow, its surface flashing as it caught the sun. A school of small fish drifted just below the waterline, darting upward whenever a leaf, a seed, or some unlucky insect fell from above. They surged, retreated, and scattered again once they realized not everything that fell was food.
At the edge of the stream, beneath an old oak, a large gray stone jutted from the earth. A young boy sat upon it, small legs dangling, his gaze fixed on the flowing water. He did not blink. He did not move. He looked as though he were watching the world without truly seeing it.
"Leon… Leon, where are you?"
A woman's voice carried through the trees, distant at first, then drawing closer.
Moments later, she emerged from between the trunks. She wore a dark linen overcoat, thick and coarse, its weave rough enough that the threads were visible at a glance. It was practical clothing—durable, warm, and unmistakably provincial. Nothing like the fine-spun cloth sold in the market town, let alone the silks worn by nobles in the cities.
Her face bore the marks of weather and labor, wind and worry etched faintly at the corners of her eyes. Yet she was still young, her figure strong and steady, her hair tied back in the simple style of a village wife.
She stopped in front of the boy and softened immediately.
"There you are," she said gently. "Come on, Leon. It's time for supper. Your father caught a forest deer today—proper meat. If we don't hurry, your sister will eat more than her share."
She lifted him from the stone with practiced ease and turned back toward the village path.
As she walked, she kept talking, her voice a constant, reassuring stream. "What did you do today, hm? Did you stay close to the water again? I've told you, it's not safe. Next time, play with your sister, all right? And tell her before you wander off…"
Her name was Erika, and she was his mother in this life.
She spoke without pause, as if silence itself might invite misfortune. Yet beneath the gentle scolding and habitual chatter lay something quieter—an exhaustion she tried hard to hide. A worry that never truly left her eyes.
The boy rested his chin against her shoulder. His eyes remained unfocused, empty of recognition. To any passerby, he might have seemed blind. Or slow. Or simply broken in some way no one could quite name.
His name was Leon.
And though his body belonged to this world, his soul did not.
Leon was four years old.
Or rather, his body was.
The soul within him had once belonged to a man named Leonard Ventura, a software engineer from another world entirely. In that former life, he had worked for a mid-sized technology firm, one of many developers pulled into a new industry project with brutal deadlines and unstable systems. Overnight fixes were routine. Sleep was optional. Exercise was something other people talked about.
His health had declined quietly, invisibly—until it hadn't.
The last thing Leonard clearly remembered was a long night spent debugging a deployment issue, the clock edging past three in the morning before he finally returned to his hotel room. He showered. He lay down.
And then—
Nothing.
What followed was not darkness, but something stranger. A long, half-conscious drift. Crying. Sighs heavy with disappointment. Pitying looks. Whispers spoken just out of reach. It felt like being trapped inside a machine running at full capacity, tasks piling up faster than they could be processed.
When awareness finally returned, it did so slowly.
Leon realized—gradually—that his mind had awakened before his body could support it. An adult consciousness, bound to an undeveloped brain. Thoughts formed, but responses lagged. Perception without control.
To the outside world, he was a dull-eyed child. A boy who stared too long and reacted too late.
To himself, he was waiting.
It had been about a week since clarity returned. A week since he noticed the smallness of his hands. The unfamiliar weight of his limbs. The fact that he could understand the language spoken around him—even if his tongue could not yet shape it properly.
He remembered enough to know what had happened.
He was not reborn in the same world.
At first, he had entertained comforting fantasies. Perhaps this was merely a return to childhood. A second chance in a familiar age. He had read enough stories to know how such things should go.
But the illusion shattered quickly.
The house was built of timber and mud, its roof thatched with straw. The blankets were rough. The bed was little more than dried reeds piled over a wooden frame. Outside the window stretched endless forest, untouched and dense.
This was no modern world.
Nor was it the heroic age of wandering swordsmen and secret manuals he had half-hoped for.
From fragments of conversation and careful observation, Leon pieced together what he could.
This land was called the Continent of Ethos.
He lived in Acorn Village, a small settlement under the authority of Greystone Hold, itself ruled by Count Valerius of Valorian Province, within the Aurestian Empire. A feudal hierarchy, rigid and unforgiving.
Metal was scarce. Magic, if it existed at all, was distant and unseen. Life here was measured in harvests, hunts, and survival through winter.
There were no warriors glowing with power. No mages hurling fire in the streets.
At least, not here.
Leon hoped that meant only that Acorn Village lay too far from the currents of greater events.
For now, he had no choice but to accept his circumstances.
He remained silent. Still. Watching. Learning.
Once, he had truly been unresponsive.
Now, he was only pretending.
As Erika carried him back toward the village, the smell of woodsmoke drifting on the evening air, Leon let his thoughts settle.
This life was real.
This world was real.
And whatever had brought his soul here had done so for a reason he did not yet understand.
For now, he would survive.
From this moment on, Leon was no longer Leonard Ventura.
He was a child of Ethos.
And this was only the beginning.