[Word Count: 3652]
The night the child was born, the world reacted first.
Not the kingdoms with their borders drawn in blood and ink, not the churches with their proclamations of order and destiny, not the towers of mages who pretended that fate could be measured, cataloged, or bent to their will.
The animals did.
Wolves lifted their heads in unison, ears pivoting toward a sound that had not yet been made, bodies going tense as if bracing for a storm they could feel in their bones. Deer froze mid-step, hearts hammering violently in their chests, not fleeing as prey should, but waiting, muscles coiled and ready. Birds fell silent on their branches, feathers puffed, wings half spread, eyes wide with an instinct they did not understand.
Even the insects, the endless and mindless chorus of the forest, stopped singing.
It was not fear.
It was recognition.
Recognition that something was about to enter the world, and that the world itself wished to decide whether it should bow… or bite.
…
Stone walls closed in around the chamber, slick with age and old violence, the torchlight throwing warped shadows that clung to every corner. The air reeked of iron, sweat, and blood that had soaked too deeply into the stone to ever truly fade.
A woman lay upon a table meant for punishment rather than birth, her wrists bound tightly with rope to keep her from clawing at anyone, or from reaching for the child when it came. The cords had already cut into her skin, leaving angry red welts, but she did not complain, not because she lacked the voice, but because she lacked the strength. She had already lost everything worth mourning, and now she would lose the last fragile thing she had been clinging to.
There were no comforting words spoken for her.
No soothing hands offered reassurance.
To the men gathered in the room, she was not a mother, she was a container.
"Hurry," one of the robed figures snapped, his voice sharp with impatience as he glanced toward the narrow windows. "Before dawn."
Another voice answered him, low and careless, weighted with indifference. "If it dies, it dies. We only need an answer."
The woman's jaw clenched hard enough to crack her teeth.
Then she screamed once.
And when the scream broke into a gasping breath, the child slid into the world, slick with blood, small, fragile, and terrifyingly silent.
For a heartbeat that stretched far too long, nothing moved.
One of the men leaned forward, eyes narrowing as if staring harder might force reality to comply.
"…Dead?"
The midwife's hands trembled as she lifted the newborn, her breath caught painfully in her chest.
Then the child's chest rose.
And he cried.
It was not loud. It did not need to be. It was only enough, a thin piercing sound meant to signal that the first step had succeeded.
The torches flared violently, flames leaping as though fed oil. Shadows skittered across the stone walls like frightened animals, twisting into grotesque shapes. The air thickened, pressing against the lungs. The robed figures stiffened as though the cry had brushed against something buried deep within them, something they did not wish to acknowledge.
Outside the city walls, beasts pressed toward the treeline as if summoned.
"He lives," someone whispered, the words edged with offense rather than relief.
A basin was dragged forward, its contents sloshing thickly. It was filled with neither water nor wine, but with something far darker, something everyone present recognized instinctively.
Dragon blood.
Fresh, warm, dark as a moonless lake.
It shimmered faintly in the torchlight, not with beauty, but with weight, with a presence so heavy it made stomachs knot and lungs feel too small.
The men stared down at the newborn.
Though his eyes were shut, it still felt as though he were staring back.
"Do it," the robed leader ordered.
They lowered the baby into the dragon's blood.
It should have burned him. It should have rejected him, the way the world rejected weak things.
Instead, the blood accepted him.
It crawled across his skin in slow, deliberate rivulets, seeping into pores like a promise being signed. The baby screamed, not in pain, but in outrage, as though mortality itself had insulted him by daring to touch him.
One of the attendants stumbled backward, face pale. "He's… he's not dying."
"No," the leader hissed. "Not yet. Speak."
A man in white gold robes stepped forward and began reciting the words of the Human Church of Light, not a prayer, not a blessing, but a declaration. An attempt to brand the moment, to claim the child's existence as something shaped by human hands.
As the final words echoed through the chamber, iron tools were brought forth.
They were etched with old marks.
Barbarian sigils, symbols from a people who believed wrath was holy and blood was proof of worth.
The leader's voice was calm, far too calm.
"Carve them."
The first cut split the baby's skin.
The scream that followed made the glass in the windows tremble. They carved the sigils into his flesh one by one, careful and precise, as if drafting a contract the body did not get to refuse.
The baby did not faint.
He did not weaken.
His tiny fingers clenched so hard they cracked the stone edge of the basin.
A robed man swallowed thickly. "That's impossible."
The leader's eyes gleamed with unyielding greed. "Good. We didn't come here for possible."
When the last sigil was carved, the baby's crying stopped abruptly.
Too abruptly.
The room fell into an uneasy silence, everyone waiting for the delayed death that always followed arrogance.
But the child simply breathed.
Slow. Even.
As though he had decided the world would keep him.
Far away, in the forest, animals began moving.
Not fleeing.
Coming closer.
Dire wolves trotted through the undergrowth without fear. Ravens circled above the city walls. A great stag stepped onto a ridge and stared down at the human settlement with eyes far too intelligent to belong to a beast.
The world had felt the child's birth.
And it was watching to see what the humans would do with him.
…
When the doors opened, the arguments died instantly.
Sila entered first.
Her long white hair caught the torchlight like frost beneath moonlight, braided loosely over one shoulder. Soft fox ears rose from her hair, pale and alert, flicking once as they caught every sound in the chamber. Her luminous teal eyes glowed faintly, reflecting magic older than stone or scripture. Spirit sigils shimmered along her cheeks, not inked but alive, shifting subtly with every breath she took.
She wore simple worn clothing, practical and weathered, yet the air around her was thick with the presence of the wild, earth, roots, running water, and spirits that did not kneel to names.
She stepped forward as if she belonged there, as if the hall had been built for her.
Behind her came Roran.
Half elf.
Tall and lean, silver hair falling freely over his shoulders, framing a face carved sharp by discipline and restraint. His ears tapered elegantly, unmistakably elven, yet there was nothing gentle about him. His pale eyes were cold and steady, like steel left too long in winter air. He wore black, simple and functional, a sword resting at his side, unadorned, its grip worn smooth by years of use rather than ceremony.
"You're late," one of the robed men snapped automatically.
Sila smiled.
It was not kind.
"You carved a child," she said softly. "In a place that smells like slaughter. And you are worried about time."
"This is human business," the leader said, stepping forward. "Leave."
Roran's eyes lifted.
The leader stopped moving.
It wasn't a spell. It wasn't intimidation.
It was the simple truth that if Roran decided to kill him, it would already be done before the leader finished blinking.
Sila walked toward the basin.
A guard stepped into her path.
She didn't even look at him.
Something shifted in the air.
The guard's knees buckled as if the ground had remembered gravity existed just for him.
Sila reached into the basin and lifted the baby.
The child didn't cry.
He didn't squirm.
He wrapped his small hand around her finger and held on as he'd finally found something real.
"You want a symbol," Sila said, turning toward the exit, the baby tucked against her chest. "Fine. But you don't get to keep him."
"You can't take him," someone snapped. "He's—"
"He's alive," Sila cut in. "That's all he is. And you were going to break him until he fit whatever story you wanted."
The leader's voice turned cold. "Stop her."
Roran moved.
One step. That's all.
He didn't draw his blade.
He didn't cast a spell.
He simply stood between them and the door, and suddenly everyone in the room remembered what it felt like to be prey.
No one moved.
Sila walked out.
And by the time dawn arrived, the hall was empty.
The baby, stolen from every claim.
The woman, bleeding on a table, was forgotten.
The world, watching from the forest edge, is silent and waiting.
…
They didn't take him to another village.
They didn't take him to a hidden camp of beastkin or an elven grove.
They took him somewhere that belonged to no one.
A cabin, deep in a valley where the mountains folded inward like clenched fists. Where snow came late and left early. Where no roads led, and even hunters avoided the place because compasses felt wrong there.
Sila chose the land because it was quiet.
Roran chose it because it was defensible.
And the world chose it because the child's presence made the valley feel… awake.
They built the cabin from living timber and stone.
No banners.
No wards carved in pride.
Just a home, stubborn and simple, set against a sky that didn't care.
For the first year, the child rarely cried.
He watched.
He listened.
And the animals came.
Not cautiously.
Not warily.
They came like they were returning.
A fox curled at the cabin steps the first week and refused to leave. Birds perched on the roof beams and stayed through storms. Wolves patrolled the treeline, not as threats, but as guardians.
Sila noticed first.
"He doesn't frighten them," she murmured one evening, watching a doe step close enough for the toddler to touch its nose.
Roran's added. "Yes, it seems they wish to be with him more than be in their home."
As Galahad grew, so did the strange truth of him.
His strength came early.
At four, he lifted a log meant for the hearth and carried it like it weighed nothing. At six, he broke a training dummy with a single shove, splintering hardwood like dry bone. At ten, he caught a falling stone with one hand and held it long enough for Roran to pull Sila out of the way.
"Giants," Roran muttered, staring at the boy with a look that was half awe and half fear. "That's strength..."
Galahad didn't smile.
He rarely did.
He wasn't cold. He wasn't cruel.
He was… measured.
As if he had been born with the instinct that emotion was a weakness the world would punish.
Magic came later.
Not in sparks and fireworks.
In whispers.
In warmth under the skin.
In the way flowers bloomed when he passed. In the way spirit-lights gathered at dusk like curious children. In the way the wind leaned into him when he spoke quietly to the trees.
Sila taught him the earth first.
"Don't command it," she told him, kneeling in soil and pressing his hands into it. "Ask it. Listen. The earth remembers everything. If you learn its memory, you learn the world."
She taught him about plants, how roots spoke, how leaves drank light, and how poisons and medicines were often the same thing, depending on intent. She taught him spirits not as tools, but as neighbors.
"The spirits don't belong to you," Sila said. "You don't own magic. You borrow it. And you pay it back."
Roran taught him war.
Sword first, then dagger, spear, axe, bow, crossbow, the staff, and lastly bare hands.
He taught Galahad how to fall without breaking, how to rise without hesitation, how to strike so cleanly that the opponent didn't understand they were dead until they hit the ground.
"Power isn't what wins fights," Roran said, making Galahad hold a stance until his legs shook. "Discipline, control. and patience do."
Galahad learned fast.
Too fast.
He read old books until the pages softened from touch. He remembered every word the first time. He listened to Roran explain a technique once, then performed it perfectly the next day.
At twelve, Roran tested him in silence, switching weapons without warning, changing tempo, trying to catch him unprepared.
Galahad adapted every time.
At fifteen, Roran stopped trying to surprise him and started trying to understand him.
"What do you wish to do with the skills I taught you?" Roran asked one night, voice quiet, staring into the fire.
Galahad stared back at the flames. "I don't know."
Sila watched from the shadows, tail still.
"It's better that way," she said.
But her voice didn't sound convinced.
…
When Galahad turned eighteen, the valley changed.
The animals grew restless.
Wolves howled at dawn, not as songs but warnings. Birds circled above the cabin like they were searching for something. The spirits gathered closer at night, their lights flickering like nervous eyes.
And Galahad began waking with his heart hammering, sweat cold on his skin, a taste of iron in his mouth.
The dreams were different now.
Not just images.
Not just feelings.
Knowledge.
Like someone was pouring entire lifetimes into his skull while he slept.
He'd wake and know the shape of a continent he'd never seen. The weakness of a monster he'd never fought. The names of kings who hadn't been crowned yet.
It made his head hurt.
It made his hands shake.
It made him understand something terrifying:
He wasn't just strong.
He wasn't just gifted.
He was being prepared.
One morning, he stepped outside and found every animal waiting.
A stag. A wolf. A hawk perched on the cabin's roof beam. Foxes in the brush. Even a bear, sitting quietly at the edge of the clearing like a respectful guest.
Galahad stood still, breath visible in the cold air.
And for the first time in his life, he felt it clearly—
The world knew him, but not as a boy, as something different, a change.
That night, he sat with Sila and Roran at the table and said the words he'd been holding in his throat for years.
"I'm leaving."
Sila didn't flinch.
Roran didn't react.
But the fire popped loudly, like the cabin itself had taken offense.
Sila's voice was calm."What do you mean...?"
Galahad's eyes were steady. "If I stay here, I will rot. And if I leave later, I won't make it in time."
Roran's fingers tightened around his cup. "In time for what?"
Galahad looked away. "I don't know. I just… know I need to be out there."
Sila exhaled slowly. "Then we have one week."
"One week?" Galahad frowned.
Roran's gaze sharpened. "To prepare you properly. To make sure you don't die the first time the world decides it does not know what you are."
Galahad nodded once. "Okay."
That was how it began.
Training intensified. Roran drove him until his muscles tore and healed. Sila pushed his magic until the spirits flickered angrily and the earth trembled under his palms.
And then, two days into that week, Sila coughed.
It was small.
She tried to hide it.
But Galahad heard everything.
He looked up as she turned away. "Sila."
"I'm fine," she said quickly.
The next morning, she coughed again.
Blood spotted the inside of her sleeve.
Galahad's eyes narrowed. "You're not fine."
Sila's ears pinned back. "Don't start."
Roran watched her too closely. "How long?"
Sila's jaw tightened. "Long enough."
That night, the spirits gathered outside the cabin like mourners who didn't know how to knock.
Sila's magic faltered for the first time in Galahad's memory. She tried to weave warmth into the air and failed, breath hitching, hands trembling.
Galahad stepped forward. "Let me help."
Sila's eyes flashed. "No."
"Sila—"
"No." Her voice softened, but the firmness remained. "You leave in a week. You don't waste your strength trying to save something you can't."
Galahad stared at her like he didn't understand what words were anymore.
Roran stood behind her, silent, expression unreadable.
But his hands were clenched so tight his knuckles were white.
Two days later, Roran collapsed in the training yard.
No warning.
One moment, he was demonstrating a spear technique; the next, his knees hit the dirt hard enough to send dust into the air.
Galahad caught him before his head struck the ground.
Roran's breath came shallow. His skin felt hot.
Sila's face went still.
Galahad's voice turned sharp. "What is this? Poison? Curse?"
Sila looked away. "No."
"Then what?"
She swallowed. "It's time."
Galahad's grip tightened around Evilan's shoulder. "Don't say that."
Roran opened his eyes, purple gaze steady despite the fever. "Boy…"
Galahad's jaw clenched. "Don't."
Roran's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "You always had a habit of ordering people."
Galahad didn't laugh.
He couldn't.
Roran's voice dropped, rough. "Listen. You were never meant to stay here. This cabin was… a pause. A shield. Not a prison."
Galahad's throat tightened. "You're not dying."
Roran stared at him. "We are."
The words hit harder than any blade.
The next days blurred.
Sila weakened quickly, breath turning shallow, ears drooping, tail heavy like it carried all her years at once. Evilan's fever rose and fell, leaving him pale, sweat-soaked, but stubbornly awake when Galahad tried to let him rest.
Galahad worked like a madman.
He poured magic into the earth and begged it for remedies. He asked spirits for help, voice raw, hands shaking. He mixed herbs with trembling precision. He carried water, chopped wood, and held them upright when they couldn't stand.
Nothing worked.
The sickness wasn't poison.
It wasn't a curse.
It was something older.
A quiet ending that didn't care how strong you were.
Sila died first.
She waited until the last sunset of the week, as if refusing to leave before the time she'd promised him. She lay in the cabin bed, eyes half-lidded, breathing shallow.
Galahad sat beside her, hands clenched so tight they hurt.
Sila reached up with trembling fingers and touched his cheek.
"You look like you're about to break the world," she whispered.
Galahad's voice cracked. "Why does it have to take you away..."
Sila smiled faintly. "Don't hate the world, my sweet boy...love it, it may hurt, but it has good."
Galahad swallowed hard. "But then why did you hide me from i?t"
"Out of love for you and to save you." Her eyes softened. "But now you have become a young man I can be proud of, who can stand on his own."
Her hand fell.
Her chest rose once more.
Then stopped.
The spirits outside the cabin flickered and went still.
Galahad didn't scream.
He didn't cry.
He sat frozen, staring at her face as if he stared hard enough, he could force life back into it.
Roran died three days later.
He called Galahad to him before the end, voice weak but steady.
Galahad knelt beside the bed. "I can't lose you, too...please."
Roran's eyes narrowed faintly. "You still don't listen...what did we say?"
Galahad's jaw clenched. "I'm listening...but it hurts..not physical but here" as he held his hand over his heart.
Roran exhaled slowly. "Good. Then hear this. The world will try to make you choose sides. Humans will call you theirs. Others will call you a threat. Don't let any of them decide what you are."
Galahad's voice was low. "What am I?"
Roran stared at him like the answer was obvious.
"You are… whoever you wish to be."
His breath hitched.
Galahad leaned forward. "Roran."
Roran's gaze softened. "Take the sword...and your mother pendant and walk out there like you were born to the world, not to anyone in it."
His eyes closed.
And when Galahad whispered his name again, there was no response.
…
They were buried beneath the old trees.
Not with ceremony.
Not with speeches.
Just earth.
Hands digging.
Animals watching in silence, as if they understood that something sacred had ended.
When it was done, Galahad stood alone in the clearing.
The cabin behind him looked smaller than it ever had.
The world ahead looked endless.
He shouldered his pack.
Strapped the sword to his back, and for a long moment, he didn't move.
Then—
A flicker of blue light appeared in the air before him.
A screen.
Sharp, clean letters hovered where no magic circle formed.
A voice spoke—not warm, not cruel.
Neutral.
Unavoidable.
[System Of the Lost Life]
[Functions]
-Status-Inventory-Store
Galahad stared.
His hands tightened slowly.
"…So you're finally showing yourself...after all these dreams," he muttered.
Another screen appeared.
[Status][Name: Galahad Beowulf][Age: 18][Class: Unclaimed Vessel]
[Level 1][Health: 1500/1500][Mana: 15000/15000]
[Body: 15][Mind: 15][Spirit: 15]
[Skills]: Giant-Blood Strength/ Spirit-Fae Affinity/ Sage-Lens Cognition/ Weapons Mastery[Advanced]/ Magic Mastery[Advanced]
Galahad's eyes narrowed at the word Sealed.
He didn't ask why.
He already knew.
Power like his never came free.
A week ago, he would've stared at the screens with confusion.
Now, he felt only one thing.
A cold, quiet certainty.
He looked at the graves one last time.
"I'll come back," he said, voice low. "And I will become a man you will continue to be proud of."
Galahad turned away from the cabin and stepped onto the path leading out of the valley.
Into the world that would either shape him stronger…
Or break.