"I told you to stop following me! You're acting like a damn lapdog!"

[Slap.]

The echo of the blow expanded through the air, dry and resonant, leaving silence in its wake. His head snapped to the side, the burning sensation on his cheek spreading almost instantly, but the physical pain was insignificant compared to the whirlwind of confusion flooding his mind at that moment. Absolute bewilderment.

In front of him, a girl—no older than twelve—stood with long, loose hair falling in fine strands around her face, twisted in fury. Her eyes, cold as daggers, flashed with a strange mixture of emotions: anger, contempt, and perhaps... fear? Sadness? It was impossible to tell.

Her delicate face was contorted in a grimace of anger, yet it couldn't entirely erase the youthful beauty she possessed. She was yelling at him, yes, but for some reason, her voice seemed unable to pierce the haze of his daze.

Unnoticed by him, curious glances, venomous whispers, and mocking laughter from young students rolled in like a rising tide—a voracious sea eager to devour the scene unfolding before them. A grand spectacle to enjoy along with their meals in that academic dining hall.

"He had it coming. A beggar like him should never have aspired to the attention of the top-ranked student in the first year."

"He should stay where he belongs… in misery, like the trash he is."

"I don't understand how she put up with having that commoner follow her everywhere, clinging to her like filth itself."

The words floated in the air, sharp as blades, sliding into his skin, condemning him with an inescapable verdict. A punishment that… wasn't meant for ears that cared.

What the hell… was happening? His skull throbbed with a relentless pain, as if invisible hands were crushing it with the force of a hydraulic press, preventing his thoughts from aligning. Instinctively, he raised a slow, hesitant hand to his cheek. The sting was real. The slap had been real. And that girl's shouting was real, too—it felt almost tangible, like a growing pressure beginning to irritate him.

"Alright… I get it, I'll leave you alone," he muttered. But the moment the words left his mouth, something unsettled him. His own voice sounded strange, foreign, as if it belonged to someone else. And the most disturbing thing of all: it was a language he didn't know, and yet, he understood every syllable he uttered, every word perfectly comprehensible.

A chill ran down his spine. Something inside him was out of place, misaligned, out of its comfort zone—like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong slot.

The girl reacted the instant he spoke; her eyes widened, reflecting surprise and a hint of fear. "Are you serious?" she asked, her voice slightly trembling, as if she couldn't believe what she had just heard.

What the hell? He thought. Wasn't she the one who had just demanded that he leave her alone? Why the sudden change in attitude? And more importantly: why did every word he spoke seem incomprehensible yet understandable at the same time?

The pressure in his head intensified. The pain turned into a fierce stab, drilling into his skull. He clenched his fists tightly to resist the urge to grind his teeth. But what truly exasperated him was the noise—the girl's voice and those of others, voices he couldn't recognize or hear clearly. Every word, every sharp exclamation, pounded against his temples like an unrelenting hammer.

"I don't want to deal with this right now," he thought, clinging to the last thread of coherence he had left. The whole situation was ridiculous, even degrading.

"Yeah, now get lost," he said, this time in a firmer tone. He raised his hand and waved his fingers, as if shooing away a bothersome animal. "Shoo-shoo, stop annoying me."

His own gesture unsettled him. Since when had he stooped to arguing with a brat? This was low—even for him.

The girl, who moments ago had struck him without hesitation, now seemed strangely unsettled. Her expression twisted into something indecipherable, as if she had just tasted something bitter or as if a deep anguish was gnawing at her from within. Who knew? He certainly didn't care.

The pain in his head was too much, and he had no intention of prolonging this interaction any longer than necessary. If she wouldn't leave, then he would. He turned abruptly, determined to leave her behind. He didn't care if she yelled at him again. Not even if…

"Wa… wait."

Her voice. There was something in her voice. Something that made him stop for an instant. It sounded fragile, almost desperate. Something inside his chest tightened. Why? Why did that plea make him hesitate? Why did he feel such a sharp pang of frustration? He didn't understand. He didn't even want to try. He just wanted to close his eyes and wake up from this nightmare.

The cold wind caressed his face. Something felt strange.

Had the air always been this crisp?

A foreboding sensation, as cold as the wind itself, ran down his skin. Instinctively, he raised a hand, trying to grasp what was out of place. And then he felt it: tears.

He was crying.

Why? There was no reason for it. No logic behind it.

The moisture on his face unsettled him. For a moment, the world seemed to tilt toward him. Had the ground always been this close? Questions piled up in his mind, but none found an answer. Not at that moment. Not in that situation.

The pain in his head reached its peak, like a deafening roar. His body grew heavy, his will crumbled. And then, without warning, he collapsed.

Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, he fell without resistance. Darkness swallowed him instantly—deep, impenetrable, and infinite.

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"The stars do not shine upon this kingdom by mere whim, but because each one is the echo of a hero who never returned."

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

—Excerpt from Volume 1 of The Reborn Hero.

[Awaken.]

When his eyes opened, an ambiguous sensation enveloped him—an odd balance between the familiar and the unknown. It was like waking from a dream that had lasted too long, or shaking off the lethargy of a brutal hangover, the kind that left more regret than memories.

And he expected—almost instinctively—to find himself back in his tiny, cluttered apartment, buried under wrinkled sheets, with the endless hum of morning traffic seeping through the window. Maybe he'd mull over the strange dream he had, the one that would probably haunt him all morning until coffee dulled its impact.

But the reality that greeted him was something entirely different. And unwanted.

A warm light spilled into the room, illuminating a spacious and pristine space, with an elegance that didn't fit into his daily life. He lay on a mattress so soft it almost felt like floating, wrapped in sheets of fine, silky fabric—unreal in their luxury. The furniture around him seemed pulled from a distant era, their design evoking the royalty of centuries past, yet still feeling functional. Lace curtains filtered the sunlight with an ethereal, almost divine glow.

The air was thick, filled with the scent of lavender and something else—something he couldn't quite place.

And in front of him, a woman watched him in silence.

Her beauty was… dazzling, almost unreal. As if she didn't belong to this world—or to any world he knew. She carried an air of unshakable calm, the kind of serenity possessed only by those who existed beyond worldly concerns. Her nurse's uniform, with its elegant, old-fashioned cut, looked as though it had been lifted from a 19th-century portrait. Her deep, tranquil blue eyes rested on him with a familiarity that unsettled him, and for a moment, he felt inclined to ask for her number—though something about the atmosphere told him that wouldn't be the appropriate thing to do.

"How… strange," he thought. The entire situation was, really.

"Brián… I'm glad you're okay," she said gently, her voice so soft it seemed to wrap around him. "Fortunately, it was just a severe case of mana exhaustion."

Brián.

The name echoed in his mind like a hollow refrain. He found nothing in his memory to answer its call.

So then… who the hell was Brián?

His first instinct was to shield his eyes with his arm. The sunlight was strangely intense, blinding in its golden radiance. But when his fingers brushed against his face, the confusion sank even deeper into his chest.

His skin… didn't feel like his own.

It lacked the roughness he remembered. His hands, once hardened by time and routine, were now soft, young, unblemished.

Panic crept down his spine like a shiver.

He wanted to believe this was a dream. A hallucination, a trick of his subconscious. But everything… felt too real.

Then, the woman moved, interrupting his spiral of thoughts. She walked with the same serene grace toward a small table beside the bed and picked up a glass vial, its interior glowing with a bright blue liquid.

"This will make you feel better for the rest of the day," she said, uncorking the vial with an almost choreographed elegance before offering it to him with a faint smile. "Now… drink it quickly."

There was no choice. His eyes flickered between her and the vial. He knew there was no escape. The nurse's posture was firm—the kind that promised complaints if her request wasn't followed. With a quiet sigh, he took the vial and, after a second of hesitation, brought it to his lips.

The liquid was surprisingly sweet, but the moment he swallowed, a metallic aftertaste slid across his tongue. It felt like drinking liquid electricity.

He had to suppress a grimace. He didn't want to appear rude, not in front of a woman who seemed so assured of what she was doing.

"Good. In five minutes, you'll be able to get up and leave," the nurse said with the same unwavering calm. "You collapsed from mana exhaustion, but with some rest, you'll be fine. And no physical activity, Brián."

That name again. A hammer blow to his mind.

He brought a hand to his head, relieved that the pain had faded. But the confusion remained, crashing over him like an unstoppable wave. He glanced around again, searching for an anchor to reality. Some sign of familiarity. But all he found was the same opulence, the same luxury that felt alien to his life.

The blonde woman observed him for a moment longer, her eyes scanning him with a meticulous calm, as if she were assessing every nuance of his condition. When she seemed satisfied with her silent examination, she gave a slight nod and turned, walking toward the door with the same serene grace. A moment later, the grand room was left in complete silence.

He took a deep breath. Tried to steady himself.

But his mind was an untamed whirlwind, a storm of questions, with one rising above all the others: Who the hell was Brián?

He forced himself to move.

With cautious motions, he sat up at the edge of the bed. His body responded clumsily, as if each muscle was trying to remember how to function. A strange sensation overtook his legs—they didn't hurt, but they didn't quite feel like his own, either.

Then, a strand of hair fell across his face. Automatically, he brushed it aside with his hand—only for his entire body to freeze.

Hair… green.

His breath caught in his throat.

He took another strand between his fingers, examining it with growing desperation. Long, silky, a shade of aquamarine green that made no sense. Disbelief pierced through him like an icy shiver.

Then, he looked at his hands. Small. Delicate.

They weren't his.

The pounding of his heart thundered in his ears. With reckless urgency, he tried to jump to his feet… or at least he attempted to. His legs faltered, barely managing to keep his balance before he stumbled clumsily. Something was terribly wrong.

This can't be happening.

He staggered toward the nearest door, instinctively believing it led to a bathroom. His breathing turned erratic as his mind clung to the possibility that this was just a nightmare. He just had to look in the mirror. See his face. See that everything was fine.

But the moment he crossed the threshold and his eyes met his reflection… the entire world seemed to collapse. The shock nearly knocked him backward.

The image staring back at him was not his own.

What looked at him from the other side was not the face of a twenty-year-old man, but that of a child. No older than twelve. His skin was smoother, his face sharper, his eyes… an intense aquamarine, reflecting the same bewilderment he felt inside. And his hair, that damn hair, fell in soft waves over his forehead, undeniable proof that none of this was a dream.

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

Only a trembling whisper, an almost inaudible denial:

"No… this can't be…."

Slowly, with shaking hands, he touched his face, but the skin beneath his fingers did not lie. The mirror did not lie.

Reality crashed down on him like an avalanche, unstoppable and absolute.

An unbearable cold coiled in his chest, crawling from his stomach to his throat. The pressure was suffocating, his heart pounding so violently he feared it would burst from his chest.

This isn't real.

This isn't real.

THIS ISN'T REAL!

And then, in a desperate act, he let panic take over. With a strangled cry, he raised his fist and smashed it against the mirror.

The sharp crack of shattering glass filled the room.

A searing pain exploded in his hand, but he barely registered it. Blood trickled from his knuckles, tracing crimson lines over the fractured surface, dripping onto the sink and pooling onto the floor, staining his bare feet in scarlet.

But neither the pain nor the blood pulled him from his despair.

The broken reflection was still there.

He was still there.

Consumed by fury, he lifted his fist again, determined to destroy it completely. Maybe if he shattered it, if he reduced it to nothing, this nightmare would end.

But before he could strike again, the bathroom door burst open.

The nurse stepped inside, alarm flashing across her features, though her elegance remained intact despite the urgency in her gaze.

In an instant, she was beside him.

She said nothing when she saw the disaster. Neither the blood, nor the shards of glass, nor the child collapsing before the mirror seemed to disturb her calm. It was only when he raised his fist again, ready for another blow, that she moved.

Her hands closed around his wrist with surprising firmness, holding him still with effortless strength.

"Brián, please… calm down."

Her voice was soft, unwavering, filled with understanding.

He wanted to resist. He wanted to scream that she didn't understand, that everything was wrong, that he wasn't Brián. But his breathing slowed, his trembling body gradually surrendering to the warmth of her grasp. The silence between them grew thick, heavy.

The questions still swirled inside him, a relentless storm.

Who the hell was he now?

And what had happened to his real life?