The day Elias Corrin lost everything, the skies above London wept in earnest. Raindrops battered the window of his cramped flat, drowning the distant traffic and blurring the streetlights below into smears of amber. Each drop seemed intent on silencing the city that had long since stopped listening.
Elias sat hunched over a scarred wooden table, his hands trembling around a chipped porcelain mug. The bitter tea had long gone cold, but he barely noticed, eyes fixed unseeingly on the watery trails outside. He felt hollow, as though life had carved him out, leaving only a thin shell of faded ambition and broken dreams.
He had grown up believing in football—not merely as a sport but as a sacred refuge from a world bent on breaking its promises. He cherished the intricacies of tactics, the elegance of a perfect cross, the thunderous joy when the ball struck home. His childhood had been littered with notebooks overflowing with scribbled formations and fantasies of someday standing on the sidelines as a great manager. But such dreams rarely survived the merciless grind of reality.
Instead, Elias pursued science—a respectable path, his parents had insisted. Stable. Secure. A promise of quiet dignity. Yet the corridors of academia proved treacherous. Progress became a chess game controlled by hidden alliances and whispered nepotism, with merit often suffocated beneath prestige and prejudice. Elias had once believed that patience and integrity were enough. He'd assumed that talent would inevitably shine, that justice could not remain blind forever.
But time taught him otherwise. The brilliant career he envisioned crumbled steadily into mediocrity. His revolutionary research was dismissed, his ideas quietly buried beneath bureaucratic neglect. Colleagues moved forward, bolstered by influential connections and tactical friendships, leaving him behind to languish.
Eventually, even football—his sanctuary—faded from refuge to a bitter reminder of all he'd lost. His love of the game soured into something he couldn't bear to touch, a festering regret that consumed him every sleepless night.
Then, the layoffs came. Elias watched with numb acceptance as his name appeared at the bottom of redundancy notices, replaced by fresh faces favored by the department's politics. When he packed his desk in silence and stepped into the grey drizzle, he told himself it was merely another setback, another match lost in injury time.
But setbacks accumulated. Bills stacked higher, debt collectors called more frequently, friends quietly disappeared, and soon Elias stood truly alone. Even the memories of his parents felt distant now, reduced to faded photographs and lingering echoes of advice he'd never fully embraced.
He began spiraling, haunted by endless loops of self-blame: If only he had stood up for himself. If only he'd chosen passion over caution, dreams over safety. If only he hadn't surrendered to a legacy his heart had always rejected—one of careful mediocrity and quiet resignation. Maybe then, he wouldn't have lost so much.
One evening, as rain hammered relentlessly against his windows, Elias felt something fracture inside him. He sat, unmoving, watching the blurred lights outside, realizing that he had stopped breathing—that his heart, weary and battered by disappointment, had finally relented.
Everything fell silent. There was no fear, just a gentle relief, an ending that felt overdue. Elias surrendered quietly, unsure if he deserved even the peace of oblivion.
But sometimes, the end is not truly the end.
He awoke to whispers—voices unfamiliar yet oddly comforting, echoing from a place far beyond the drab confines of his flat. They murmured urgently, calling a name that wasn't his.
Rowan… please, son. Not now. Don't leave me yet.
Elias opened eyes he didn't recognize, saw through blurred vision a ceiling of ornate stone, flickering in candlelight. A worried face loomed above, lined with age and sorrow.
"Father?" The word slipped out instinctively, yet felt strange on his tongue.
"Yes," came the trembling response, full of relief and desperate affection. "Stay with me, Rowan. The academy still needs you—I still need you."
Fragments of a foreign life flooded Elias's mind: memories of running through corridors of stone, studying ancient texts on spellcraft and strategy, nights spent watching from the edge of practice fields as young warriors played a sport he didn't recognize—glowing stones hurtling through air thick with mana, formations born of spell and stamina.
He felt a profound ache, not his own, tied to this body named Rowan Keir: loss of a mother, grief-stricken silences from a father worn thin by the burdens of an inherited academy. A family legacy of honor and expectation, a crushing weight Rowan had struggled to bear. And yet, beneath it all lay genuine love—a father desperately trying to protect his son from the same bitter fate he'd endured.
Elias felt an unsettling resonance. Once before, he'd spurned the legacy handed down to him, running from a family path in pursuit of self-defined success. Yet, the freedom he sought led only to regret, isolation, and eventually, death. The cycle seemed intent on repeating itself—but Elias felt an undeniable resolve rising within him. This time, he would not falter.
This time, he would embrace what he'd abandoned. He would forge a legacy of his own making, yes—but he would do so with heart and purpose. No longer would he turn his back on the bonds that gave life meaning. Rowan's father—and this strange academy filled with magic and sport—were his second chance.
"I'm here," Elias whispered fiercely, squeezing a hand he knew yet didn't. "I'm not leaving you—not again."
His father's grip tightened, and tears gathered in the older man's eyes—tears born of relief and rekindled hope.
"Thank you, son. Together… we'll save this place. For her. For both of us."
Elias—Rowan now—felt something ignite in his chest, fragile but fierce. Not merely determination, but redemption, a chance to right old wrongs. To build something that truly mattered, guided by love instead of bitterness.
The rain had stopped—at least here—and outside the stone walls of this new world, dawn slowly broke through the darkness, lighting the horizon with shades of fire. For the first time in years, Elias Corrin—now Rowan Keir—allowed himself to hope again.
He had lost everything, once. This time, he vowed silently, would be different.
Because this time, he wasn't alone.