The dirt path winding through the cedar woods was narrow and uneven, its edges swallowed by creeping roots and clusters of pale mushrooms that pulsed with faint bioluminescence. A steady breeze drifted through the branches above, tugging at the hem of Ross's cloak as he walked alone toward the regional testing site. His footsteps made soft crunches on the leaf-strewn ground, and for the most part, he welcomed the quiet. He had chosen to go without company. No Marcus. No Reina. No curious villagers. Just him and the road.
He told himself it was for independence, that he didn't want anyone fussing or hovering. But deep down, he knew part of him simply didn't want anyone to see the storm brewing in his chest.
The test ahead should have filled his mind—he'd trained for it with Marcus for months—but something felt off this morning. His mana stirred too easily, pooling closer to the surface of his skin, and his thoughts flitted about like birds startled from a tree. He tried to focus, tried to steady his breathing like Marcus had taught him, but the familiar rhythm felt distant and forced.
Ross adjusted the strap of his satchel, letting his gaze drift upward toward the canopy above. Patches of morning sunlight filtered through the branches, casting shifting shadows across the dirt path. For a moment, he let himself admire the way the golden light caught the edge of the leaves, their edges trembling like candle flames. It almost grounded him—until the air changed.
The shift was subtle at first. The breeze stalled. The trees stood still. The ambient noise of distant birdsong and rustling undergrowth faded into an unnatural quiet, and something ancient in Ross's gut coiled in warning. It was the kind of silence he remembered from his past life—right before the enemy fleet crested the horizon, or when something impossibly large stirred beneath the ocean floor.
Then came the footsteps. Light. Controlled. Barely there.
He didn't hear the figure approach so much as feel them—like the pressure of deep water before the current changes. Without turning, he could already sense something was wrong.
From behind him, a black-cloaked figure passed briskly on the narrow trail. Their presence was cold, weightless and yet overwhelming. As they passed, the figure leaned in with quiet purpose, close enough that Ross felt the whisper more than heard it.
"Still swimming toward truths that drowned you once, Kraken? You were never meant to die… and certainly never meant to return as one of them."
The words weren't spoken in any common tongue. They were laced in the guttural elegance of demonic speech, wrapping around his spine like chains dipped in ice.
His instincts took over. In one smooth, practiced motion, Ross turned on his heel, mana already curling into his fingers. But the path was empty.
His heart pounded in his ears as he scanned the surrounding woods, breath shallow and sharp. For a second, he thought it might have been a hallucination—but just as the thought formed, he caught a flicker of movement at the edge of the bend ahead. A gust of wind lifted the corner of a black cloak, revealing just enough of the figure's face for the memory to burn itself into him.
Gray skin. Violet eyes that glowed like lanterns lost beneath the sea. A face as precise and ageless as polished obsidian.
Ross's breath caught in his throat.
Kygail.
His knees nearly gave out as the recognition hit.
She was real.
She was here.
The stories Marcus told weren't just old soldier's tales spun by firelight. He hadn't exaggerated or misremembered. She was exactly as he described her—timeless, cold, and utterly still, like a statue carved from night itself.
He remembered now. The story had seemed almost like a myth at the time.
Marcus had told it late one evening, sipping spiced tea and staring into the hearth's flames. He'd spoken of Kygail not as a rumor, but as a presence—one that had haunted even the highest demon courts. "The Voice Beneath Silence," he had called her. A general not of brute strength, but of minds. Of memory. Of veiled truths. After Ross—Cenlurz—had fallen, she hadn't returned to the front. She hadn't reported to the Demon King. She had simply vanished. No body. No trace. Just whispers.
"Some say she died when the Kraken fell," Marcus had murmured. "Others say she knew something she shouldn't—and disappeared before anyone could silence her."
Ross had dismissed it as poetic conjecture. But now?
She was alive.
And she had looked at him—not with malice, not with surprise, but with recognition.
She had known who he was.
Worse—she had spoken as if she knew more than he did. As if she understood why he had died.
His stomach twisted.
Why would Kygail appear here, in the heart of the human continent? And why now?
He didn't have answers. Only a crushing weight in his chest and a hundred new questions.
—----------------------------------------
The testing grounds were nestled in a fortified complex of gray stone and enchanted sigils, bordered by steep ridgelines and watchful towers. The courtyard buzzed with nervous energy as dozens of children gathered, most of them escorted by attendants, tutors, or guards. Some wore fine cloaks embroidered with noble crests. Others bore enchanted charms or swords too fine for their age.
Ross walked in alone, his cloak pulled tight, head lowered to hide the color in his cheeks and the war in his eyes. He wasn't scared of the test—he was terrified of his past catching up to him in full daylight.
He tried to keep his breathing even as he stepped into line at the registration table. A woman with sharp eyes handed him a numbered brass token and smiled, mistaking the tremor in his fingers for nerves.
"First-time nerves?" she asked, kindly.
He nodded, mutely.
—----------------------------------------
The tests were held in five stages, each separated into a different part of the compound. Ross moved like a ghost between them, his mind still echoing with Kygail's words.
When he reached the mana resonance pillar, a towering crystal formation carved from enchanted quartz, he barely heard the examiner's instructions.
"Place your hand on the surface. Channel your core mana gently. Do not force it."
Ross obeyed.
The moment his palm met the crystal, it lit with a blinding blue pulse—then cracked clean down the middle with an audible snap.
Gasps erupted around him. The examiner's eyes widened, and she made a hasty note in her logbook, lips pressed into a thin line.
Ross said nothing. He lowered his hand slowly and walked away, the murmurs of the other children brushing against him like gnats.
—----------------------------------------
The magic control test was held in a wide circular space surrounded by boundary glyphs and floating crystal markers. A shallow basin of water flowed gently at Ross's feet, channeled through small etched troughs in the floor. Other students had gone before him—shaping the water into spheres, simple streams, or frozen shapes.
Ross stepped into the center of the ring. The examiner, a slender woman with silver cuffs and the bearing of a court mage, gave him a short nod.
"You may begin," she said.
He raised his hands slowly, focusing on the basin. Mana flowed from his fingertips with surprising ease—too easily. He hadn't expected it to respond so quickly, and without thinking, he tugged upward, trying to raise the water into the air.
But it didn't just rise.
It coiled.
The water twisted into long, elegant tendrils that writhed around his arms like serpents—six, then ten, then more. The spell reached further, beyond the basin. The air thickened. Moisture condensed rapidly, drawn in from the very atmosphere.
In seconds, the spell had formed dozens of shimmering ropes of water swirling around the arena.
"Stop!" the examiner shouted. "You're overcasting—release it!"
Ross panicked and let go of the spell too abruptly. The mana thread snapped.
With a thunderous whoosh, every floating tendril of water collapsed. A wall of water burst outward from the center, soaking everyone nearby.
Students screamed. One of the record-keepers slipped and fell flat on the stone. The examiner stood frozen, her robe drenched and her hair plastered to her face.
Ross winced.
"I… uh… didn't expect it to draw in atmospheric moisture," he mumbled.
The examiner wiped water from her eyes, scowled, and jotted something down with excessive force.
"Control: unstable," she muttered. "But powerful. You may continue."
—----------------------------------------
The strength test passed in a blur. Ross lifted the enchanted stone with ease, then pretended to strain partway through the lift so he wouldn't draw too much attention. The examiner raised a brow but made no comment.
—----------------------------------------
Before the final stage—the divine affinity test—Ross hesitated.
He knew what was expected. Most candidates approached it like any other trial, eyes bright with hope or fear.
But Ross bore the silent protection of an ancient god—the ruler of the depths, master of the ocean's beasts and secrets hidden beneath the waves. A god whose name was whispered only in the darkest corners of the sea.
That protection had marked him since his arrival in this world, a subtle shield that had saved him from harm more times than he cared to count.
He hadn't expected to show any stronger divine connection than the hero himself, whose affinity was well known and celebrated.
Yet a knot tightened in his chest.
What if the test revealed something else?
He stepped forward, heart pounding, as the attendant placed the sacred relic in his hands.
The room stilled.
The relic glowed faintly, humming with ancient power.
Ross closed his eyes and breathed deep.
When he opened them again, a shock ran through the gathered crowd.
The relic's light blazed brighter than ever before—pulsing, alive, almost sentient.
Gasps filled the chamber.
The hero's divine mark was strong, but Ross's radiance eclipsed it.
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
He had the protection of the ancient god—not just a blessing, but a force that might tip the scales in the battles to come.
Ross sank back, overwhelmed.
He had passed every test.
But it hadn't felt like success.
He had been reckless. Unbalanced. Unfocused.
He had fought like a child—not a tactician. Not a general.
And yet… Kygail had seen something in him. Something she recognized. Something she had waited to see again.
You were never meant to die…
What did she know?
Was his death arranged? His reincarnation not a gift, but a manipulation?
And if Kygail knew… what else had she been hiding?
—----------------------------------------
That night, after the dorms had quieted and lanterns dimmed, Ross lay awake staring at the wooden beams overhead. The faint scent of ink and old stone drifted through the air, but his mind was far from the academy halls.
The warding charm his father had given him rested in his palm—still, inert, and no comfort at all.
Kygail had found him.
She had spoken not to the boy he pretended to be, but to the thing beneath his skin—the drowned truth he tried so hard to forget.
And she hadn't threatened him.
She had reminded him.
You were never meant to die…
Ross turned the charm over in his fingers. The divine mark on his soul pulsed faintly in his chest, not with warmth, but with depth—vast, cold, and endless.
The god that claimed him stirred beneath the waves.
And Ross, for all his effort to be someone else, could no longer pretend he was just another student.