Ren sat in his cubicle, fingers stiff on the keyboard. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, a cruel soundtrack to yet another overtime shift. The office was gray, cold, and nearly empty except for a few others like him—ghosts in corporate skin.
His screen flashed red: "Re-submit."
"Ren!" came a voice sharp as broken glass. His manager.
"Yes, sir?" he muttered, already rising from his seat.
"What is this? You call this a report? Fix it. Now. And don't even think about leaving until it's done."
Ren bowed slightly, biting his tongue. The digital clock read 10:47 PM.
He hadn't eaten a proper meal in over twenty hours. Just vending machine crackers, bitter coffee, and hope—the last of which had long run dry.
He was 26. He should have had dreams. A life. Maybe even someone to love. But after his mother slipped into a coma last year, none of that mattered.
Rent, food, hospital bills.
This job was the only thing keeping her alive.
---
When he finally stumbled out of the building, the streets were empty. A cold wind nipped at his collar. His breath fogged in the air as he walked past the silent buildings, each window glowing with someone else's life.
His phone buzzed.
A reminder: "Call hospital."
He didn't press it.
He couldn't call. He couldn't visit. He couldn't leave work.
The ache in his chest had grown dull over the weeks. The dizziness was more frequent now, but he told himself it was nothing. Just fatigue. Just another deadline.
He passed a bakery that had long since closed. The smell of stale bread clung to the air, reminding him of simpler times.
He remembered, suddenly, a day when he was small.
---
He was maybe five years old. Sitting on a bench in a park with his father.
"Ren, look! The wind carries the leaves like little birds."
His father's laugh was warm and deep, a sound that had become a blur over the years.
They had bought melon bread from a stand, and Ren remembered how warm his hands had been. How safe he felt.
"Promise me you'll grow up happy, okay?" his father had said.
Young Ren nodded, not really understanding.
Then, he turned his head to follow a drifting leaf—and when he looked back, his father was gone.
Just like that. No goodbye. No farewell.
Only the sound of wind. A few swirling leaves. And a feeling in his chest like the world had shifted sideways.
---
Back in the present, Ren rubbed his eyes. The memory hit harder than he expected.
He had never truly questioned that day. His mother never talked about it.
All she ever said was, "He left before you were old enough to remember."
But he did remember. Vividly.
And now, alone in the dark, those missing pieces felt more important than ever.
---
His feet dragged as he walked.
His body screamed for rest.
Then it came—sudden and silent.
A stab of pain in his chest. A lurch in his stomach. His legs buckled.
He stumbled toward a lamppost, grabbing it for support.
The world tilted. The lights above him blurred into halos.
"Not yet... not yet..." he whispered.
He slid to his knees on the sidewalk, breathing hard.
His phone slipped from his pocket and clattered against the concrete.
No one was around.
No one saw.
No one ever did.
He looked up at the sky, the stars barely visible beyond the city haze.
"I wish... I could've seen you again... even once," he whispered. "And told Mom... I'm sorry."
He smiled, just a little.
"Maybe... next time, I'll choose my own life."
His eyes closed.
And his body went still.
---
There was no grand explosion. No divine figure appearing in light. No crowd crying out.
Just a silent city, and a tired soul quietly slipping free.
Somewhere, far beyond what human senses could reach, something ancient stirred.
Something old.
Something watching.
Something waiting.
The blood of another world answered.
And the story of a forgotten heir was about to begin.
---
A faint cry echoed in the dark.
Somewhere warm. Somewhere new.
The scent of old books. The hush of a quiet room. And the soft voice of a woman: "He's beautiful... look at his eyes."
Ren opened his eyes.
Or rather, the soul that once was Ren.
He couldn't speak. Couldn't move. But his mind—foggy as it was—felt too sharp, too aware.
A ceiling of wooden beams above him. Candlelight flickering softly on the walls.
The voice of a man now, proud and calm: "He'll be named Cael. Cael Arven."
A name not his own. A world not his own.
But the warmth of arms held him close. The scent of parchment and herbs lingered in the air. A calm he'd never known in life washed over him.
He didn't cry. Even as confusion clouded his mind, a strange calm settled over him. He was alert, not emotional—just... trying to understand.
His mind struggled to make sense of it all. Where was he? Why couldn't he move? Why did everything feel so small and warm?
The gods, or fate, or something beyond them all...
...had given him another chance.
And deep within his chest, something pulsed. A light unseen. A bloodline forgotten by time.
The boy named Cael opened his eyes wider—eyes too intelligent for a newborn.
The world awaited.
And this time, he would live for himself.