Daniel was in his bed, arms behind his head, eyes tracing invisible lines across the wooden ceiling. It was early, the light creeping in faintly through the woven curtains, casting slow-moving shadows on the floor. The silence was undisturbed except by the distant chirping of morning birds and the occasional creak of the old house settling.
It was 6:29 A.M.
His thoughts circled the same pattern: was the curse blocking him from accessing his System window? It made sense, at least partially. The sensation of something ancient and binding around his mana core aligned with that theory. Still, doubt gnawed at him. What if there was never a window to begin with? What if his soul simply did not qualify?
He exhaled and continued to stare upward, motionless. It had been a long time since he felt anything close to homely. Yet here he was, back in the house of his childhood, hearing the subtle movements of a family he had once lost. The scent of toasted barley bread wafted up from the kitchen below, familiar and foreign all at once.
"Get up, Danny, breakfast is going to be ready!" Elira called from downstairs, her voice bright and clear, helping their mother prepare the morning meal.
He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and let himself feel the echo of warmth in that call. His mind reached back to another voice, long faded, that used to call him in the same way. A voice that belonged to his wife, long dead in another life.
He opened his eyes again, sharper now.
Daniel pushed himself up from bed, cracking his neck and shoulders, letting his joints snap into readiness. His body was young, but the spirit inside it had endured war, death, and resurrection. The time for rest was over.
He dropped to the floor, palms flat against the wooden boards, and began his routine. One push-up after another, steady, without pause. He had picked up the habit after his rebirth, as a way to test the limits of his new body, but now it had become a sacred ritual.
…103. Sweat gathered at his temple and fell in slow drops onto the floorboards. …104. …105.
His breaths grew louder, but he never slowed. Each repetition was a whisper of defiance to the world that had once broken him. He finished at 121 push-ups and followed with 134 squats, muscles trembling slightly from the final set.
He stood, chest rising and falling in sharp cadence, then made his way to the washroom.
The room was simple, constructed with obsidian-colored stone smoothed to a matte finish. A basin carved from a single piece of dark crystal sat against the wall, beneath a floating mirror rimmed with silver light. The glass shifted as he approached, adjusting to frame his face.
Daniel reached for the brush: a long-handled tool with bristles made from treated ash-wolf fur, humming faintly with dormant magic. He uncorked a small jar of cleansing paste, the mixture glimmering with tiny flakes of crystal. Its scent was crisp, a blend of mint leaf and frost root.
He applied a modest amount to the brush and pressed the activation sigil at its base. The brush vibrated gently. He began scrubbing his teeth, deliberate and thorough, working from the molars forward, cleaning every surface with care. The foam built up quickly, light and blue-tinged, and he rinsed once with a cup of water drawn from a serpent-headed spout, enchanted to filter and cool with each use.
The basin absorbed the foam as he spat, breaking it down in seconds with a flicker of pale light. He wiped his mouth with a white cloth woven from soft light-thread, leaving not even a trace of dampness behind.
He leaned closer to the mirror, his face reflected with strange clarity. The boy he saw was no longer just a child. Behind the surface, there was something else, something weathered and sharpened by pain.
His eyes narrowed. "Still not enough," he said quietly.
He stepped out of the washroom, dressed in simple, clean clothes, and made his way downstairs, where the scent of breakfast waited and the next step of his quiet war would begin.
The wooden stairs creaked under Daniel's bare feet as he descended. Morning light spilled through the windows, golden and soft, warming the stone-tiled kitchen where his mother moved gracefully between the hearth and the small table. She wore a modest apron, sleeves rolled up, stirring a pot of oat-bark porridge with practiced ease. The scent was rich and slightly nutty, mingling with the faint crisp of sizzling meatroot slices on the side pan.
Elira sat at the table, legs swinging playfully beneath her chair, her eyes lighting up when she saw him. "Took you long enough, sleepyhead," she teased, pushing a cup of appledew juice toward his usual seat. "I thought you'd melted into your bed."
He gave a half-smile and slid into the seat. "Had to get stronger before breakfast," he replied, reaching for the bread. "Never know when a demon invasion might interrupt our porridge."
Their mother chuckled softly, placing a bowl in front of him. "You and your imagination. At least eat well before saving the world."
They ate in easy rhythm, laughter and light conversation filling the small space. Daniel chewed quietly as Elira chattered about their neighbors, about a weird spell a traveling merchant had demonstrated in the village square, about the new books she borrowed from the old monk who kept the local archives.
Then, as they neared the end of breakfast, Elira grew a little more serious.
"You know," she began, voice a bit steadier, more grown than usual, "in three years, I'm going to take the trial for the Argent Gate Academy."
Daniel's hand froze for a moment before he looked up. "Argent Gate?"
She nodded eagerly, eyes sparkling. "It's the number-one academy on the continent. The only place where Mages, Artificers, Swordsmen, and Royal-Blood combatants all train together. The Headmaster is an actual Grand Arcanist, and they say the eastern towers were once part of the Ancient World itself." She paused. "If I want to join the Order of Scholars, that's where I have to go."
A Grand Arcanist focuses more on the theoretical and abstract applications of magic. They are scholars and inventors, specializing in crafting unique spell constructs, magical devices, or hybrid systems like rune-weaving and alchemy. An example for this: the basin. Even though Daniel doesn't have any mana affinity, he can still access the functions of the basin.
While, Arcanist are innovative, Mages are still considered to be higher in hierarchy and sheer magical might. As a Arcanist can reshape magical theory, while a Mage can erase it from existence.
Their mother gave a quiet hum of approval. "Ambitious. But if anyone can do it, it's you."
Daniel smiled again, more thoughtfully this time, as Elira kept talking about the different trials and the admission rates. He listened, nodding in all the right places, but inside, a different storm brewed.
Argent Gate. Of course I have to be attend it. In my past life, the Church's Prophets said the keys to the Demon King's first awakening were hidden in the Vault beneath that school. If I want to stop what's coming... if I want to prevent what happened to Sylvie...Then I have to get in. No matter what. Even if I am cursed. Even if it kills me.
The resolved settled like stone in his chest.
After breakfast, Daniel quickly dressed, strapped on a small training blade, and made his way across the village streets. The morning sun cast long shadows across the cobbled paths, the scent of dew-covered soil still clinging to the air. He made his way through the market square, then toward the east end of the village where the orphanage stood—a humble building with vines curling up its weatherworn stone walls.
He pushed the door open, and a young caretaker glanced up from the wooden desk, surprised.
"Is Klav here?" Daniel asked.
The woman blinked, brushed a strand of graying hair behind her ear, and replied, "Oh, no, dear. He went walking with some of his friends into the forest a short while ago. Took the southern path."
Daniel's heart stopped. "Friends?"
"Yes," she said gently, "that blonde noble's son, and two others. Looked like they were getting along."
He turned without another word and ran.
His legs pounded the dirt path, branches whipping past him, breath sharp in his throat. The moment he broke through the clearing and saw them, his blood boiled.
Klav was on the ground. Curled into himself. Arms trembling as he tried to shield his face. One of the boys—Sebastian—kicked him hard in the ribs, while the other laughed. Daren stood to the side, smirking, arms crossed, as if admiring his handiwork.
Daniel could see it now: Klav wasn't fighting back. He wasn't even trying. His pupils were wide. He was breathing shallow. Trapped inside something.
PTSD.
Daniel didn't shout. He didn't say a word.
He moved.
In a blur, he rammed his knee into Sebastian's chest, sending him crashing into a tree. Then spun and caught the other boy by the throat, slamming him into the ground. They choked and wheezed, unable to respond.
Daren was already backing away, face pale.
"No," Daniel said coldly, stepping toward him. "You don't get to walk away."
He struck. Fist after fist. Bone against bone. Daren tried to fight back, but he was nothing. All his noble blood meant nothing now. Daniel pinned him to the dirt and kept hitting.
Klav whimpered something, but Daniel could not hear it.
His vision was red. He raised his fist again—
"That's enough."
A hand caught his arm mid-swing.
Daniel froze.
Saint Torren stood behind him, face calm, expression unreadable, golden armor reflecting the forest light like a god had stepped into the world.
"That's enough, Daniel," he said again. "Justice is not the same as vengeance."
Daniel's hand trembled, hovering above Daren's bruised, bloodied face.
Slowly, he let it fall. His breath was ragged. His body quivered.
Torren placed a hand on his shoulder.
"We will deal with them. Let the Church handle this. Focus on your path."
Daniel said nothing. He only looked toward Klav, who was still shaking, curled on the ground, eyes glassy and distant.
Torren stepped forward, kneeling beside him. With a slow breath, he extended his hand and whispered a prayer under it. A warm, radiant light spread from his palm, wrapping around Klav's body like threads of sunlight. The bruises vanished first, then the shallow cuts, and finally, the dull tremble in Klav's limbs eased. His breathing steadied, his eyes refocused.
Klav blinked. Then looked at Daniel, confused, ashamed, but whole.
"Come on," Daniel said quietly.
Klav nodded and rose, wiping the dirt from his face.
Saint Torren grabbed Daren's limp form by the collar and began walking toward the noble estate, dragging him along the forest path without ceremony. Klav and Daniel followed, silent, the air between them heavy with the weight of violence just narrowly avoided.
The estate gates loomed ahead, ornate iron worked into the shape of lions and spears. Torren marched through without knocking. The guards took one look at his golden armor and scattered, eyes wide with unspoken understanding.
Inside, the grand hall was filled with tapestries, velvet furniture, and waste. Decay, hidden beneath polish. Lord Vayren stood from his chair as they entered, brows furrowed in false concern.
"Torren," he said coolly, "what is the meaning of—"
Torren threw Daren's body onto the marble floor with a hollow thud.
"Your son attacked two citizens of this village, one of them still recovering from trauma. And I have reason to believe this is not his first offense." His voice was calm, almost detached. "But this is not the only reason I'm here."
Vayren's lip curled, but Torren continued, pulling out a thick scroll from his pouch.
"By authority of the Church of Light, I have compiled evidence of your corruption: illegal trafficking of rare monsters, falsified tithes, misuse of Church funding, bribery of border officials, and conspiracy with known mercenary groups." He unrolled the scroll with finality. "Lord Vayren, you are hereby under arrest, pending trial in the capital."
For a moment, the nobleman stared blankly. Then, he laughed.
Manically.
"You think you've won?" Vayren said, voice cracking through the room. "You think dragging me away changes anything? If I go down, I'm not going alone. This village burns with me."
Torren stepped forward, eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"
Vayren just grinned.
Then a scream tore through the air.
It was sharp, full of terror, and far too close.
Daniel spun on his heels and rushed toward the nearest window. His heart stopped.
Smoke was rising. Fire flickered across rooftops. People ran in the streets, pursued by figures small and hunched, snarling and shrieking.
Goblins.
Dozens of them. Torches in hand. Weapons stolen from caravans or scavenged from bones. They swarmed over the stone walls like insects, tearing into homes and butchering everything in sight.
"Klav," Daniel breathed, eyes wide.
He broke into a sprint, heart hammering in his chest.
He had to get to his house. He had to get to his family.
Before it was too late.