He had no name in his last life. Or if he did, it had long since been buried beneath the weight of survival. In a world where the strong trampled the weak and ambition was a luxury only the powerful could afford, he was nothing more than a shadow clinging to scraps.
He wandered city streets lined with wealth he would never touch, sleeping in alleys that stank of rot and rain. His meals were scavenged or stolen, and even those were few. His childhood was a blur of cold nights and the gnawing ache of hunger. No family. No friends. No future.
But his mind was sharp. Too sharp.
He observed. He remembered. Every face. Every voice. Every betrayal. Even in silence, his thoughts screamed louder than any crowd. He watched from the corners, analyzing everything—body language, tone shifts, even the patterns in which guards patrolled the districts. And in that raw clarity, he dreamed.
Not of comfort. Not of riches. But of power.
Real power. The kind that could command the world to kneel.
He'd read scraps of old philosophy, torn pages of outdated science, fragments of systems that governed kings and beggars alike. He pieced together his own understanding of the world, layer by layer, like a broken mirror forming a jagged truth.
But knowing wasn't enough. Not in a world where knowledge meant nothing if your belly was empty.
He died young.
A mugging gone wrong. A knife meant to scare sunk deeper than intended. Cold pavement. Warm blood.
And silence.
The world moved on, indifferent.
But he didn't disappear.
There was no tunnel of light. No robed gods. No judgment.
Just awareness.
And then—pain. Screams. Pushing. Pressure.
Then cold air. And warmth.
Then light.
Rebirth.
He couldn't move his limbs. His body was fragile, foreign.
But his thoughts?
"I'm alive. Again."
The words rang clear in a mind that should not yet understand language.
He opened his eyes—
One golden. One violet.
Gasps surrounded him. Voices in a tongue he didn't recognize, yet somehow understood. His mother sobbed with joy. His father's voice rumbled like distant thunder, calm yet heavy.
He was born into the Veyr Clan—a name he didn't know yet would soon learn to wield like a blade.