The world we live in is full of responsibilities.
When we're children, life feels simple. We laugh at things we don't understand, trust blindly, and live moment to moment. In those early years, we form bonds that feel unbreakable friendship, love, family. But as we grow older, layers begin to peel away, and the world shows its true face: cold, mysterious, unfair. It doesn't operate on kindness or merit. It's a world driven by power, by connections, by wealth.
Some are born into comfort golden spoons, expensive tutors, endless opportunities. Their lives are paved with safety nets. They can chase their dreams. They can fall and get up again. But for the rest of us, the ones from the so-called "middle class," life isn't about chasing dreams.
It's about surviving.
It's not that we're stupid. It's not that we're lazy. We simply don't know how the world really works… until it crushes us under its heel.
Let me tell you the story of my life in that world.
And how I was reborn into another.
In my first life, I did what I had to.
I was the eldest son in a family of five my mother, my father, my two younger sisters, and me. My parents loved me, but their love came with expectations. I had to set the example. Be the role model. Be the one who never fails.
So I didn't.
I excelled in school. A+ grades in every subject. Medals, certificates, praise from teachers and distant relatives alike. People said I was destined for greatness. But no one ever saw the price I paid for it. I had no friends. I had no life outside my books. My emotions were buried under deadlines and exam schedules. I was a machine designed to succeed.
And then it all fell apart.
I was seventeen when my father died.
It happened on a rainy afternoon. He had gone out to buy some vegetables, just as he always did. But that day, a black car came speeding around the corner. The driver didn't brake. He didn't slow down. My father's body hit the pavement like a ragdoll.
The driver was a rich boy drunk, laughing, reckless. When the police came, he said it was my father's fault. That he "jumped in front of the car." We all knew it was a lie. But money talks, and justice listens only when you pay it.
The police took a bribe. The boy was never arrested. The case was closed. Just like that.
That was the first time I truly saw the world for what it was. Not a place of fairness or truth but a game rigged from the start.
After that, everything changed.
Our finances crumbled. My father had been the only real breadwinner. I was forced to quit school and find work. We sold what little jewelry we had to keep food on the table. I worked long hours doing whatever I could assistant jobs, delivery work, small freelance coding gigs I barely understood. And at night, I studied books, YouTube tutorials, anything that could help me learn to code.
I wasn't going to let my family starve.
Over time, I got better. Good enough to take on real projects. Then came my first stable job in a tech company. The pay wasn't great, but it was enough to bring some stability. I arranged both my sisters' marriages. Watched them smile in wedding dresses we barely afforded. Saw my mother's tears of pride.
I never married. I didn't want to. Not because I didn't believe in love. But because I feared leaving my mother alone. I had already buried one parent. I wasn't ready to lose another.
But time waits for no one.
At thirty-seven, my mother passed away in her sleep. Peacefully, quietly, after a life of constant worry and struggle.
And just like that, the noise of life stopped.
There were no more duties left. No one to protect. No future to chase.
Just silence.
I sat in the dark that night, the only sound the ticking of the clock and the hum of the fridge. I wasn't sad. I wasn't angry.
I was… empty.
I had lived a life filled with purpose.
But never one filled with dreams.
They say the body can endure anything… until it can't.
Over the next few months, I worked harder. I poured myself into projects, thinking productivity would fill the void. But the late nights turned into sleepless weeks. Coffee became meals. My heart began to pound in strange rhythms. My skin became pale. The headaches never stopped.
And then, one evening at work, I collapsed.
They rushed me to the hospital. Hooked me to machines. Told me to rest.
But it was too late.
I lay in that cold hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. I could hear the faint cries of my sisters. Their husbands whispering. Doctors murmuring.
Everything felt distant.
"If I could have one more chance…" I whispered to the empty air. "Just one more… I'll live for myself. I'll chase my dreams. I'll fight, no matter the pain."
I didn't want to die.
Not like this.
The world around me faded. The light dimmed. Sounds melted into nothing.
And then… came the darkness.
This wasn't the sleep of exhaustion. Nor the stillness of death.
It was deeper.
Endless.
I floated through a void that had no ceiling, no floor, no time. I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't even think clearly. There was only blackness and silence… until something stirred.
A glow.
Faint at first. Then stronger. Warmer.
I felt my body again. Not my old, tired body—but something new. Small. Fragile.
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling above me was wooden and curved, like the inside of a cabin. Thunder boomed in the distance. I was wrapped in a thick, soft blanket. My body didn't move the way it used to. I tried to sit up… and failed. I was a baby.
Panic rose for a second. But then… acceptance. It felt natural. Familiar. And oddly, peaceful.
Two people leaned over me—a man and a woman, their faces glowing with joy. They spoke words I couldn't understand, but I could feel the warmth in their tone. Their smiles were real.
They were my new parents.
My mother's name was Agnelish, a kind, gentle woman who smelled like lavender and honey. My father was Fotiru, tall and strong, with a voice like distant thunder and hands that held me like I was the most precious thing in the world. Our home was tucked near the mountains, often covered in mist and rain. And we had a strange, four-legged creature named Strts—part cat, part something else, always lounging near the fire.
In this life, my name was Ryhord Bratiers.
The years passed quickly, as they do in childhood.
By age four, I had picked up most of their language just by listening—at dinner, during walks, while lying beside my mother as she told bedtime stories of mythical beasts and ancient wars.
At five, my father brought home a tutor—a stern old man with a curved staff and sharp eyes. I began learning the history of this world. Its kingdoms, its power structures… and most importantly, its magic.
Here, magic wasn't something out of fairy tales. It was real. Alive. All around us.
The system was complex, but at its core, magic relied on four things:
Mana – the raw energy inside and around all living things
Focus – the clarity to channel that energy
Willpower – the strength to bend it to your command
Talent – the natural affinity you're born with, which defines how far you can go
Some people could barely light a candle with mana. Others could tear mountains from the ground. The difference? Talent and will.
My mind, shaped by my old world's logic, burned with questions. How was mana gathered? Could it be trained like muscle? Could people without talent break their limits? I asked my teacher everything. I read every scroll. I listened to every tale.
And yet, part of me always wandered back.
To the past.
To my old life. My sisters. My city. My regrets.
Could I truly let go?
That day, I sat in the hall, staring into the fireplace.
The flames danced lazily, casting shadows across the wooden floor. The scent of baked bread filled the air. I held a cup of warm milk, lost in memories.
Then… the door creaked open.
A boy, perhaps fourteen, stepped inside.
He was short barely taller than me but carried himself with an air of quiet confidence. His robe shimmered faintly, and a wide-brimmed magician's hat rested atop his head. But it was his eyes that struck me: swirling, storm-gray, as if they held thunderclouds within.
He looked at me and smiled.
"So you're the only son of Bratiers," he said, voice sharp yet oddly cheerful. "Ryhord Bratiers, right? You're the boy they talked about."
I blinked.
He stepped closer, gaze steady.
"Well then. Hurry and call your father, Fotiru Bratiers. We've got business."
And just like that, he turned on his heel and walked toward the window.
Moments later, I heard footsteps from the hallway—my mother's soft hum, my father's firm voice. They were coming.
Something about this boy…
Something about the way he looked at me…
I knew.
My real journey was about to begin.