Ren woke up screaming.
His small body jolted upright, lungs burning as if he had just clawed his way back from drowning. The scream echoed inside the tiny wooden room before cutting off abruptly, replaced by harsh, panicked breaths.
Pain.
That was the first thing he felt.
Not physical pain—not exactly—but a deep, phantom ache that seemed embedded into his soul. His chest felt tight. His limbs trembled uncontrollably. For a terrifying second, Ren thought he was still falling.
Still dying.
Still bursting apart from the inside.
"Ren?"
A familiar voice broke through the haze.
The door creaked open, and a woman hurried inside, her face pale with worry. She crossed the room in two quick steps and pulled him into her arms without hesitation.
"It's alright," she whispered urgently. "You're safe. You're home."
Warmth.
That was the second thing he felt.
It startled him more than the pain.
Ren froze as her arms wrapped around him. They were thin but steady, carrying a scent of woodsmoke and herbs. His face pressed against her shoulder, and before he could stop himself, his vision blurred.
Tears streamed down his face.
Not loud sobs. Not dramatic cries.
Just silent, broken tears that soaked into her clothes as his body shook.
Home.
The word echoed strangely in his mind.
He wasn't in Tokyo anymore.
He wasn't on a rooftop.
He wasn't dying.
Slowly—very slowly—Ren realized something else.
His body was small.
Too small.
His hands, clutching the woman's sleeve, were tiny and soft. His legs barely reached past the edge of the bed. When he pulled back slightly and looked up, he saw a young woman with tired eyes and unkempt hair staring down at him with pure, unfiltered concern.
"Did you have another nightmare?" she asked softly.
Nightmare.
Ren swallowed.
If that had been a nightmare… then death was kinder than dreams.
"I…" His voice came out thin. Fragile. Childlike. "I'm okay."
The words felt wrong in his mouth.
The woman hesitated, clearly unconvinced, but after a moment she nodded and brushed his hair gently. "Try to rest. I'll call your father."
Father.
The word struck him like a hammer.
As she left the room, Ren sat there in stunned silence, heart racing.
Something was very wrong.
Or very right.
He slid off the bed, feet touching the cold wooden floor. The sensation was sharp and grounding. Real. Too real.
A small mirror hung crookedly on the wall. Ren approached it slowly, dread curling in his stomach.
The reflection staring back at him belonged to a child.
Five years old, at most.
Messy dark hair. Pale skin. Large, wary eyes that didn't belong on such a young face.
Ren stared.
"…I'm alive," he whispered.
The memories rushed in all at once.
The bullying.
The blood.
His grandmother.
His sister.
The rooftop.
The pain that tore him apart from the inside—
Ren doubled over, gripping his chest as if expecting it to burst again.
But it didn't.
Instead, another memory surfaced.
Not from Earth.
Not from this world.
A vast, starless void.
A stone table.
And seated around it—
Gods.
Ren staggered back onto the bed, mind spinning.
So it hadn't been a dream.
He remembered it clearly now.
The childlike god.
The careless curiosity.
The words spoken without malice:
"Let's see how it reacts."
And then—
Death.
"Control," Ren whispered hoarsely.
The word came unbidden.
That was it.
That was what had killed him.
Not hatred.
Not fate.
Not destiny.
Power without control.
Ren clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.
"I won't die like that again."
The days that followed were quiet.
Too quiet.
Ren learned quickly that his new family lived a simple life in a small village called Oakhaven, far from cities, far from danger—or so it seemed. His mother, Lyra, worked tirelessly around the house. His father, Kael, took on labor jobs whenever he could find them. His older sister, Elara, watched Ren like a hawk, as if afraid he might vanish if she blinked.
They were poor.
But they were warm.
And that terrified him more than anything else.
Every laugh at the dinner table felt fragile.
Every gentle touch felt temporary.
Ren didn't sleep much. When he did, his dreams were filled with pressure building inside his chest—until he woke gasping, hands clawing at his shirt.
He became careful.
Obsessively so.
He watched before he spoke. Measured before he moved. When emotions surged, he buried them deep, afraid that losing control—even for a second—might trigger something hidden inside him.
Something that could kill him again.
On the fifth night, alone in his room, Ren sat cross-legged on the bed and closed his eyes.
"I need to know," he murmured.
Slowly, cautiously, he turned inward.
There it was.
A presence.
Not loud. Not violent.
But vast.
Mana.
It wasn't like electricity or fire—it felt like pressure, coiled and waiting, responding to his thoughts.
Ren's breathing slowed.
He remembered the mistake that killed him.
So he didn't push.
He guided.
Just a thread. A whisper.
A faint warmth gathered in his palm.
Ren's eyes snapped open.
A tiny flame flickered to life above his skin—no bigger than a candle's wick.
He froze.
The flame didn't burn him.
It didn't resist.
It waited.
Ren exhaled shakily, heart pounding.
"I did it…" he whispered. "Without losing control."
The flame vanished instantly at his thought.
He slumped back, exhausted but exhilarated.
So this world really did have magic.
And more importantly—
He could use it without dying.
But Ren wasn't celebrating.
Not yet.
If uncontrolled power had killed him once, then recklessness would kill him again.
He remembered the gods' words now, clearer than ever.
Fire.
Wind.
Water.
Earth.
Plant.
Ice.
And something else.
Personal Magic.
Ren swallowed.
That was the most dangerous one.
The one that had ended his life.
"I'll start slow," he decided quietly. "Slower than anyone else."
Outside, the village slept peacefully.
Inside, a child with the memories of a broken life stared at his hands—not with ambition, but with fear.
Fear that would one day become discipline.
And discipline that would one day become power.