I opened my eyes slowly, half-expecting to see the white ceiling of a hospital.
But the first thing I saw wasn't sterile lights or blinking monitors. It was a roof made of palm leaves, warm sunlight filtering through tiny gaps. The air smelled of smoke and damp earth. My limbs felt strange—small, weightless, as though I wasn't quite myself.
Was I alive?
I tried to move but found that I was already being held—gently, as if I weighed nothing. I looked up, confused, and found myself cradled in the arms of a woman, her face glowing with both sweat and tears.
Around us, four other people stood. A man who looked like he'd just cried for the first time in years. An older woman with kind eyes who wiped her hands on a towel. Two others—young women, possibly helpers—stood smiling at the doorway.
They were all looking at me with a warmth I had never known before.
"It's a boy," the old woman announced. "A healthy one, too."
The man clenched his fists, and tears welled up in his eyes. "Then his name will be Tatlom," he said softly.
That was the moment I realized the impossible.
I had been reborn.
At first, I didn't cry. The room fell silent. I could feel their concern growing, their happy faces slowly tightening into anxious ones.
"He's not crying," the old woman said, frowning.
The young woman—my mother in this life—held me close to her chest, her breathing unsteady. She whispered something I couldn't catch. Her arms trembled.
I panicked for a moment. Wait, aren't newborns supposed to cry? I had forgotten. I had been so aware of what was happening, so caught in the strangeness of reincarnation, that I'd forgotten the most basic thing a baby should do.
I let out a cry. No tears, but the sound came, raw and loud.
Relief filled the room.
My mother held me tighter. "Welcome to the world, Tatlom," she whispered.
Years passed. Seven of them, in fact.
I grew up in a quiet village tucked between forest and mountain, far from the bustling capital city called Itanagar. Our home was modest, built from wood and bamboo, its walls thin enough that you could hear the wind whispering at night.
But it was warm. So warm.
My family—my real family this time—cared for me deeply. My father, Okar, had hands rough from working in the fields, but they were always gentle when he patted my head. My mother, Kanyo, hummed songs while cooking over the fire. My older siblings, Okia and Osin, shared everything with me, even when there was barely enough for themselves.
We were poor, yes, but there was peace in our poverty. We farmed rice and vegetables and sold what little we could spare in the nearby town market. We lived simply—waking early, eating together, resting as a family. Every sunset brought laughter. Every night was filled with stories.
And for the first time in my existence—this life or the last—I felt what it truly meant to belong.
One evening, while sitting by the fire, Father handed me a book. Its pages were old and faded, the cover cracked with time.
"Stories of the Great Flame," it read.
It was a book of legends—tales of heroes who had once saved the world from darkness. Men and women who wielded magic, battled demons, and sealed evil behind mountains and oceans. As he read aloud, I leaned against his side, my heart racing with every name and every monster.
"These stories," he said, closing the book, "remind us to be brave. Even when the world feels too big."
I couldn't help but smile. In my last life, stories were an escape. Here, they were alive.
Magic, I learned, was real in this world.
But not everyone could use it. For most people, it required a "magic item"—a sword, a ring, a book—that matched their spirit. These items were rare and expensive, usually passed down in noble families. Ordinary villagers like us could never afford them.
Others absorbed skill books, which permanently aligned them with one magic element. But even those books were out of reach unless you were wealthy or born lucky.
And then… there were the rare few.
People who were descended from the "Hero's Lineage." They could use magic freely, without items or books. Only about one in four could do it, and they were treated as gifted, often taken to Itanagar for training.
I never thought I'd be one of them.
But one morning, while alone in the woods, I reached out with both hands—and a small flame burst into my palm.
At first, I stared at it in awe.
The fire danced in my hand like it had always belonged there. No item. No incantation. Just thought, and will, and it came.
I laughed, spinning in circles, launching tiny fireballs into the harvested fields. The flames were weak, flickering out after a few meters—but it didn't matter. I could do something magical. Something real.
I didn't tell anyone. Not yet.
I practiced quietly in the forest, careful to avoid the trees, watching the sparks fall harmlessly onto bare soil.
Then one day, my mother found me.
She must have followed the smoke trail. She rushed toward me, eyes wide with fear. "Tatlom!" she shouted.
She grabbed my hands and looked around quickly, her breath heavy.
"Don't ever show anyone that," she said firmly.
"But… why?" I asked, confused. "Isn't it amazing? I can use fire magic, and we don't even have an item—"
"That's exactly why," she whispered. "People won't celebrate it. They'll want to use it. Or fear it. Or worse…"
Her voice trembled. "Promise me you'll keep this between us. Just until you're old enough to understand."
I was seven—technically thirty-four if I counted my past life—but I nodded. I understood the look in her eyes.
Fear born from love.
I stopped showing off after that. I continued to practice, but I was quieter. Smarter. I didn't want to cause her any more worry.
After all, I was finally happy.
My older brother worked the fields with Father. My sister helped Mother around the house. I tried to help too—though my hands were small and weak. Still, I followed them every day, lifting baskets, carrying tools, doing whatever I could. They never made me feel like I was a burden.
We weren't rich. Some nights we had to eat less. But it never felt empty.
Because every day ended the same: together.
But happiness, I've learned, doesn't last forever.
It started with a strange wind one night. We'd just finished dinner, the fire still crackling, when the ground rumbled softly.
I remember how the night sky suddenly glowed red.
Not orange, like a sunset. But angry red—like the sky itself had caught fire.
A distant roar echoed through the hills.
Then, the smoke.
It rose fast, a dark pillar curling into the sky.
Father ran to the window. His face froze.
"Get up," he said quietly. "Now."
We stepped outside.
The village was burning.
Houses crumbling. Screams filling the night. Flames dancing like wild animals.
Before I could react, a shockwave hit our home. The walls cracked. The roof groaned.
Father turned to us. "We have to go. Now!"
A wooden beam snapped from above.
He threw himself over us, shielding us with his body.
Crack.
The beam shattered. Father fell, coughing blood.
"Get out," he said through clenched teeth. "Run."
I couldn't move. My body felt like stone.
He looked me in the eye. "If you can't stand up now, how will you ever become a hero?"
His words pierced through me.
I stood.
I ran.
I turned back once.
The house collapsed.
My siblings… didn't make it.
I saw Father for the last time, standing tall, smiling through blood.
And then the world went dark with ash.