Ren had learned something early in life.

If you were weak, the world would remind you—every single day.

The morning air of Tokyo was cold, biting through the thin fabric of his worn school uniform. Ren pulled his bag tighter against his chest as he walked, head lowered, eyes fixed on the cracked pavement beneath his feet. The trek from his grandmother's small apartment to school was long—too long for a child his age—but distance was the least of his problems.

School was worse.

Much worse.

The moment Ren stepped through the school gates, the noise swallowed him. Laughter. Shouting. Footsteps. And then—

"There he is."

The voice was lazy, amused. Cruel.

Ren's shoulders stiffened.

A hand shoved him from behind, sending him stumbling forward. His bag slipped from his grip, books scattering across the concrete. The laughter came immediately—sharp and piercing.

"Careful, poor boy," a male voice sneered. "Books cost money. Oh wait—you don't have any."

A foot pressed down on his notebook before Ren could reach it.

The boy looked up slowly. Three boys stood over him, all taller, all stronger. Their uniforms were clean. Their expressions bored.

"Apologize," one of them said.

Ren opened his mouth, then closed it.

He had apologized yesterday.

And the day before.

And every day before that.

It had never helped.

The kick came without warning.

Pain exploded in his side as Ren rolled across the ground, gasping. Another laugh joined in—lighter, sharper.

"Honestly, he's so pathetic," a girl said, adjusting her hair as she looked down at him. "Why does he even come to school? Everyone knows his family's cursed."

Ren froze.

"Did you hear?" she continued, voice sweet with poison. "His father murdered his whole family."

"That's not true—" Ren tried to say.

"Oh?" Another girl tilted her head mockingly. "Then why was he arrested? Why was he executed in public? Hm?"

The words hit harder than fists.

Ren remembered that day too clearly.

His father, kneeling.

Hands bound.

Face bruised but calm.

Protect your grandmother. Protect your sister.

Those were his last words.

They hadn't been enough.

Someone grabbed Ren by the collar and yanked him up. His feet barely touched the ground.

"Hey, say it," one of the boys whispered close to his ear. "Say what your father was."

Ren's lips trembled.

"…A criminal."

The punch came anyway.

He collapsed again, vision blurring. The bell rang moments later, signaling the start of class.

"Disgusting," one of the girls muttered as they walked away. "He even bleeds like trash."

Ren lay there until the yard emptied.

No teacher came.

No student helped.

He gathered his books with shaking hands and stood, body aching, heart hollow.

This was his life.

Ren didn't go home immediately after school.

He never did.

The long walk back was quieter, but that only made his thoughts louder. His grandmother's small apartment waited at the end of the road—a place that smelled faintly of medicine and old wood. A place that used to feel warm.

Now it felt empty.

Too empty.

The door was already open when Ren arrived.

That was wrong.

"Grandma?" he called out.

No answer.

The silence was thick—heavy enough to suffocate.

He stepped inside.

The first thing he saw was blood.

It stained the floor in dark, sticky patches. His breath hitched as he followed the trail, heart pounding louder with every step.

Then he saw them.

His grandmother lay against the wall, eyes open, unseeing. His little sister was beside her, small hands curled uselessly at her sides.

Ren screamed.

The sound tore out of him, raw and broken, echoing uselessly through the apartment.

Later, they said it was a robbery.

Later, they said there was nothing they could do.

Later meant nothing.

That night, Ren sat alone on the rooftop of the apartment building, knees pulled to his chest, staring at the city lights below.

He felt empty.

No—he felt tired.

"Tired of being weak," he whispered.

Weak enough to be bullied.

Weak enough to lose everyone.

Weak enough to survive.

What was the point of living like this?

If he were stronger…

If he mattered…

If he wasn't born wrong…

The thought crept in quietly.

If I disappear, it'll stop.

Ren stood.

The wind was cold against his face as he stepped closer to the edge. The city stretched endlessly below—indifferent, uncaring.

"I wish…" His voice cracked. "I wish it would just end."

He stepped forward.

In another world.

Far beyond Tokyo.

Beyond space.

Beyond logic.

A childlike god tilted his head.

"Hmm?" he murmured.

Before him floated countless threads—souls, worlds, possibilities. His fingers danced as he tested a new construct, curiosity shining in his pale eyes.

"Personal Magic Prototype: Burst," he read aloud. "Let's see how it reacts to an unstable soul."

He selected one at random.

No prophecy.

No destiny.

No malice.

Just curiosity.

The magic activated.

Ren felt it before he hit the ground.

Something ignited inside him.

Not light.

Not warmth.

Pain.

It started in his chest, then spread everywhere at once. His blood felt like it was boiling, veins screaming as invisible pressure expanded violently from within.

"—?!"

He couldn't scream.

His body convulsed midair.

Muscle tore.

Organs failed.

Bones cracked.

There was no saving him.

Ren died before he hit the ground.

Silence.

Then—

"…Oh."

The God of Personal Magic blinked.

"…That wasn't supposed to happen."

The soul had collapsed instantly. Completely. No resistance. No adaptation.

A flawed vessel.

"…Oops."

He glanced at the dispersing fragments of the soul, frowning.

"Well," he muttered, scratching his head. "That's… unfortunate."

Elsewhere, other presences stirred.

A mistake had been made.

And mistakes, among gods, had consequences.

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.

The dirt path leading out of the village was narrow, uneven, and familiar.

Ren walked along it with small, careful steps, both hands gripping the wooden basket pressed against his chest. Inside were bundles of dried herbs and a clay flask of water, wrapped carefully in cloth so they wouldn't spill. It wasn't heavy—but to his six-year-old body, even simple errands demanded focus.

His father's voice echoed faintly in his mind.

"Just take this to Old Maren near the west fence. Come straight back."

Ren nodded to himself as he walked, repeating the instruction like a spell. He didn't want to make a mistake. He never did.

The village was lively behind him—voices, laughter, the sound of metal striking metal as someone practiced with a blade—but the farther he went, the quieter it became. Trees began to line the road, their shadows stretching long across the dirt.

That was when he felt it.

That strange tightening in his chest.

Ren slowed.

He didn't need to turn around to know he wasn't alone.

Footsteps crunched behind him. Not hurried. Not careful.

Casual.

"Hey."

Ren froze.

The voice was young, but confident—too confident for a child.

He turned slowly.

Three boys stood several steps behind him.

They were all around his age. Six. Maybe one was closer to seven.

Yet the difference between them and Ren felt vast.

The boy in the middle wore clean clothes, dyed faint blue, with a small emblem stitched near the collar. His posture was relaxed, chin slightly raised. Everyone in the village knew him.

The village chief's son.

To his right stood a sturdier boy, broad-shouldered for his age. His stance was straight, feet apart, like he'd been taught how to stand properly. A wooden practice sword hung from his waist, worn smooth with use.

The son of a former guild knight. Low-ranked, retired early—but still a knight.

And to the left…

A boy with arms thicker than they should have been.

His hands clenched and unclenched slowly, veins faintly visible beneath his skin. His Personal Magic—Strength Enhancement—was well known among the children. He didn't even need to activate it fully to scare others.

The trio.

Ren swallowed.

"I—I'm just running an errand," he said quickly, instinctively shifting the basket closer to his body. "I'll be out of your way."

The chief's son tilted his head slightly, as if considering something unimportant.

"An errand?" he repeated. "Already?"

Ren nodded.

The knight's son stepped forward, eyes flicking to the basket.

"What's inside?"

"Herbs," Ren answered. "And water."

"Huh." The boy smiled faintly. "Running around like a servant already."

Before Ren could react, a foot hooked around his ankle.

He stumbled.

The basket slipped from his hands, hitting the ground with a dull thud. The clay flask inside cracked, water seeping into the dirt.

Ren fell hard, palms scraping against the rough path.

Pain flared—but worse than that was the shock.

The strength boy laughed.

"Oops."

Ren pushed himself up, heart pounding. "P-Please… I have to deliver that—"

The knight's son stepped closer and pressed a foot against Ren's chest, pushing him back down.

"Relax," he said calmly. "We're just testing you."

"Testing?" Ren echoed weakly.

The chief's son crouched slightly, looking down at him with bored eyes.

"Father says people like you shouldn't wander around freely," he said. "You get in the way."

Ren shook his head. "I'm not— I don't—"

A hand grabbed his collar and yanked him up.

The strength boy loomed over him, grinning.

"Let's see how tough you are."

There was no warning.

Ren was shoved backward—hard.

His back slammed into the tree trunk behind him, knocking the air from his lungs. Before he could gasp, something heavy struck his side.

Pain exploded through his ribs.

He collapsed to his knees.

No kicks followed. No shouting. No rage.

That was the worst part.

They weren't angry.

They were bored.

"Still standing?" the knight's son asked, almost impressed.

Ren tried to rise. His arms shook violently.

Another shove.

He fell face-first into the dirt.

For a moment, everything went quiet.

The smell of earth filled his nose. His vision blurred.

Memories surfaced uninvited.

A school corridor.

Laughter behind him.

A foot hooking his bag strap.

Concrete.

Hands that never reached out to help.

His chest tightened painfully.

Not again.

"Enough," the chief's son said at last, standing upright. "He's not worth it."

The strength boy shrugged. "Yeah. Weak."

Footsteps retreated.

Ren lay still long after they were gone.

The basket lay broken beside him. The herbs were scattered, stained with dirt and water.

He stared at them, jaw trembling.

He didn't cry.

He couldn't.

His body shook as he slowly pushed himself upright. His hands were scraped. His chest hurt every time he breathed. But he forced himself to stand.

Weak.

The word echoed endlessly.

In his past life…

He had been weak.

Bullied at school. Bullied on the streets. Powerless even when his family was taken from him one by one.

He had believed rebirth would change everything.

But standing here now—small, bruised, alone—it felt the same.

Ren clenched his fists.

"No," he whispered.

This time… it wasn't despair.

It was anger.

A quiet, burning resolve.

If weakness invites cruelty…

Then I won't stay weak.

He knelt down, carefully gathering the herbs he could salvage. His hands no longer shook.

His path was clear now.

Strength.

Not borrowed. Not gifted.

Earned.

And no matter how long it took—

He would never lie helpless in the dirt again.