Tyrius didn’t know what was happening around him. All he could hear was a distant ringing as weightlessness cupped his falling body. It wasn’t ideal—but in a strange way, it was… nice. That single monotonous tone drowned out the rest of the world, hypnotic and still. For a brief moment, it let him forget everything as time slowed to a crawl.
Through his eyes, only the dark sky and firelit shadows dancing across the canopy above remained. He gave no thought to the source of the flames. His gaze—and mind—were fixed on the midnight blue above, scattered with brilliant stars.
This world is truly beautiful.
Far off, storm clouds loomed at the edge of the heavens, only deepening the sentiment. Tyrius had always loved the rain.
The ringing became his companion. Tranquility settled over him, warm and oddly comforting. He felt like he was floating—no, gliding—weightless and unburdened. And for a few long seconds, that’s exactly what he did. He drifted, breathless and awed, as he was swept through the air.
It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this kind of entrancement. That began after the memories came—flooding in from a life he didn’t recall living. After body and mind had merged with something… someone else.
Tyrius had been reborn the day those lives fused. And from that moment, he fell in love with this new world. The feeling returned often—addictive, profound. The universe whispered things to him no poet ever could. It gave him solace. And, in some odd way, it made him happy.
But like all good things, it never lasted. It always ended too soon.
Just as he let himself fully sink into the moment, a small white dot bloomed high above—marring the perfect sky. His gaze narrowed. The dot pulsed violently, its glow spreading fast across the starscape.
With the pulse came a jolt. A thousand pinpricks danced across his skin—searing, electric. The sudden bite of magic tore Tyrius from his trance.
A good thing, too. He’d nearly forgotten his escort caravan was under attack.
His eyes widened. A jagged white bolt screamed from the sky. He hadn’t even registered the explosion that flung him from the carriage, but the lightning was real—coming straight for him.
Time froze.
He stared up at his death.
And smiled.
He’d already experienced death once. What he felt now wasn’t fear—but a bitter sadness. His new life was ending before it ever really began.
He’d wanted more.
To witness magic with his own eyes. To taste this world’s food again—honestly better than anything he remembered from his last life
What a shame.
Everything was being taken from him again—by powers outside his reach. And this time, he knew, there would be no second chance. No reprieve.
Just silence.
He let out a soft breath, closed his eyes, and let the light swallow him whole.
Pain.
Pain was the first thing he felt.
Tyrius’ eyes snapped open as a scream tore from his throat, raw and uncontrollable. His seven-year-old body had no resistance to pain—especially not this kind of pain.
Everything around him burned and smoldered.
He didn’t know how he was still alive. That bolt should’ve erased him completely. His thoughts spun, scattered by agony—until something beneath the pain stirred. A cold, precise logic. Alien, yet familiar. It processed everything with eerie calm. A mindset born of memories he’d never lived.
He was under attack. And screaming would only help them find him.
Understanding that, Tyrius forced himself to stop. He swallowed the scream, grinding his teeth as he wrestled with the throbbing pain flooding every part of him.
To his surprise, it dulled—slightly.
Later, he’d credit the change to shock—not willpower. The body’s last defense.
He tried to glance around, but his head refused to move. Only his eyes shifted, taking in what little they could. He was lying in a smoldering crater. The strike had been powerful—clearly. Looking skyward, he saw that the spell was gone. Or rather, he couldn’t see it anymore.
He never should’ve been able to in the first place, not before Tier 1 anyway. Mana was invisible by nature.
But Tyrius was different.
He’d always sensed various energies—sometimes even seen their whispers. That was how he’d first noticed the hidden beauty in this world. He wasn’t alone in the only person who could perceive such things. In fact, anyone who reached Tier 1 could begin to perceive them, with mana being the most common.
But Tyrius wasn’t Tier 1. He was still just a child.
However, what he did have was an intrinsic skill—a rare ability usually granted at birth, long before any real advancement. His was called [Spiritual Sensitivity (T0)]—or so The Ethereal Words had named it.
It was because of that skill that he had managed to notice the mana above to begin with.
Tyrius grimaced and tried to move. Nothing obeyed. Something felt… wrong. Not just broken—off. This wasn’t the sharp pain of bleeding out. This was deeper. Like something vital was leaking.
And if it kept slipping away, he knew—somehow—he wouldn’t make it.
So he fought.
How could he save himself if he couldn’t even lift a hand?
After a brutal internal war, he managed to bend one leg. The movement drew a groan from deep in his throat, but it worked. A tiny victory. One that made him smile inwardly.
Then a voice rang out.
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“Master Tyrius!”
The cry came sharp and frantic. A man dropped beside him—rough hands lifting Tyrius’ head as a vial pressed to his lips.
He didn’t resist. The liquid slid down his throat, sweet and fruity. Warmth surged through him, chasing the pain back.
A healing potion!
Gods, I’ve only had one of these before. I’ll never get used to how cool magic feels.
The relief was intoxicating—but incomplete. That leaking sensation still lingered.
He focused.
The warmth curled around the wound—but didn’t seal it. So Tyrius clamped down, forcing his will on the breach. Something inside him gave.
A deep constriction, like a valve shutting. The flow slowed to a pinprick. Not perfect—but enough. The damage, at least, had stopped growing.
“Master Tyrius!” the man said again, tapping his cheek.
Tyrius opened his eyes.
A strong jaw. A short beard. Green eyes trembling with fear. Hands too calloused to be gentle—but trying anyway.
He was safe. For now.
Oh thank the Gods—it’s George!
George had been with Tyrius for as long as he could remember. A Tier 3 retainer—not nearly enough for someone in line to be Patriarch—but no one in House Creedmore ever intended to protect him.
The elders never approved of his blood.
His father, Kaelon Von Creedmore—former Patriarch—had fallen in love with a commoner. When Kaelon died during the last Fracturing, his brother, Vaelon, took control without resistance. After all, Kaelon’s son was only half-noble. To the elders, that made him unworthy.
Since that day, Tyrius and his mother had lived as little more than tolerated guests.
George had been the exception. He understood. He cared. And that had meant everything.
So when Tyrius looked up and saw that familiar face—just in time to watch a blade burst from George’s chest—it shattered something inside him.
Hot blood sprayed across his face.
“NO!”
The blade slid free. George’s mouth filled with blood.
“George!” Tyrius gasped, pressing a trembling hand to the wound. The potion had returned some movement to his limbs—but only just.
That’s when he noticed.
His left arm was gone.
Disintegrated. Vaporized by the lightning.
He realized that George must have saved him from the powerful spell.
Tears spilled down his cheeks as he pressed harder, feebly trying to stop the bleeding.
George, ever calm, placed his own hand over Tyrius’, guiding the pressure. His other hand settled on the boy’s shoulder.
“Tyrius,” he rasped, “listen to me… closely.” Blood ran from his lips, catching in his beard. His teeth clenched, white enamel stained crimson.
Tyrius looked up instantly, ignoring the gore. Their eyes met—green locked to blue.
A presence stirred in Tyrius’ mind. Cold. Calculating. Focused.
This moment matters.
“You must survive this,” George said, voice torn and desperate. “Live. Endure. Focus on that, and I kno—”
The same blade that pierced his chest swept clean through his neck.
His head fell with the motion.
Tyrius could only stare. Frozen.
George’s head hit the dirt. His body slumped forward.
Gone.
The weight of those last words etched into Tyrius’ memory like a scar.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
“What a bunch of nonsense,” a voice muttered behind the corpse.
Marcus.
The retainer stepped forward, bloodied sword in hand, and shoved George’s body aside like it was trash.
Tyrius stared in disbelief. Marcus—respected, trusted, family by duty—had killed George.
Why?
That same cold logic took hold once more to process his unspoken question. The realization hit like ice in his veins.
His own house was trying to kill him.
Tyrius had always ignored the politics. Let the nobles scheme and posture. He only wanted to enjoy the life this world had given him. The world he had been reborn into. He knew the house didn’t care for him—but he never imagined they’d try to erase him.
He had never been allowed to train like the other children. His commoner blood made him a stain on their noble pride. And without a father to shield him, no one dared offer help.
But Tyrius had been patient. He knew that when he turned twelve and underwent the Soul Ceremony, he would awaken magic of his own. He could endure till then.
That changed a little over a year ago—when those magical words first appeared to him.
-
Soul assimilation completed.
Soul capacity threshold exceeded.
Accommodating…
Intrinsic Ability suitable.
Calculating…
Skill [Spiritual Sensitivity (T0*)] has been applied.
-
Just before those words appeared, Tyrius had just come to accept those foreign memories as his own, they weren’t some foreign entity. He was still Tyrius, even if something else had joined itself with him. He had fundamentally changed yes—but the old Tyrius was not erased by this. No, he was reborn in a sense and his outlook on life shifted immensely as he took on a more mature air.
And as if in recognition of Tyrius’ acceptance of the change, the world had responded. The Ethereal Words had spoken. They gifted him a Tier 0 intrinsic skill.
He’d told both George and his mother soon after. They were the ones who explained what the words meant—the Ethereal Words, the unseen force that governed this world. Everyone in existence would see these words at least once. Advancement could not take place without them.
They explained that skills advanced in tiers, just like people. A Tier 0 intrinsic ability could be earned before someone even reached Tier 1. And these abilities occupied a skill slot separate from the ten a human soul normally possessed and was almost certain to advance when Tyrius reached Tier 1. This meant he would begin with eleven skills. It was one of the reasons those born with such a trait often went on to become pillars of strength.
After House Creedmore learned of his new ability, everything changed for Tyrius and his mother.
Quiet disdain gave way to open hostility.
House Creedmore was in no position to ignore such an unexpected gift. The house had lost significant power during the last Fracturing event—many had died, including his father. There was a very apparent gap in Creedmore's power. It was leading to waning influence. This world revolved around power whether it be individual or collective. And that was precisely the problem.
Individuals who possessed intrinsic abilities were almost guaranteed to garner more power than those without and almost always made names for themselves. Tyrius having awoken such an ability would eventually become a threat to their political structures if he grew too quickly. The elders knew this. They couldn’t afford to overlook it. Nobody could.
So, the once grand House Creedmore fractured. Two sides emerged—those who wanted to nurture Tyrius’ ability, and those who still saw common blood as a stain that should be wiped away.
Tyrius being only a young child at the time knew not of the internal struggles of the house. However, Tyrius with his now matured mind could see the ripples of political strife beneath the surface, but he knew too little to make any informed conclusions. So, when he was suddenly shipped away to Caelthall, he thought it was a compromise. Something intended to distance him from the house, its resources, and its politics—but give him a chance at something greater by going to Caelthall and attending the prestigious Drexmere Academy. This would allow the house to claim all of his accomplishments, but also let them sever their connection should he fail.
Fallen Star Academy was a prestigious school known for its brutal entrance exams and low acceptance rates. Most applicants failed. If Tyrius failed, the house could cast him out without guilt—declare him unworthy and move on. But Tyrius hadn’t considered just how cold this wonderful world could be. How petty those with power could be.
How naive he’d been.
It was only now that he saw everything clearly. This trip was a death sentence wrapped in courtesy. A clean way to erase the heir they never wanted. Stripping away the life Tyrius looked forward to living and the few things he had grown to love with it.
Tyrius trembled—not with fear, but rage.
I’m done being weak and naive.
Never again.
He vowed, then and there, that no one would ever take anything from him again.
He would grow stronger than any of them.
