Darkness gave way to light.


    Lucan Voss awoke to the gentle rocking of wood beneath him, the creaking of wet planks, and the rhythmic lapping of water against the hull. His body felt weak, unfamiliar—small.


    The vast expanse of a tranquil river surrounded him, stretching endlessly in both directions, its shimmering surface reflecting the twilight sky above. He lay in the center of a small wooden boat, barely large enough to hold him.


    And he was alone.


    A child of mere days, swaddled in thin cloth, unable to move, unable to speak.


    The realization struck like a hammer.


    This was his reincarnation.


    Gone was his body, his voice, his strength. In its place, the frail form of an infant, cast adrift upon an unknown river in an unknown world. He tried to move his arms—weak. He tried to speak—nothing but breathless gasps.


    Lucan Voss drifted on the river, his tiny body weak, his limbs fragile. The boat rocked gently beneath him, carried forward by the slow, unfeeling current. He was alone—no warmth of another, no voice to comfort him. He could not speak, could not move.


    Then—light.


    A deep, fiery glow illuminated the night sky, casting its terrible radiance over the dark waters. The infant Lucan struggled to lift his head, his body untrained, his neck unable to bear the weight. But his eyes—his mind—remained sharp, unwavering.


    Above him, a colossal sphere of fire carved through the heavens like a fallen star. The flames churned in unnatural patterns, not merely fire, but something more—something controlled, something guided.


    It surged forward, moving with terrible precision.


    His tiny head trembled as he followed its path.


    A city stood upon the distant shore—a bastion of marble and gold, grand towers rising into the heavens, great domes adorned with celestial runes. The streets were lined with sacred statues, carved in devotion to gods long worshiped. Bridges of gleaming stone arched over tranquil canals, and a grand palace rested at its heart, its spires reaching toward the stars.


    A holy city, untouched by war, revered by its people.


    And then, the fireball struck.


    A blinding explosion engulfed the outer wall, a shockwave tearing through the foundation. The pristine stonework, once a testament to the divine, shattered in an instant. Towers crumbled, bridges collapsed, and the streets—so carefully crafted over centuries—became ruin.


    A tremor shook the very air. Screams erupted from within the city, voices of thousands crying out as the fire spread like a living thing, consuming everything in its wake.


    And then—another fireball.


    It roared through the sky, faster than the first, carving an arc of death. The second explosion was greater, consuming an entire district in a storm of flame. The holy city, untouched for centuries, was being erased in mere moments.


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    Lucan’s breath—what little he had—hitched. Who?


    His gaze, small and weak, tried to follow the source.


    And then, he saw him.


    Standing atop a distant cliff, overlooking the devastation, was a man.


    A mage.


    His robes were black and crimson, frayed at the edges, lined with symbols of ancient power. His long silver hair moved with the wind, but his expression was still—cold, sorrowful, absolute.


    His staff, forged from an unknown metal, pulsed with runes of immeasurable complexity, burning with an eerie crimson glow.


    And then, he raised it.


    The air split as an inferno coalesced above him, gathering into a sphere of pure destruction. It was massive, greater than the last, a swirling mass of molten energy so vast that the very sky trembled beneath its weight.


    Lucan’s boat shuddered as the heat rippled across the river. Though the fire did not touch the water, the air itself boiled. The river’s surface wavered, distorting the reflection of the burning city.


    The mage’s eyes, filled with grief and fury, locked onto his target.


    He thrust the staff forward.


    The fireball surged toward the city, its descent slow, almost methodical.


    It struck the palace.


    The explosion that followed was beyond devastation—it was an undoing.


    The palace, grand and sacred, ceased to exist in a single instant. The golden spires, the celestial halls, the divine relics held within—all vanished into a storm of fire and ruin. The city’s heart, the very symbol of its people’s faith, was gone.


    The earth shook. Fire rose higher, consuming temple after temple, home after home. The streets, once paved in white stone, became rivers of molten rock. Statues of gods crumbled into dust. The screams of the people—their cries for salvation—were drowned beneath the roaring inferno.


    Yet the mage did not stop.


    He raised his staff once more, his shoulders trembling—not with weakness, but with something deeper.


    Regret.


    Sorrow.


    A man who had no other choice.


    Lucan, despite his frail form, could see it.


    This was no tyrant. No conqueror.


    This was a man who had lost everything.


    The final fireball formed above him, larger than all the others. The size of a sun, burning with an intensity that defied logic. It was a spell meant to end all things.


    Lucan could not turn away. He could only watch.


    Then, the mage hesitated.


    His grip on his staff faltered. His breathing slowed.


    He looked upon the burning city—upon what he had done.


    And in that moment, the last embers of his fury died.


    With a whisper, he traced a rune into the air.


    His body shimmered, and he was gone.


    Vanished into the ether, leaving behind only ruin and silence.


    Lucan’s boat drifted onward.


    He passed the burning city, the embers still rising to the heavens like the final prayers of a dying people.


    He passed the blackened mountains, their jagged peaks illuminated by the distant glow of destruction.


    And then, he passed into emptiness.


    The river stretched endlessly, and no one came for him.


    The hours dragged on, his tiny stomach twisting with hunger, pain, weakness. He whimpered at first, soft and pitiful, then louder—louder—his cries swallowed by the vast wilderness around him.


    No one answered.


    Then—the shift.


    The river’s gentle embrace turned wild.


    The currents surged, his boat rocking violently as it was pulled forward. Faster. Faster.


    Lucan’s body was thrown back, his tiny hands grasping at nothing. The wind howled in his ears. The boat twisted and turned, caught in the grip of something unseen.


    Ahead, the river vanished.


    Lucan’s breath hitched.


    A waterfall.


    The water rushed toward oblivion, a sheer drop into mist and crashing depths below. The boat lurched forward, its wooden frame creaking as it was pulled toward the edge.


    Lucan screamed.


    But no words came.


    The abyss yawned before him. The boat tilted.


    And then—


    He fell.