Reborn as the True Hero: The Journey to Survival and Power

Short story alternative (R.A.T.H.J.S.P.)

The universe was a swirl of lights and shadows, a vast expanse that stretched in all directions, twisting and turning like an endless sea. Nathaniel Alexander—no, that wasn't his name yet, was it?—drifted through the void. His existence felt intangible, suspended in time. He couldn't feel the air, the weight of his body, or any sensation. All that remained was a vague sense of floating between two worlds, the fading remnants of his past life swirling around him.

His second life had been one of pain and struggle, a battle to survive in a world that never wanted him. He had died young, but at least he had fought—had been given a second chance, though that life too was fading now, as if it had been someone else's. What came next, he couldn't tell. It was all a blur. His memories were fraying at the edges, falling apart like tattered cloth in the wind. He didn't know who he was anymore.

Then, a pull. An impossible tug that dragged him, gently but relentlessly, toward something new. A sudden warmth rushed over him, and the void receded, replaced by the strange sensation of being. It was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.

Nathaniel's body trembled. His limbs, small and fragile, felt heavy, but he had no control over them. He was aware of something—someone—holding him, and it made him feel safe. The warmth surrounding him was unlike anything he had ever known.

The air smelled of something sweet, fresh. Was it lavender? He didn't know. His senses were slowly beginning to sharpen, the world around him coming into focus like a painting slowly revealing its details. He could feel the soft pressure of cloth against his skin. He could hear the faint rustling of fabric, the whisper of a voice speaking in low, gentle tones above him.

"A boy."

The voice was tender, filled with the sort of joy that made him feel... connected. He didn't understand why, but his chest tightened with an unfamiliar feeling. Something told him that this was an important moment, though he couldn't remember why.

Slowly, with difficulty, Nathaniel opened his eyes. The light was soft, flickering. The room was small but warm, filled with the glow of several candles placed on tables and ledges. His tiny body was wrapped in thick blankets, and his gaze was drawn upward to the woman who was cradling him in her arms.

She was beautiful—graceful. Her long dark hair framed her face, which was calm, serene, radiating an intense sense of peace. Her eyes, dark and deep, were focused on him with an expression so filled with love that it made Nathaniel's fragile heart ache.

He studied her, his vision still blurry. There was a strength to her—beneath the warmth in her eyes, there was something quiet but resolute. She was his mother, wasn't she? The word felt strange, foreign, yet instinctively, Nathaniel understood that this woman, this figure, was his. She had birthed him. She had given him life.

Her face was filled with an unspoken joy as she gazed down at him, as though he were the most precious thing in the world. She spoke again, her voice gentle, her tone soft and affectionate.

"Nathaniel," she whispered, as if the name was sacred. "My son, Nathaniel."

The name caused a strange feeling to ripple through Nathaniel. It felt like it belonged to him, even though he had no memories to attach to it. It felt like the key to something he couldn't yet grasp, a piece of his identity waiting to take shape.

For the first time in his new life, Nathaniel focused fully on her, trying to understand this woman who seemed to care for him so deeply. Her smile was the purest he had ever seen, her eyes radiating warmth and kindness that washed over him. She was real. She was here.

And then, as if her presence alone couldn't fill the entire room, another figure appeared in the doorway.

The door creaked as it opened, and the figure that entered was unlike the soft, gentle presence of his mother. A tall, broad-shouldered man filled the doorway, his silhouette sharp and defined against the flickering candlelight. His face was unreadable, cold, with eyes that seemed to burn with a distant fire. He had the look of someone who held power—someone who had never had to fight for anything. His posture was stiff, commanding.

The woman—his mother—looked up as he entered. Her expression shifted, but she did not look worried. Rather, her eyes filled with a certain quiet expectation.

"My lord," she said, her voice trembling slightly with an undertone of affection. "Our son, Nathaniel..."

She looked at him with soft eyes, her hands still holding him against her chest, as if presenting him to his father.

But the man didn't immediately respond. He simply stood there, his gaze sweeping over the scene in front of him. His cold eyes fixed first on the woman, then on the child she held. His gaze lingered on Nathaniel, who lay in his mother's arms, his small hands clenched into fists, his breathing shallow.

The Duke's lips were a thin line, his expression stone-cold. He did not smile. He did not speak. He simply looked at his newborn son with a detachment so cold that it cut through the warmth of the room like a sharp blade. There was no joy, no wonder, no warmth in his eyes—just an impenetrable, icy indifference.

Nathaniel's mother, though, did not falter. She held him close to her chest, still beaming, her eyes filled with hope as she looked up at the Duke. She waited for him to speak, for any sign of acknowledgment, but there was nothing. The silence hung thick in the air.

For what seemed like an eternity, the Duke remained silent, his gaze fixed on his son. Nathaniel felt his heart race as his father's eyes locked onto his tiny form, cold and unwavering.

The silence in the room was suffocating. Nathaniel's cries, faint and soft, filled the gap, but no one came to comfort him.

Finally, after what felt like forever, the Duke broke his gaze. His lips twitched, barely noticeable, as if the smallest flicker of something—whether it was curiosity or frustration—had crossed his features. But it was fleeting. In an instant, his face returned to its emotionless mask.

Without a word, he turned, his heavy boots clicking sharply against the floor as he strode away. His back was straight, every movement purposeful and cold. He didn't even spare another glance at his wife or son.

The door closed behind him with a quiet thud, and once again, the room was silent.

Nathaniel was left alone with his mother. His small chest heaved as his tiny hands grasped at her gown, desperately seeking comfort, seeking warmth.

She didn't speak for a moment, her fingers gently brushing his soft hair. Then, after a pause, she whispered as though speaking to herself, "I'll protect you, Nathaniel. No matter what."

Nathaniel didn't understand the words fully, but he could sense the promise in them. He could feel the love that still radiated from her, the hope that filled her soul. She was all he had in this new life, and that simple fact comforted him. Her warmth, her touch, was all he needed.

But just as quickly as the warmth surrounded him, the room shifted. The sense of safety, the peace he had felt, was shattered as quickly as it had come. His mother looked down at him with a quiet sorrow in her eyes.

Nathaniel's cries were still muffled by the oppressive silence, but as he continued to stare up at her, he could feel the strange, unsettling sense of abandonment creeping into the room. His mother seemed to hesitate, her fingers lingering in the air above him, as if deciding something in her heart. Her face, once bright and full of love, now looked resigned. But her arms stayed steady around him.

The hours passed in the blink of an eye, and Nathaniel, lost in the quiet sadness of the moment, could do little but continue to cry. The world around him was no longer filled with joy, but something more hollow. His mother's eyes grew distant, but she never released her hold on him, never let him go.

And for the first time in his short life, Nathaniel felt a growing sense of dread.