Magic

Raphael looked around the hall, his tiny newborn eyes taking in as much as they could. The space was grand and luxurious—walls lined with quartz and gold, with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, lighting the vast hall large enough to hold at least a hundred people. The contrast between this magnificent place and the shambles of the house he was staying in felt like a cruel joke. His cradle had been new, but the rest of the home was anything but.

In front of the altar stood a man, his eyes red, tears rolling down his face. He was flanked by four elderly people who, while stoic, shared the weight of grief on their faces. Raphael quickly realized this man was his father, and the elders were likely his grandparents. It was strange to be in such an emotionally charged scene, where his former self would have been detached, calculating his next steps. But this time, the emotions stirred inside him. His new form—this fragile body—betrayed him with tears.

Beside his father, a young woman attempted to console him, her hands gently resting on his arm. Raphael could only guess who she was—a family friend, perhaps? But before he could think too much about it, the woman carrying him approached his father. His father's red eyes locked onto him. Raphael couldn't tell if the redness was from crying or from anger directed at him. A lump formed in his tiny throat. His mind raced, wondering what this man thought of him—this "new" life, this child.

"Take this parasite around the city," his father suddenly commanded. His voice, cold and detached, sent a chill down Raphael's spine. A parasite? So that's what he thought of him—of her now. The disdain was clear, and it hit Raphael harder than he expected. He had predicted abandonment, neglect, maybe even hatred. But this… this was worse.

The woman carrying him, her face soft and filled with mercy, bowed slightly. "As you wish, Master."

Raphael, still trying to comprehend his situation, was taken out of the grand hall and into the streets of the city. They traveled for hours, and in that time, Raphael learned much about the world. The city was bustling, alive with energy and technology. It seemed to be in the middle of an industrial revolution—steam-powered machinery clanked in the streets, but there was something else, something even more extraordinary.

Magic.

As they walked through the markets, he saw a man wave his hand, and suddenly, a cloth appeared out of thin air, draping over his hand. He removed it, revealing a bouquet of flowers that hadn't been there moments before. Raphael's heart skipped a beat. It was just as he suspected—there was magic in this world. It made sense. Why else would he be granted a powerful gift if magic weren't real here? It would be like fighting an armed enemy with bare fists. No, magic was real, and it was everywhere.

He saw people using magic in everyday tasks. Goods floated through the air, seemingly guided by invisible hands. Water poured out of people's palms to fill buckets, while others ran at impossible speeds, their feet glowing as if enhanced by some magical force. It was a far cry from the mundane world Raphael once knew, and he found himself oddly excited—despite the harshness of his reincarnation.

Eventually, the woman carrying him brought him back to the house he had left earlier that morning. The balcony, which had once given him a view of the sunrise, now seemed like a distant memory. His father's disdain hung heavy over the household, casting a shadow on everything. Raphael was placed back into the cradle, his body too weak to move or protest.

As he lay there, exhausted from the long day, another person entered the room. This woman wore the same uniform as the one who had been carrying him—a maid. They exchanged quiet words, but Raphael's sharp ears caught every bit of the conversation.

"Is it true? That child caused the death of the duke's daughter?" asked the new maid, her voice a mixture of curiosity and fear.

The maid who had carried Raphael all day shook her head gently. "I don't know. But I don't believe a little girl could cause anyone's death."

The second maid frowned. "But the mistress was perfectly healthy after the birth. How did she die so suddenly? And look at her—she barely cries. The fourth son of the Marquis is furious about the girl. What is her name, anyway?"

The maid carrying Raphael answered softly, "I didn't hear it directly, but the maids caring for the duchess said she called her 'Asha.'"

"Asha?" the other maid echoed. "That's a strange name. Do you think it's from a foreign country?"

"Perhaps," the first maid responded. "The duchess was an envoy from a foreign land, after all."

Raphael's mind raced as he absorbed this information. Asha. So that was his new name, the name of his reincarnated form. He realized now that his new life was even more complicated than he had initially thought. The death of his mother—his new mother—was somehow linked to him, and the anger in his father's eyes started to make sense. He was not only a reminder of her death but was also seen as the cause.

A deep sadness washed over him, and for the first time in both lives, Raphael didn't know what to do next. His heart ached not just from the weight of his new reality but from the overwhelming sense of isolation. He was an outsider in this world, just as he had been in his old one.

As night fell, Raphael looked out of the small window, seeing the sun disappear below the horizon. His mind, still sharp despite the limitations of his new form, began calculating once again. This world was harsher, yes, but there was still a chance—a chance to stop his friend, to fulfill the mission given to him by that god. But first, he had to survive.

A new dawn would come. He just had to endure the night.