The third thing he noticed was the silence.
Reborn, he thought, his infant mind a hurricane of adult logic. Another world. Feudal technology. High magic potential—if the aching in my mana veins is any indication.
The Baron frowned. "We lost that battle. Badly." The third thing he noticed was the silence
Cain didn't fight back. He simply smiled, wiped the mud from his cheek, and said, "You're right. My magic is worthless. But tell me, Dorian—how many men does your father need to siege a fortified hill fort?"
"Yes," Cain said, drawing the rusted blade. It flaked but did not break. "We lost because our ancestors defended the bridge. This time, we'll let them cross it. And then we'll delete the bridge." Feudal technology
Cain touched the hilt of the rusted blade, now hanging at his own hip. "History doesn't repeat, Father. It rhymes . I just have a very good memory for the lyrics." The crisis came on Cain's thirteenth birthday. The Viscount—father of the bully Dorian—declared war. He claimed Silvera's "new wealth" was rightfully his, earned through stolen magic or demonic pacts.
"How?" the Baron asked one night, after Cain had brokered a peace between two feuding merchant guilds using a contract template from the sword's diplomatic logs. "We lost that battle
But death was not an end. It was a reassignment . The first thing Cain von Silvera noticed was the smell. Not antiseptic, like a hospital, but of hay, woodsmoke, and sour milk. The second was the weight. His limbs were too short, his lungs too weak, and his vision blurred at the edges.
No celebratory courtiers. No proud father. Just a weeping mother and a father whose face was carved from granite disappointment.