Nayra's first breath tore through his lungs, a sharp gasp that jolted his newborn body to life. His tiny chest heaved, limbs flailing weakly in the dim hut. His mother's hands, rough but gentle, lifted him, her face hovering close, eyes red from exhaustion. "He's beautiful," she whispered, voice cracking as she pressed him to her chest. Her warmth enveloped him, and Nayra's fingers twitched, curling briefly before stiffening. He turned his head away, eyes unfocused but sharp, avoiding her gaze.
His father loomed nearby, a broad shadow against the flickering oil lamp. "He'll be special," he said, voice low, edged with expectation. "He better." His boots scuffed the dirt floor as he paced, hands flexing as if gripping an invisible blade. The hut smelled of straw and sweat, its wooden walls scarred by years of wind and neglect. Nayra lay still, letting his mother's hum vibrate through him, his face blank but his small body tensing when her fingers brushed his cheek a second time.
The world beyond the hut operated under the Ultimate System, a cosmic force blending logic's cold rules with madness's wild chaos. Most were born with its shadow, the World System, granting Power Skills for brute force, Passive Skills for quiet endurance, or Active Skills for fleeting precision. Only a rare few wielded Special Skills—godlike powers that marked them as elite, untouchable from birth. Without one, you were nothing, a speck crushed underfoot. Nayra was no speck. His reincarnation had forged a refined World System, amplifying his strength. Death Reversal, his first Special Skill, let him rewind time upon death, returning to childhood with his mind intact. A second Special Skill lay locked within, its power dormant, waiting for more blood, more ruin to awaken.
As in these four years he start reshearching many thing on this world and descovering many thing for this world so he can exploit in the future for his plan and the past knowledges he have.
Four years later, Nayra walked the dusty paths of Asterhold, a small boy with dark eyes too big for his face, his steps careful, unremarkable. Villagers nodded as he passed, their smiles tinged with pity. "Poor lad," a baker muttered, tossing him a stale roll. "No spark in him." Nayra caught the bread, his fingers lingering on its crust before he tucked it away, head bowed. The pity was a shield, each glance reinforcing his disguise as a nobody.
His parents had scraped together every coin to send him to Zabuza Academy, a weathered stone building where Asterhold's children learned to survive a world that favored the strong. They stood at the gates, his mother smoothing his patched tunic, her hands trembling slightly. "You'll do well," she said, voice thick. His father clapped his shoulder, grip tight. "Don't shame us." Nayra's lips curved into a shy smile, eyes flicking to his mother's hopeful face. His hand twitched, almost reaching for hers, but he curled it into a fist and turned away, joining the stream of students.
The academy courtyard buzzed with noise—children shouting, wooden swords clacking, factions forming like storm clouds. The Black Wolves huddled together, sharing bread and laughter, their unity a quiet strength. The Red Hawks strutted alone, each chasing glory, their eyes sharp with pride. The Golden Snakes whispered in corners, their smiles glinting like coins, greed binding them. Nayra lingered by a cracked fountain, kicking pebbles, watching. His small frame blended into the chaos, unnoticed—a ghost among the living.
Inside the classroom, chalk dust coated the air, stinging Nayra's nose. He sat at the back, shoulders hunched, a battered slate balanced on his knees. Instructor Goran, a grizzled man with a scarred jaw, loomed over him. "Nayra. Read." His voice was a whip, cutting through the room's hum.
Nayra's finger traced the slate, pausing as if confused. "T-The sun… rises… in the west?" His voice wavered, barely audible.
Laughter burst like a dam breaking. Liam Torvin, a Red Hawk with a bully's bulk, slammed his desk, nearly toppling it. "East, you dolt!" he roared, grinning as others joined in. Goran's ruler cracked across Nayra's knuckles, the sting sharp enough to make his hand jerk back. He bit his lip, eyes watering, and ducked his head. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled, voice small.
The laughter lingered, but Nayra's fingers, hidden beneath the desk, steadied. He glanced at Liam, then away, his face blank but his pulse quickening—not with fear, but with something colder.
The training yard was a furnace, the midday sun baking the earth. Nayra gripped a wooden sword, its weight dragging his arms down—or so he made it seem. Goran paired him with Liam, who twirled his blade like a toy, smirking. "Don't break too fast," Liam taunted, stance wide.
The spar began with a shout. Liam's sword crashed against Nayra's, the force sending him stumbling. Another strike bruised his ribs, a third clipped his shoulder. Nayra fell, sword clattering, and curled into a ball, gasping. "Please!" he choked, tears streaking his dirt-smeared face. The crowd—students, Hawks, Snakes—jeered, their voices a wall of disdain. Liam loomed, raising his sword for another blow, laughing.
Nayra's hand, hidden in the dust, clenched a pebble, fingers tightening until his knuckles whitened. He didn't use it—just held it, his breath hitching as if he might sob. A girl in the crowd, Lina, turned away, her scarred face twisting with discomfort. Nayra's eyes flicked to her, then back to the ground, tears still falling.
That night, while his parents slept, Nayra slipped out. Their snores filled the hut, his mother's soft, his father's rough. He paused at the door, looking back. His mother's hand hung over the bed's edge, fingers curled as if reaching. Nayra's own hand lifted, then dropped, his face hardening. He stepped into the dark.
The fields beyond Asterhold were silent, moonlight painting the earth silver. Nayra moved like a shadow, barefoot to avoid sound. At a gnarled tree, he stopped, facing a crude dummy of straw and wood. His fists flew—left, right, spin kick—each strike precise, the dummy shuddering. His Passive Skill, Killing Intent, pulsed beneath his skin, a coiled threat he kept leashed. He practiced his Active Skills—Soul Absorption to drain life, Soul Shatter to break minds—his movements fluid, deadly.
A twig snapped. Nayra froze, hand darting to a hidden knife under his tunic. His eyes scanned the dark, breath steady. A fox darted across the field, its eyes glinting. Nayra exhaled, sheathing the blade. He resumed, strikes faster now, the dummy's straw spilling like blood. His face was blank, but his fingers shook slightly when he paused, brushing sweat from his brow.
Back in the hut, he slid into bed, the straw mattress creaking. His mother stirred, murmuring, "Nayra?" He stiffened, then relaxed, rolling to face the wall. Her hand settled on his shoulder, light but warm. Nayra's eyes stayed open, staring into the dark. His lips parted, almost speaking, but he pressed them shut, curling tighter.
At breakfast, his mother set a bowl of thin porridge before him, her smile tired but kind. "Eat up, love." His father grunted, sharpening a knife, the scrape filling the silence. Nayra spooned the porridge, his movements slow. He glanced at his mother's hands—scarred, trembling slightly as she stirred the pot. His spoon paused, then resumed, his face unreadable.
Outside, he joined the village children heading to the academy, their chatter a dull roar. A boy tossed a ball, and it rolled to Nayra's feet. He picked it up, hesitating, then threw it back, his aim perfect but his smile fleeting. The boy grinned, waving him over, but Nayra shook his head, falling back into the crowd's edges.
At the academy gates, he stopped, looking back at the village. His parents stood by their hut, his mother waving, his father nodding. Nayra raised a hand, fingers curling halfway before dropping. He turned, face hardening, and stepped into the courtyard.
"You'll all kneel," he whispered, voice lost in the wind, his small fists clenching as he vanished among the students.