The first memory Raelith could clearly recall was not of his rebirth or the strange dreams of a life before—though those haunted him in moments of silence—but of the soft, warm light filtering through a silk-draped window and a girl with crimson eyes smiling down at him.
Her name was Seraphine Vale.
His sister.
She was seven when he was just a toddling two-year-old, a ball of tangled silver hair and questions. She would wrap him in her arms, even after a long day of magic training, and tell him stories of gods and dragons, of brave knights and cunning witches who defied fate.
When Raelith was two years old, he finally understood where he was. The world was called Bridia, and they lived on its central continent—Kalam, the beating heart of civilization. Gods were not myth here. They walked among mortals, spoke through dreams, and even shaped cities with their blessings. The two most revered across all intelligent races were the Goddess of Magic, and the God of Knowledge. Together, they had forged the System, a divine framework that granted every being—man, elf, or goblin—a path to power, longevity, and status.
In this world, to live meant to grow stronger. And to grow stronger meant to level up.
Every soul in Bridia possessed an affinity grade, ranging from 1 to 5. Grade 1s could barely spark a flame. Grade 5s could command storms or rend mountains. Affinity decided how much experience one gained from killing monsters, delving into dungeons, or simply surviving the harsh magic-rich environment of Bridia.
Raelith's new family—the Vale Clan—was one of the oldest and most prestigious fire-wielding lineages in the Everlight Kingdom, centered in the majestic Everlight City. This capital city, with its soaring towers and luminous runes, was blessed by the God of Everlight, one of the Twelve High Gods said to have sealed away the primal horrors that lurked beyond the stars.
Raelith's father, Theron Vale, was a stern man, a Level 57 fire mage with Grade 4 affinity. His flames could melt steel, and his presence in the royal court brought honor to the clan. His mother, Elira Vale, was gentler, a Level 41 healer of equally rare talent. Both had high hopes for Raelith, whispering of ancient prophecies and hidden potential when he showed an uncanny grasp of languages and puzzle-solving by the time he was four.
But Raelith was not a smiling prodigy. Even as a child, he carried a quiet cynicism—leftover embers from a past life where loneliness often walked beside him. He didn't laugh with the other children or chase after crystal-winged butterflies in the floating gardens. His brilliance shone in private, and his cold indifference began to earn him whispered nicknames from jealous cousins and noble brats.
They called him "The Hollow Flame."
But Seraphine… Seraphine never cared for such names.
"Let them bark," she would say, brushing his hair out of his eyes with her singed fingers after another petty attempt by their cousins to humiliate him. "Stars don't care what dogs say. And you, little brother, are a storm-wrapped star."
She had Grade 4 fire affinity, like their father, and her potential had already placed her in the royal academy's elite classes by age ten. But no matter how many royal suitors or teachers sought her out, Seraphine never let go of Raelith's hand.
She trained with him in secret, even when the elders thought he was too soft.
She brought him firestones and spell scrolls, whispering, "Even if your magic hasn't awakened, your mind is sharper than theirs. Magic's just another language. You'll learn it too."
They had their secret place—a burned-out watchtower on the far end of the clan estate, abandoned after a magical storm two decades ago. No one went there anymore. That was their sanctuary.
There, Seraphine would read him ancient tales while he lay on her lap, watching how her flames danced through her fingers.
One night, when Raelith was around seven, he looked up and asked, "Why do you care so much about me?"
Seraphine blinked. "Is that such a strange thing?"
"You're strong. You don't need to waste time on the Hollow Flame."
Her laughter startled the dusk-dwelling birds from the tower's rafters.
"I don't care about your affinity, Rae. I care about you. You listen. You notice things. You don't pretend to be someone else like the rest of them."
Then her voice dropped.
"And I know what it feels like to be alone."
It was the first time he saw the cracks in her perfect smile. The fire mage beloved by all, lonely in a world of expectation and politics.
They leaned on each other after that.
At age nine, Raelith deciphered a minor grimoire from the dwarven scholars of Eoruun—a puzzle that had baffled the clan's enchanters. At ten, he began to toy with enchantments and artifacts, despite having no System access. The clan elders whispered that perhaps the gods had delayed his awakening for something greater.
Theron puffed his chest with pride. "He'll awaken at fifteen, like a storm bursting through the clouds. You'll see."
Elira ordered a custom robe of phoenix silk to be woven for his ceremony.
Their expectations became a palace built on sand.
But even then, Raelith didn't trust it. He knew systems. He had been a doctor once. He understood that brilliance wasn't a shield against failure. He prepared himself quietly, in his own way.
And in those years, the bond between him and Seraphine became the one true anchor in his new life.
She gifted him a dagger on his twelfth birthday—carved with obsidian and phoenix bone. "Not because I think you need to fight," she said, "but because sometimes just holding your fate in your hands can change it."
They fought mock battles on the tower rooftop. She taught him footwork, taught him how to feel the movement of mana even if it didn't answer his call. He studied her techniques with surgical precision.
When the Ceremony of Awakening finally drew near, the entire Vale estate thrummed with anticipation. The flame altars burned higher, the clan banners polished and displayed across the city gates. Rumors flew that a Grade 5 had finally been born to the clan.
Raelith, now fifteen, stood still in his ceremonial robes, watching Seraphine from across the training yard. She gave him a thumbs up and mouthed:
"Stars don't care."
He nodded once.
And silently, in the pit of his stomach, he hoped.