CHAPTER 2 — THINGS THAT DO NOT ADD UP
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Time moved strangely in his new life. It didn't explode with events, but crept slowly, seeping into his consciousness like morning fog that was never truly visible but always felt on the skin. The first three years felt like one long, silent breath—not because nothing happened, but because what happened was too ordinary to note, and too foreign to forget.
During that time, Kyoichiiro was not an ordinary child.
The servants at the Khaneo manor often whispered about this when they thought he couldn't hear. They said the young master was too quiet. That he rarely cried even when he fell while learning to walk. That he never whined for toys like other children his age. That he would often sit silently in the corner of a room, staring out the window, as if waiting for something—or someone—that would never come.
Kyoichiiro heard those whispers. He wasn't angry, nor offended. He just observed, as usual.
They don't know, he thought. They don't know what's in my head. Don't know that I've already lived once before. That I've already died. That I've already lost everything.
He never explained. He never would. Because how could he explain something that didn't even make sense to himself?
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OBSERVING
From behind his high bedroom window, Kyoichiiro spent hours just observing. Observing the great house built of cold grey stone—how the morning sunlight struck its walls from the east, how long shadows crept through the corridors as evening came, how the oil lamps were lit one by one by the servants as night fell.
Observing the servants who always whispered and bowed—how old Martha always carried sweets in her pocket for the children, how young Elara often daydreamed while sweeping the courtyard, how big Marcus rarely spoke but always smiled when he saw Claire running.
Observing the figure called his father—a man with dark blue hair combed neatly back, with sharp eyes that could make anyone feel examined, with a deep voice that rarely rose but was always heard. Kyoichiiro noticed how his father's gaze softened—just for a moment, just a glimpse—when looking at him. As if there was something there, something that couldn't be expressed in words.
And there was her.
Claire.
Since Kyoichiiro was born—or since he became aware that he had been reborn—Claire, then three years old, would often sit near him. Not beside his bed, not on their mother's lap, but on the floor, near his cradle, her small legs stretched out and her chin resting on her palms. She wasn't noisy or fussy like other children her age. She just watched. Quietly. As if trying to understand something she couldn't even name.
Her gaze is too calm, Kyoichiiro thought once, when he woke from a nap and found Claire staring at him with unblinking dark blue eyes. Not like other children.
Claire often spoke to him even though she knew her little brother couldn't answer. She talked about her broken toy, about the butterfly she saw in the garden, about the strange dream she had last night. Sometimes, she talked about more serious things—about their father who rarely came home, about their mother who was often ill, about feelings of loneliness she couldn't explain.
Claire: (One day, sitting cross-legged on the floor, in a light blue dress slightly wrinkled) "Father says you're strong."
Kyoichiiro, still lying in his wooden cradle beside his mother's bed, could only stare.
Claire: (Tilting her head, her long black hair tied with a blue ribbon swaying gently) "But you never cry. Even when you fell out of bed yesterday, you just stayed quiet. Mother got worried."
She paused for a moment, as if gathering her words.
Claire: (With a seriousness strange for her age) "Why?"
Kyoichiiro couldn't answer. His mouth couldn't form the words he was thinking. His tongue was too heavy, his vocal cords too new, and his adult brain inside this infant body couldn't send commands perfectly.
But inside his mind, he answered.
I don't cry because my tears were used up in my previous life. Or because I've already learned that crying doesn't change anything.
He didn't say it. But he looked at Claire—looked into her still-innocent dark blue eyes, which had yet to see the world's horrors—and for a moment, he wanted to protect his sister from all of it. From everything that was coming. From everything he couldn't prevent.
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UNANSWERED QUESTIONS
Inside his mind, there was a crowd of larger questions.
Is this really happening? he thought, while the servants were busy in the kitchen and Claire was playing in the garden, while the manor felt silent and he was alone in his room. I... was reborn? As a nobleman's child?
He gripped the cloth swaddling his small body tightly. It felt real. Everything felt real. The cold stone walls were real when he touched them. The smell of wood and wax that filled the room was real in his nose. The sound of Martha shouting from the kitchen—"Elara, bring the salt!"—was real in his ears.
It doesn't make sense. It's not logical at all. Reincarnation is a concept I knew from stories, from religions, from philosophical discussions in my previous life. But I never truly believed it. I never considered it a real possibility.
He closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids, darkness. Not an empty darkness, but a darkness full of memories—memories of Cellia crying over his body, of Hiyori smiling for the last time, of the feeling of a bullet piercing his chest.
But... I've already seen it myself. Felt it. Touched it.
He opened his eyes.
This is real. Somehow.
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FIVE YEARS LATER
The spring wind blew across the training yard.
The yard was located on the eastern side of the manor, surrounded by a two-meter-high stone wall covered in moss in several places. The ground was uneven—there were hardened footprints from previous training sessions. Along the edge of the yard, racks of wooden weapons were lined up: swords, spears, small axes, all made of hardwood coated with wax to prevent easy breakage.
Two small figures stood facing each other in the middle of the yard.
Claire. Eight years old. Her long black hair was tied back with a leather ribbon—not her favorite blue ribbon, because that would get in the way when moving. Her posture was straight, her left foot slightly forward, her right hand gripping a wooden sword steadily. Her dark blue eyes were focused, unblinking, fixed on one target: her brother.
Before her, Kyoichiiro. Five years old. His body was smaller, lighter, his shoulders narrower. The wooden sword in his hand looked a little too big for his grip—his father hadn't yet had time to make him a special sword, so he used Claire's spare, somewhat worn one. But his gaze... calm. Too calm for a child his age.
Don't rush, he reminded himself, feeling his heartbeat quicken slightly. This body is still light. Still weak. These muscles have never been used for fighting. But the memory of how to move... how to attack... how to defend... that's still there. Faint, but there.
The tall figure they called their father stood at the edge of the yard, hands clasped behind his back. His face showed no expression—no smile, no frown, no sign of pride or disappointment. He just watched, like a judge in a courtroom waiting for evidence to be presented.
Their mother was not present. She never was in training like this. Her absence was like a silent shadow that always hung over every family event—felt, but never spoken of.
Instructor: (A middle-aged man with a face full of scars, his voice deep and firm) "Begin!"
Claire moved first.
Her step was fast—not as fast as it would be in the future, but fast enough to catch Kyoichiiro slightly off guard. Her wooden sword cut through the air with a short hiss, heading straight for Kyoichiiro's side. A basic attack, but executed with impressive precision for a child her age.
Kyoichiiro raised his sword to block.
Clack!
A strong vibration shot from the hilt to his palm, from his palm to his wrist, from his wrist to his arm. His sword nearly slipped—he had to tighten his grip at the last second. His body was pushed back one step, then two. His balance wavered.
My reflexes are slow, he thought, trying to stabilize his footing. I know what to do. I know where the openings are. I know when to attack and when to retreat. But this body—the nerves, the muscles, the reaction time—none of it can keep up with the commands from my memory. There's a gap. A fatal gap.
Claire didn't give him time.
She stepped forward again, her sword swinging toward Kyoichiiro's left shoulder—faster than the first attack. Kyoichiiro tried to block, but his still-tingling hand from the first impact moved too slowly.
Clack! Thud.
The wooden sword flew from his grip. It spun through the air—slowly, like in a dream—before hitting the stony ground with a sound too loud in Kyoichiiro's ears. Kyoichiiro himself, pushed by the momentum of the last slash, finally lost his footing. He fell sitting, his palms bracing his weight on the cold, slightly muddy ground.
Silence.
Only the sound of wind blowing through the distant trees, the sound of Claire's still-steady breathing despite having just fought, and the sound of Kyoichiiro's ragged breaths.
Claire lowered her sword. She didn't cheer, didn't smirk, didn't say "I won" with an arrogant tone. She just looked at her brother, still sitting on the ground—looked for a moment, as if evaluating—then walked closer.
She extended her hand.
Claire: (Flat voice) "Get up."
Kyoichiiro stared at that outstretched hand. Claire's fingers were still small—smaller than they would be later, but larger than his were now. There were calluses at her fingertips—signs that she had been training hard for months.
He accepted the offer. As he stood, he looked at his sister's eyes. No mockery. No condescending pity. Just clear observation—just as Claire had always looked at him since he was a baby. As if Claire was reading something in his face, something he couldn't hide.
Claire turned toward their father.
Claire: (Still in a flat voice) "He needs a lot of practice. Still too weak."
No condescension. Just fact.
Father: (From the edge of the yard, his voice also flat, showing no emotion) "You're right. His basic technique is still rough. But his instincts are decent. He knows which direction to block, even if his hands can't keep up."
Kyoichiiro heard those words. His instincts are decent. His father didn't know that wasn't instinct. That was memory. Memory from a previous life, from training he had never done in this world.
Before anyone could answer, a servant's voice sounded from behind.
Servant: (A young woman with short brown hair, bowing respectfully) "Lady Claire, the Lord summons you to the library. Urgent business."
Claire nodded—a short, firm nod. Before turning to follow the servant, she glanced once more at her brother. A brief, unreadable look—perhaps a final assessment, perhaps just confirmation that he was still there—then she left, her steps quick and certain on the stony ground.
Kyoichiiro stood alone in the middle of the yard. He looked at the sky.
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A SKY WITHOUT A MOON
The sky was bright blue, cloudless. The sun shone brightly above him, warm enough to slowly dry the sweat on his forehead. In the distance, small birds flew in circles over the wheat fields, perhaps looking for food, perhaps just playing.
But something fundamental, something that should be there, was not.
What kind of world is this? Kyoichiiro thought, his eyes sweeping the horizon. There is no moon. Not just that it hasn't risen because it's still daytime—that would be understandable. But in my observations over five years in this world—at night, when I often wake and stare at the sky from my window—I have never seen a moon. Never.
Only stars. Hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions of stars shining brightly in the night sky, more than he had ever seen in his previous life. Some of them even seemed to move—not quickly, but slowly, like artificial satellites. But no moon. No natural satellite glowing pale in the darkness.
This means it's not Earth, he thought, feeling his chest tighten slightly. Or maybe it's Earth in the distant future, where the moon has been destroyed? Or Earth in another dimension, with a different solar system? Or this isn't Earth at all—this is another planet with similar gravity, similar atmosphere, but a completely different sky.
He bit his lower lip.
The more I think, the more questions arise. I won't find answers by standing here staring at the sky.
He clenched his small fist.
I have no magic. None at all. I've tried—secretly, in my room, when no one was watching. Nothing happened. No light, no vibration, no strange sensation. Just... nothing.
My body is still too weak. My muscles are still small, undeveloped. My bones are still fragile, not as hard as an adult's. If I had to fight now—against monsters, against villains, against anyone—I would lose. Completely.
But... the sword techniques from my previous life... they're still there. Like shadow memories that haven't faded. Like an old song suddenly echoing in my head even though I haven't heard it in years.
He picked up his wooden sword from the ground, brushed the dust off the hilt, and walked away from the training yard.
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THE SILENT CORRIDORS
The manor's corridors felt long and silent.
Kyoichiiro walked without a clear destination—or at least, without a destination he was conscious of. His small feet carried him through the same corridors every day, past the same doors, past the same paintings. But today, something was different. A curiosity stronger than usual. A pull—from somewhere—not to return to his room, but to keep walking. Farther. To a place he had never visited.
Then he stopped before one particular door.
This door was different.
Older than the other doors in this corridor. Its wood was darker—perhaps old teak, perhaps blackwood from across the sea, perhaps just ordinary wood decades old. Its iron hinges were carved with intricate patterns now rusted in some places, but still visible: circle patterns, wave patterns, patterns resembling a tree of life. He had never seen anyone open it—never seen a servant enter or leave this room, never seen his father or Claire or his mother (once) pass through this door.
But something drew him.
Not a sound, not a smell, not a light. Just... a feeling. As if something behind that door wanted him to find it. As if there was an answer behind this old wood that he had been searching for.
With some effort—the door was heavy, heavier than he expected—he pushed the door open.
A scent immediately filled his nose: dust, old paper, rotting wood, and something else—something sweet, like dried flowers stored for too long. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dim light coming from the single small window on the far wall.
Bookshelves. So many of them. From floor to high ceiling—as high as possible, up to the wooden beams supporting the roof. Dozens of shelves. Perhaps hundreds. Each shelf filled with books of various sizes and thicknesses: some thin as pamphlets, some thick as bricks, some with covers still glossy like new, some with covers already torn and yellowed like old skin.
A library.
Kyoichiiro stepped inside, his eyes darting around, trying to absorb everything at once—but he couldn't. Too much. Too big. He was like an ant entering a sugar warehouse.
Here, he thought, his heart beating a little faster—not from fear, but from... hope? Here, perhaps there are answers. About this world. About why there's no moon. About what magic really is. About this family—the Khaneo family—and why they're so important.
He looked at the largest shelf across the room, filled with thick leather-bound books with gold lettering on their spines. Those books looked older than the others—perhaps decades old, perhaps centuries. Some of them even had small chains connecting their covers to the shelf—a sign that those books were valuable, or dangerous, and shouldn't be moved.
There, he thought, his eyes gleaming. Knowledge. The key to understanding everything.
But he didn't move closer.
He stood in place, considering.
Not now, he finally decided, after a few moments of thought. I'm still too small. Reading those thick books would be suspicious—how could a five-year-old suddenly read adult language fluently? How could I explain my interest in history and magic books?
He sighed.
And knowledge without foundation will only confuse. I need a framework—a basic understanding of this world—before I can grasp more complex things. Otherwise, I'll just gather unconnected facts, like a puzzle without a picture.
With slow steps—heavy, reluctant, but steady—he stepped back. His small hand pushed the large wooden door until it closed again. A soft click sounded from the rusted iron hinges, like a farewell whisper from the past.
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RESOLVE
As he walked through the increasingly dark corridor—because the sun was beginning to set in the west, and the servants hadn't yet lit the oil lamps—a resolve began to form within him.
Not a resolve born of heroic courage. Nor a resolve that came from being pushed by others. This was a cold, calm resolve, born from the realization that he had no other choice.
If this world won't give me magic, then I'll find another way.
I will study this world. I will understand how it works—truly understand, not just on the surface. I will study its history, its politics, its religion, its power systems. I will study its enemies, its allies, its weaknesses, its strengths.
And if this world wants to test me—if fate wants to see if I deserve to live—then I will use my knowledge as my weapon. I will use my intelligence as my shield.
I will make knowledge my sword.
He stopped before a window at the end of the corridor, looking out at the garden beginning to be shrouded in twilight. Golden-orange light filtered through the leaves of the old oak tree, creating slow-moving shadow patterns on the grass. In the distance, a figure—Claire—sat alone on a garden bench, looking westward—perhaps remembering her mother, perhaps just enjoying the evening breeze.
And when this world tries to test me...
Kyoichiiro clenched his still-small fist. The cold from the stone floor crept up through his soles, but he didn't move.
...I will make sure I don't die again without understanding anything.
He took a deep breath—the cold air filled his lungs, refreshing, helping him think clearly—then turned.
There was still so much to learn. Still so much to observe. Still so much time—or perhaps not. He didn't know.
Claire might be talented with a sword. In the future, with enough training, she could become a strong knight. His father might have influence and power, able to protect this family from external threats. The servants might be loyal and reliable.
But Kyoichiiro had something else.
He had memories from a previous life. Not complete memories—much was blurred, much was lost, much might never return—but enough to give him a different perspective. He knew this world wasn't as simple as it seemed. He knew that behind the smiles of nobles, there were intrigues and betrayals. He knew that behind the peace of villages, there were monsters and lurking dangers.
And he had resolve. The resolve to understand. The resolve to survive. The resolve not to die again before he truly understood.
His journey had only just begun.