the beginning after the end perfect duo

Reborn Into Another World

I floated in an endless sea of darkness, weightless and silent. It was an oppressive void, suffocating in its emptiness, yet strangely serene. No sound, no sensation—just me, adrift in an infinite expanse. The stillness was a paradox: unsettling, like a weight pressing on my chest, yet comforting, as if time itself had abandoned me. I could've been there for seconds or centuries; there was no way to tell.

Then, a faint speck of light pierced the blackness. It was distant at first, a pinprick against the abyss, but it grew closer with every unmeasurable moment. Not blinding, but soft—gentle, like a lantern swaying in a storm. It tugged at me, a quiet pull, like a hand reaching through the dark to guide me home.

As it approached, I became aware of myself again. My body—small, fragile, unfamiliar—began to register. Was this a dream? No, it didn't carry the hazy, disjointed weight of sleep. This was sharper, more real, like waking into something more than reality.

The light clarified, revealing shapes—blurry at first, then distinct. Voices murmured in the distance, soft and echoing, words I couldn't quite grasp but felt I should know.

"Congratulations, Miss Leywin. You have two healthy children."

The words sliced through the fog in my mind, sharp and jarring. My heart thudded. Miss Leywin? The name struck a chord deep within me—Alice Leywin. I knew her. How could I not? And then it hit me, like a puzzle piece snapping into place: The Beginning After The End. The novels I'd devoured, the world I'd escaped into—was I in it?

The realization spiraled. If Alice Leywin was my mother, then I was one of her children. Arthur Leywin's twin. The thought was absurd, laughable—yet it fit. The voices, the sensation of a new body, the faint hum of something magical in the air—it all aligned.

I took a slow breath, steadying myself. My past life flickered in my mind: school, late nights reading, a mundane existence. But this—this was different. I wasn't just Tom anymore. I was someone new, reborn into a world of mana and war. And if I was Arthur's twin, I'd already lived through the story's timeline in my head. I knew what was coming: the battles, the betrayals, the losses.

I stretched out my hand, inspecting it. Small, chubby fingers, a child's hand—but beneath the skin, I felt it: a flicker of mana, faint as a dying ember. It was there, dormant, waiting. In the stories, mana was everything—life, power, survival. If I was here, I had to harness it. But my reserves were weak, uncoordinated, like a toddler taking its first steps. I wasn't some prodigy—not yet.

The pressure of this new reality settled on me. If I was Arthur's brother, I couldn't just sit by. This world wasn't kind to the weak. I had to grow stronger—not just for myself, but to change the fates I'd read about. History didn't have to repeat itself. Not if I could help it.

One Year Later

A year crept by, slow and deliberate. The Leywin household was a warm blur of routine: my mother's gentle humming as she cooked, my father's booming laugh echoing from the yard. I played the part of the quiet child, watching, learning, hiding the storm brewing inside me.

My mana core was taking shape, but it wasn't the blazing triumph I'd imagined. Meditation was grueling—hours of sitting cross-legged in the corner of my room, focusing on the faint pulse of energy within me. At first, it was like trying to catch smoke; my mind wandered, my body ached. But gradually, the spark stabilized into a dim, steady glow. It wasn't much—barely a flicker compared to what I'd need—but it was mine.