Death of a former king

I was a King.

Not just any King — I was once hailed as The King of Charisma, a monarch beloved by his people and respected across kingdoms. I wasn’t born into royalty, but rose through merit, wisdom, and charm. I spent years as a scholar of divine knowledge, mastering the ancient texts and understanding the complex hierarchies of the gods. I was known as a connoisseur of the divine — a man who dared speak with priests and question oracles.

But none of that mattered in the end.

I ruled for just a single year before I was accused of a treasonous crime I never committed — betrayal of the gods. A false charge, planted by cowards who envied my influence and feared my insight. There was no trial. No chance to speak. Only a sword. And silence.

I died on the battlefield, the 10th day of the War of Post-Peak — a brutal war sparked by crumbling empires and fractured faiths. My body was cleaved in two by a blade wielded by a man I once called brother. My final sight was the crimson horizon painted by fire and blood. Death came quickly… but it wasn’t the end.

It was a beginning.

I opened my eyes again, screaming.

Not in agony, but in confusion. My tiny lungs gasped for air, and I felt my limbs tremble, weak and unfamiliar. There was warmth, a presence, and muffled voices speaking a language I barely recognized. My vision was blurred, but I could tell — I had been reborn.

Reincarnated.

I realized, with slow horror and wonder, that I had just come out of a woman’s womb. Her exhausted yet smiling face told me all I needed to know. She was my new mother. The woman who gave me life — again.

I couldn’t process the emotions. The part of me that was once a proud king wanted to scream at the indignity of it all, while the other part, the new soul, was just a crying baby in her arms. I cried, not because I was sad — but because my pride, my memories, my very existence had been reduced to the helpless wails of an infant.

Weeks passed in a blur of light and shadows. I spent my days swaddled in blankets, staring at ceilings, crying for milk, and listening — always listening.

That’s when I learned the truth. The year was 1890, in a new era known as The United Era. It had been 390 years since my death. Three whole centuries had passed, and the world had changed. The Post-Peak Era, once the golden age of kingdoms and gods, was gone — buried in forgotten history.

And me? I was reborn into a modest household in a small town far from any kingdom walls.

The family I was born into bore the surname Lefty — a name I had never heard in my past life. There were only three members in the household: my grandfather Ammon Lefty, a stern man with a greying beard and eyes that looked like they’d seen too much; my mother Lucy Lakes Lefty, a gentle woman with warm hands and tired eyes; and my father Asta Lefty, a man who stood tall even in a modest home.

I was given the name Axel Lefty.

Strange, isn’t it? A king reborn into a middle-class family with no royal blood, no noble heritage. But there was something… respectable about it. The Leftys weren’t rich, but their home was filled with books, music, and laughter — things I hadn’t known in my cold palace halls.

By the time I was three months old, I had already memorized the layout of the small wooden house. I knew the sound of the floorboards near the kitchen, the way the front door creaked every time my grandfather left for his morning walk, and how my mother hummed lullabies while sewing.

But the most shocking discovery came when I finally saw my father clearly.

Asta Lefty — a tall, well-built man with teal-colored hair that fell just past his ears, and sharp green eyes that looked like emeralds. There was something noble about his posture, something sharp in the way he carried himself.

I later overheard my grandfather saying that Asta was once an A-Class Adventurer — someone who ventured beyond the walls, battled beasts, explored ruins, and faced the unknown. But he had quit. No one told me why.I probably should ask my father someday when I get older.

The months dragged on. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t speak. I was a prisoner in a baby's body — a grown soul trapped in helpless flesh.

I cried. Not because I wanted milk or warmth. I cried out of frustration, out of despair, out of pure rage. I spent two months doing nothing but drinking from my mother’s bosom and sleeping through most of the day. My mind, once sharp and kingly, dulled with each passing hour.

But I didn’t give up.

Not yet.

One day, as sunlight poured through the wooden window and danced on the floorboards, I clenched my tiny fists and moved my head with purpose. It was the first sign of control — the first taste of will returning.

Finally, I thought to myself, gritting imaginary teeth.

Some damn progress.