Chapter 7: The Primordial of Love

*Kiro's POV* 

The light shifted, and then—there she was. She didn’t appear solemn or distant, like some untouchable deity. No. She exploded into the void like a prism of living color, impossibly vibrant, almost chaotic. My gaze locked on her immediately. Her hair—golden, cascading in waves that floated as if alive—tumbled around her shoulders and framed her face like sunlight caught mid-dance.

Her eyes… enormous, mischievous, and warm, framed by lashes that seemed delicate enough to brush my cheeks. I could barely breathe. Her movements were fluid, almost musical, and the void itself seemed to bend around her. Her figure was breathtaking, elegant, curves and angles catching the strange light in a way that made her seem simultaneously real and ethereal. She was as beautiful as… no, more beautiful than Aoi, a perfection I had never seen in anyone living.

A wide, eccentric grin spread across her face. She twirled lightly, her luminous dress flowing and shifting like it had a life of its own, radiant threads catching the light in impossible patterns. She tilted her head, eyes sparkling with unrestrained glee, and spoke in a voice that seemed to sing across the void:

“Oh! You finally came!” Her words were playful, teasing, almost musical. “I’ve been waiting for you, you dramatic little mortal!”

Then she curtsied lightly, her grin widening. “But, of course—I suppose I should introduce myself. I am Romantica, Primordial of Love. And you… well, you are far too stubborn for your own good, aren’t you?”

I could only stare, my chest tightening. Her presence was overwhelming, intoxicating. The warmth of her gaze, the brilliance of her smile, the grace in every movement—it was like standing in the sun and the stars all at once. My voice, if I had one, would have failed me completely.

I stared, dumbstruck. My mind was racing. My body—or what felt like it—shivered under the sheer intensity of her presence. My hands clenched into fists. “Romantica… wait. Please… don’t—”

Her grin widened, though there was a faint tilt in her head, like she was trying to read me, teasing but curious. “Don’t what, little mortal? Don’t let go? Don’t scream? Don’t be so charmingly stubborn?”

I swallowed hard. “I—I need to go back. My sister… my father… Aoi… I can’t just leave them!”

She giggled, a sound like bells and sunlight colliding. She floated closer, and my attention was helplessly drawn to every movement—the sway of her hips, the elegance in her posture, the way her hands fluttered in front of her chest like she was conducting some invisible symphony. “Oh, you clingers are so predictable!” she said. Then, with a flick of her wrist, a swirling portal appeared behind her. Purple and gold, threads of light weaving through the air like molten glass. “This will take you to a new beginning, a clean slate! No more burdens, no more past pains. I’ll even cleanse the memories that hurt you.”

I shook my head violently. “No! I can’t leave them. I—please, take me back. I don’t care what happens here, I—I need them!”

Romantica blinked, exaggeratedly pouting, her hands on her hips. Then she tilted her head, one brow raised. “You really are something, aren’t you? Stubborn, clingy, dramatic… and yet, oddly endearing.” Her eyes softened for a brief moment, then sparkled again, eccentric as ever. “Fine. I’ll let you… cling. But you’ll have to trust me.”

I felt panic coil in my chest as she extended her hand toward me. “Wait! I—no! Don’t—”

She giggled again, light and musical, like the sound of wind chimes. “Shh, shh, little mortal. This won’t hurt… much.” Her hand touched my chest—or what I thought was my chest—and immediately the portal’s light enveloped me.

A strange heat, then cold, surged through me. My body seemed to tear apart, dissolve into the threads of light. Pain, or the memory of pain, ripped through me. My vision—or what I had of it—shattered like glass. But through it all, her voice carried, warm and calm, playful and terrifying all at once:

“I’m just building you a clean vessel, Kiro. Just cleansing your soul…”

I clung to every memory I could, desperate. Miya’s laugh. Father’s steady hands on my shoulder. Aoi’s stubborn glare, the warmth of her head resting against mine. My chest ached, not with life, not with blood, but with every memory that made me me.

Romantica floated before me, her grin unwavering, eyes alight with a strange mixture of amusement and seriousness. “Why don’t you trust me?”

I tried to speak, to plead, but no words would come. All I could do was hold on. Hold onto them. The people I loved, the life I had lived, the burdens I had carried. The portal threatened to erase me, but I refused.

Her laugh rang like music, bright and slightly teasing, echoing through the white void as she waited, curious and patient, for me to make my choice.

And I held on. The next thing I knew, the light shifted again. It was softer this time, warmer, but not the comforting kind I remembered. I blinked, my head spinning, disoriented, heart hammering.

“Hmwehp…!” My voice cracked—high-pitched, almost like a child’s—but nothing came out clearly. My throat felt tight, foreign. The words I tried to form refused to follow my will.

Two figures hovered over me. I couldn’t make sense of their shapes at first—tall, graceful, shimmering slightly, but their faces… blurred in my vision. Their voices reached me in sounds that made no sense, syllables twisting and curling like smoke. I wanted to respond, to tell them who I was, to tell them about Miya, Father, Aoi… but my mouth wouldn’t work.

Panic clawed at my chest. I forced myself to look down, desperate to ground myself, to find some anchor in this new reality. And then I froze.

My hands.

They were tiny. My fingers short, my palms soft, my nails impossibly small. I flexed them, turning them over, trembling.

No… no, this isn’t—this can’t be… My voice squeaks, high and childish, completely alien to me. Everytime I try to speak it's like I'm mumbling and struggling to construct a word.

I looked up again at the strangers. Their eyes—still soft, still concerned—were fixed on me, hands outstretched, urging me not to move. My mind raced, fragments of memory stabbing through the haze: the landslide, Miya, Father, Aoi… and that jarring, impossibly radiant Primordial, Romantica.

I am… a baby.

My stomach twisted as shock and fear gripped me. How could this be real? How had my body betrayed me so completely? I tried to speak again, my words reduced to tiny squeaks and gurgles, incomprehensible even to myself.

I clutched at the blankets around me, trying to anchor myself, but the softness only made the reality sharper: I was helpless. Completely vulnerable. Completely… dependent.

The strangers exchanged glances again, nodding softly at each other. Their hands reached toward me, gentle, patient. I recoiled at first—confusion, fear, shame—but something in their calm, assured presence made me pause.

I didn’t know who they were. I didn’t know what had happened. All I knew was that… I was no longer the protector. I was the one who needed protection.

And somewhere deep, buried under panic, a small, stubborn spark of recognition whispered: I had to survive this. Somehow. For Miya, for Father, for Aoi. Even in this new, fragile form, I couldn’t let go. again, no matter what it took.

Years passed—or at least, it felt that way to me. I woke one morning, five years old now, my body still small but sharper, my mind clear as ever. My memories of the old world, of Miya, of Father, Aoi… they clung to me like stubborn shadows. Romantica’s words echoed faintly at the edges of my consciousness, but I could already tell she hadn’t lied.

We were here, in the continent of Normund, living on the border between the Kingdom of Astailis and the Kingdom of Lakora. The countryside stretched endlessly beyond our home: rolling hills, thick forests, and a sky that could turn gold or crimson at the whim of the sun. My parents, now here as Jargo Lifesworn and Melinda Lifesworn, moved with a grace that made the villagers’ country folk ways seem humble yet almost theatrical.

Father—Jargo—was not just any man. Once, he had been the Royal Duelist of Astailis, a man who had danced with life and death in the palace arenas. The weight of his skill and discipline clung to him even in these quiet lands, and it fascinated me.

“Observe the stance,” he said one morning, tapping the tip of my wooden rapier. I gripped it awkwardly, still small, still unsure how to balance my weight. He raised an eyebrow. “No, no. Feet! Shoulder-width apart. Balance comes first, then precision.”

I tried, wobbling slightly. Father chuckled softly but shook his head. “You will learn, my boy. A weapon is not merely steel—it is an extension of your will. Treat it with respect.”

I glanced at the rapier in my hands. The first time he had given me a real one, I had been four, and Mother—Melinda—had nearly scolded him into submission. “A child does not wield a weapon of steel!” she had insisted, her voice sharp but laced with care. So I had been downgraded to a wooden one, lighter and blunt, but still enough to practice stance, precision, and the flicker of agility Father demanded.

Mother’s lessons were different. She moved with patience and authority, teaching me the minutiae of life that the court would have expected of a noble child. How to cook a simple stew, the proper way to fold clothes, to read a text aloud with clarity and feeling, to write neatly, to understand the subtle gestures that mark one as a lady’s—future interest or a gentleman’s—equal.

“Even if you are a boy, Kiro,” she said one afternoon, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear while I practiced the manners of greeting a visitor, “you will never underestimate the value of life skills. They will guide you as much as steel ever will.”

I nodded, already memorizing each word, storing them in a vault deep inside my mind. I was five years old, yes, but I was not powerless. Every lesson Father and Mother gave me, every detail—how to hold a rapier, how to chop vegetables safely, how to greet someone without fear or arrogance—it all added to something I had been building since the white void, since the Primordial of Love had reset my body.

I paused one evening, looking at my tiny hands as I held the wooden rapier. The weight was nothing compared to the one I had once wielded in the past, but I could feel the tension, the potential. I could remember Miya’s laugh, Father’s approving nods, Aoi’s stubborn gaze—all of it feeding the energy in me, the unyielding spark that no reset could extinguish.

At least Romantica hadn’t lied, I thought, glancing around our small homestead. Even living like country folk, we were never short of money. We weren’t rich by palace standards, but we were comfortable. Enough to train, enough to learn, enough to grow strong. And that was what mattered.

Father lowered his rapier and crouched to my level, eyes sharp, voice calm yet firm. “Remember, Kiro, a sword is only as strong as the mind that wields it. Steel alone will not win you battles. Strategy, speed, perception—these are your true allies.”

I nodded, raising the wooden rapier once more, striking at the air as if I could cleave through the world itself. Mother’s voice came from the kitchen, gentle but teasing. “And after practice, you will learn the proper way to set the table. Do not let Father’s arrogance teach you to forget the small things.”

I laughed softly, a sound lighter than I had in years, but it carried determination. Steel, discipline, life skills… I would master them all.

Because even if my body was small, my mind remembered everything. Even at five, I could feel the currents of the world around me, the whisper of life, the pulse of the land, the unbroken link to the life I had lost and the life I was now entrusted with.

And as I practiced my footwork with the rapier—Father correcting, Mother instructing—I felt something swell inside me: the unwavering certainty that I would protect my family again, no matter what it took.

A few days past, and as my Mother was teaching me in the kitchen.

The ground trembled beneath our feet, a subtle shiver at first, then a violent, trembling roar that rattled the walls and sent dust cascading from the rafters. I froze, my small body instinctively clinging to Mother, as the faint groan of stone filled the air.

“Kiro!” Mother’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp with urgency. She scooped me into her arms with a strength that belied her slender frame, spinning and rolling us toward the doorway. The world tilted violently as the floor cracked beneath us, the jagged stones jutting like teeth from the walls.

We landed hard outside the first building, dust and pebbles scattering like rain. My chest heaved, lungs clawing for air as I pressed against her, heart hammering—not just from the fall, but from the realization that the quake wasn’t done with us yet.

Before I could breathe, a deafening crack split the air. I looked back and my blood froze. Another section of the stone wall, far larger than the first, was toppling toward us. Its shadow swallowed the yard, and Mother’s eyes widened in a fraction of a second that stretched into eternity.

She spun toward me instinctively, preparing to roll us out of the danger, but the weight of the stone was too sudden, too fast. Time seemed to dilate; I could see every grain of dust suspended in the air, every jagged crack in the falling wall, every strand of Mother’s hair lifted by the motion.

“Mother!” I screamed.

Her eyes met mine. Fear, determination, love—all reflected in that single glance. She barely had time to move. With a swift motion, she pivoted, and I felt her body tense, ready to leap—but then she did something I didn’t expect. She shoved me with all her might toward safety, yelling, “Kiro!"

I rolled, stumbling forward, my hands scraping against dirt and shattered stone. My body tensed, instinct screaming. And then… something inside me clicked. Something strange, something raw, like a thread of my old life stretching back through memory and instinct.

My hands shot forward, my fingers splaying as energy poured from every fiber of my being—muscles, bones, even the faint magical pulse that I hadn’t fully understood yet. I could feel the flow of power in my veins, into my brain, down to my fingertips, and out into the world around me.

Time slowed. The massive wall loomed over me, the jagged edges stretching in impossible slow motion. Dust swirled around us in frozen spirals. My heart pounded in rhythm with the quake, but my mind was clear, calculating, precise. I reached forward instinctively. My fingers grazed the falling stone, and for a heartbeat, it stopped.

Stopped. Suspended mid-air, impossibly heavy yet weightless beneath my control. The sheer mass of it pressed against my palms as if the mountain itself were bending to my will. Sweat stung my eyes, my small body quivering under the strain, but I pushed further, feeling every atom of my being focus on this singular point.

I flicked my wrist with controlled precision, the motion smooth and decisive despite the panic roaring in my chest. The wall rocketed outward, a chunk of destruction catapulted safely away from us, landing in the yard beyond with a deafening crash.

I gasped, collapsing to my knees as my energy bled back into me, I coughed up blood, my chest tingling and heavy at the same time. My small arms trembled, my fingers still tingling from the effort. Dust and debris rained down, but we were alive. Mother crouched beside me, chest heaving, eyes wide with awe and disbelief.

“Kiro… you… you,” she whispered, voice shaking. Her hands covered my tiny ones, feeling the residual pulse of power.

I shook my head, still catching my breath. “I… I don’t know”

Her face softened as relief washed over her, but her eyes were still sharp, scanning the shifting rubble around us. “You’re strong, Kiro, but promise me… promise me you’ll be careful. That kind of power… it can be dangerous if you’re not ready.”

I nodded, small and determined, even as the tremors continued beneath our feet. “I promise.”

The world settled slowly, the quake waning, leaving a jagged landscape of cracked walls and scattered stone. But in that chaos, I felt… alive. A small boy with a body no longer ordinary, a mind sharper than most adults, and the knowledge that I could protect the ones I loved, even from forces that should have crushed me.

Mother hugged me tightly, and I was stunned, raw energy in the air flowed into my Mother and she expelled the energy now in a green light, I could feel the warmth, like I'm re-regenerating?

Mother hugged me tightly as the wall beside us cracked, dust and debris rattling in the air. My body tensed instinctively, raw energy flaring up along my arms and through my chest. It wasn’t blinding or explosive, just… alive. Warm, flowing, almost like a living pulse that I could feel stretching from my core to my fingertips.

I focused, and the stone that had threatened to crush her halted mid-fall. My hand tingled, the sensation strange but familiar, as if every nerve ending had become a conduit for this energy. With a careful flick of my wrist, the slab of stone slid sideways, clattering harmlessly to the ground outside.

I blinked, staring at my hands. “Mother… you have a power too?”

She squeezed me tighter, her breath steady despite the tremors. “Everybody does, Kiro. But yours… yours is special. Promise me you’ll never use it to harm others.”

I nodded, still trying to process the strange warmth radiating from me, the quiet hum of power in my fingertips. It was exhilarating but also calm, like it was alive and listening to me. My chest felt lighter, the fear and adrenaline of the quake somehow weaving into something almost like clarity.

Mother’s eyes softened, her gaze steady on me. “You did well, Kiro. Focus on protecting, on helping… and you’ll understand it more with time.”

I nodded again, feeling her presence anchor me, the residual tingle of energy slowly settling. Around us, the rubble had stopped moving. Dust floated lazily in the air, sunlight breaking through the cracks in the collapsed wall. The earthquake still rumbled faintly in the distance, but we were safe—for now.

The creak of the front gate announced Father’s return. I turned, expecting scolding, or at least an exasperated sigh. Instead, he froze at the threshold, eyes widening as they swept over the cracked stone, scattered dust, and Mother brushing herself off with an amused frown.

His jaw twitched, a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth, though he tried to mask it with a slight shake of the head. I could see the unspoken words in his expression: so my son can not only survive an earthquake but stop a wall mid-fall?

He stepped inside, slow and deliberate, as though savoring the scene. His gaze lingered on me, the way my small hands still tingled faintly with that subtle warmth, and his lips twitched into a proud smirk. I could almost hear him thinking how absurdly competent and terrifyingly capable I’d become—his little boy, half mud-streaked and trembling, standing like a miniature guardian over Mother.

I shuffled awkwardly, not knowing whether to feel embarrassed or proud. Father’s eyes softened as he crouched slightly, inspecting the minimal damage with the air of someone trying not to laugh outright. His shoulders relaxed, and he gave a barely-there nod, that quiet kind of approval that somehow meant more than any words ever could.

For a moment, the tension from the quake, the adrenaline, and the strange new power in my fingers melted into something warm. A quiet, unspoken pride passed between us, and I could feel it like sunlight through the broken roof.

Even though the house had been slightly battered, and I might have overreacted just a little… it was okay. We were okay.

Father finally straightened, gave a small shake of his head as if to say boys will be boys, and left the room with a light step. I watched him go, feeling a flicker of joy at having made him proud—and maybe, just maybe, that warmth in my hands wasn’t just magic.

It was something more.