"Finally, history class is over,"

  Rhys whispered to himself as morning light filtered through the window. "Today, I study real magic." He had gathered barely enough of this world's foundations to stand on. But barely enough was enough to begin.

  A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Rhys set his book down and turned to greet the girl entering with a tray in her hands.

  As always, it was Ingrid.

  Breakfast was simple: a steaming bowl of porridge, a fruit resembling a green apple, already sliced, and a jug of clear water with a metal cup beside it.

  Rhys would’ve killed for a cup of coffee, but he wasn’t sure if such a thing even existed in this world. Asking for it might raise suspicion, or worse, it might unravel his secret.

  He trusted Ingrid and Master Chloe more now than he had at the beginning. Even so, revealing the truth, that he was in fact Dr. Rhys Rattana, a physicist from another world, seemed unwise.

  At best, they might think him mad. And though he had no idea how this world treated the mentally ill, he recalled enough of his own world’s medieval history to know: Mercy was a luxury rarely afforded to the insane.

  In most cases, “treatment” was merely a poetic word for torture.

  At worst, he could be seized as a subject for arcane experimentation: soul extraction, spiritual separation, or some other unthinkable horror that could obliterate his identity altogether.

  Finishing his porridge, Rhys placed the spoon down and felt a noticeable return of strength. He’d secretly resumed light exercise in the mornings before anyone entered his room.

  The food of this world was remarkably similar to his own. If one claimed this place was simply Earth’s distant past, touched by magic, he wouldn’t have argued.

  The only true difference was that this world had mana; His former had science.

  He had dwelled on that thought many times, though he dared not draw conclusions just yet.

  In Arath, they grew rice just like back on Earth. The grains differed subtly in shape and scent, yet were undeniably rice. They had fruits resembling apples, though only in green, sweeter in taste, and they called them Sweetglen.

  Still… how could two worlds mirror each other so closely?

  Perhaps the answer would reveal itself in time. Or perhaps it would remain a mystery until the day he died, again.

  The sudden clink of a spoon against his bowl startled Ingrid, who was arranging books at the large desk. Rhys raised a hand in apology.

  Two days ago, he had borrowed a journal from her. That evening, she had returned with it. Since then, he had begun taking notes from the history tomes he read.

  And once more, the strange phenomenon recurred: he could write the unfamiliar script effortlessly, and read it as though it were his mother tongue. Only the handwriting, slightly different from his own, betrayed its foreignness.

  As an experiment, he once scribbled Rhys Rattana in English. The letters twisted into indecipherable glyphs… yet the moment he reread them, he understood every word.

  "Wow... this is something else. It's like I’ve got some kind of built-in AR translator, makes Google look positively ancient."

  He chuckled at the absurdity of it.

  According to the history texts, the language he now read and wrote was called Common Arcadian, spoken throughout the Arcadian kingdom.

  However, the glowing symbols etched across the ceiling beams? Those belonged to the Ancient Mana Tongue, the original language of magic. It was used in grimoires, arcane contracts, and spellcasting. Its grammar and structure were said to be maddeningly complex.

  Rhys knew all too well: if he had to learn it from scratch, it might take years, perhaps decades. And while some hailed him as a prodigy in physics, that didn’t mean he had any particular gift for linguistics.

  He turned toward Ingrid, who had just finished magically tidying the bedsheets and was now clearing away the breakfast tray.

  At first, he had been fascinated by it; it was as if every trace of dirt and grime had been cleansed by a light so pure it bordered on the divine. In mere seconds, the bedsheets, blanket, and pillowcase appeared freshly laundered, spotless; as though the fabric had been rewoven from light.

  Curious about the process, Rhys had tried asking Ingrid about it. But the girl merely shrugged, visibly unamused by his enthusiasm.

  "Just a basic cantrip. Everyone uses it."

  That was all she muttered, offering no further explanation.

  Rhys could only speculate. Perhaps it manipulated wavelengths, collapsing impurities out of existence, akin to a form of magical disinfection. But to simply erase stains as if they had never been there; that defied easy explanation.

  Still, after seeing Ingrid perform it often, it gradually became another mundane part of daily life.

  Biting into the final slice of Sweetglen fruit, Rhys was struck by a distant memory — Liz perched on the edge of his bed at Nackerl, peeling apples while scolding him: "Keep this up and you'll never find someone willing to put up with you." A pang tightened in his chest. He let it pass.

  Time to move forward.

  “U-uh… would it be possible for me to leave this room for a bit? I mean, I feel like I’ve gotten much better, enough to stretch my legs at least. Staying cooped up like this is stifling... and who knows? Maybe going outside might help jog my memory. Right?”

  The words stumbled out awkwardly, despite the hours he had spent rehearsing them in the dark. He hoped it would be enough to convince the blonde, bespectacled girl standing before him.

  “You’re talking funny. Not like yourself at all. Are you feeling alright, Rein?”

  Ingrid tilted her head, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  “How the hell am I supposed to know how the real Rein talked?” he thought, lips twitching in nervous silence.

  Still, she relented.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “You do look better than before. Fine, I’ll ask Master Chloe for permission.”

  She turned to clear the tray, heading toward the door. Just before stepping out, she paused, still not facing him, and added,

  “If you’re trying to recover your magic memory, I’d suggest starting with Professor Bratos’s primer. The other books you picked are far too complex for someone in your state.”

  Two days prior, during a health check, he had requested permission to read the tomes stored in the room, claiming they might help restore his memories. Master Chloe had allowed it, albeit with conditions: only basic magical texts from the bookshelf behind the desk. The mountain of research papers stacked atop the large desk itself remained off-limits.

  That desk dominated the room, and even Ingrid seemed to avoid it. So Rhys had steered clear of it too.

  This was the moment he had waited for. That familiar curiosity, so intrinsic to any true scientist, stirred within him. He had already pulled five or six volumes from the bookshelf, placing them neatly on the small desk at the corner where he worked.

  Ingrid had likely seen the pile and, in her own way, tried to offer guidance.

  Once she had left the room, Rhys went straight to his desk.

  “Fundamentals of Magical Theory,”

  authored by Professor M. Bratos.

  The book was bound in plain black leather, its title etched in modest silver. Unlike the other flashy grimoires, it lacked flair. The edges of the cover were worn, proof that many hands had read its contents before him.

  "Hmm... just as Ingrid suggested. I suppose I’ll have to begin with this one."

  The scientist in the guise of a young mage murmured to himself. He had skimmed through all the volumes earlier, and, as Ingrid warned, the vocabulary in the others was daunting. For someone with no magical foundation, it felt like stepping out the front door only to be confronted by a wall dozens of feet high.

  Even if he was Dr. Rhys Rattana, a physicist once hailed as a Nobel hopeful, he knew better than to underestimate magic.

  Rhys opened Fundamentals of Magical Theory, the pages whispering faintly as he turned them. As he did, his mind wandered to a miracle he had witnessed days ago.

  He had climbed a rickety ladder to reach a copy of Geography of Aetheria on a high shelf. But his recovering body, coupled with the worn-out ladder, proved a poor combination. His foot missed the rung. The ladder lurched, old wood groaning under him, and a moment later he crashed to the floor, pain blooming sharp and immediate along his arm.

  There were minor cuts and bruises.

  Fortunately, Ingrid had been in the room. After scolding him for being careless, she cast Cure Wounds.

  Instantly, the pain and injury vanished.

  Rhys had blurted, “Oh… my god!” despite not believing in any god himself.

  “May the blessings of Luminara, Goddess of Light, be upon you,” Ingrid had said solemnly, then clarified that the healing wasn’t divine intervention, per se. She didn’t know who the gods truly were, but the spell came from magical knowledge granted to mortals by Luminara.

  “Wait... when you cast that s-spell… there was light. That glow, it might accelerate cellular regeneration, maybe? Stimulating mitosis?”

  Startled by the event, Rhys had voiced his thoughts aloud, his words stumbling over themselves.

  Ingrid blinked.

  “Did you hit your head when you fell, Rein?”

  She had raised her hand again, likely to cast the same healing spell on his head, but Rhys quickly waved both hands in protest.

  “I'm… I’m fine, really.”

  No way he was letting anyone cast an unknown spell that might accelerate cell growth onto his brain. What if it triggered a tumor? That would be a disaster.

  In hindsight, the moment made him laugh, but also marvel. His old world had nothing like this. Ingrid clearly hadn’t understood a word of his rambling.

  What was magic? How did it work? Was it a fundamental force of the universe?

  So many questions. He hoped this book might answer at least some of them.

  The first chapter began with Bratos’s assertion: that magic in this world originated from the gods. The divine beings had used magic to create Arath during the age of mythology.

  Later, some unknown “Ancient Laws” barred the gods from crossing into Arath directly. They were confined to the Divine Realm.

  If the gods truly existed, then who — or what — enforced these Laws?

  “Wait a minute. Mythology refers to an age so ancient, no one knows how long ago it was. If it’s that old, then how does Bratos know it’s real? What if it’s just a story?”

  Rhys frowned, lips curling.

  It was no different from myths of gods creating the world in medieval cultures.

  But then again, magic was real. He’d seen it. Felt it. So maybe Bratos wasn’t writing nonsense after all.

  He turned the page.

  There was an illustration: a dark, sinister figure, godlike in appearance, stepping through what seemed to be a portal or rift into Arath.

  Beneath the image, Bratos explained:

  In time, the Forsaken God discovered a method to bypass the “Laws” and directly interfere with Arath. This act was opposed by the divine pantheon who remained within the Divine Realm, sparking a conflict between the two factions.

  Though its battles raged primarily in the divine realm, the war’s shadow eventually seeped into Arath.

  The Forsaken God could not set foot upon Arath; the barrier held firm, cold and absolute. Denied entry by the loyal gods, it sought other paths instead. It whispered through visions and revelations, and in time, raised followers.

  Thus were born the Cultists.

  When the Cultists emerged upon Arath, they heralded the dawn of a cataclysmic war, one that spanned centuries and left the land soaked in blood.

  Countless lives were lost in the wake of the conflict, for these heretics were endowed with sorcery granted by the gods they worshipped: the Forsaken God, beings who had defied the ancient Laws.

  "These so-called gods... they act like rogue hackers, poking holes in the fabric of creation," Rhys mused. "While the lawful deities are antivirus programs — developers patching vulnerabilities in their own divine code." He stifled a chuckle.

  Every system had its saboteurs.

  On the next page, Bratos elaborated further: the divine pantheon, bound by the foundational Laws, could not intervene directly in the mortal realm of Arath. They were shackled by the very codes they authored, forbidden from eradicating the disciples of the Forsaken God through divine force.

  Instead, to counter the growing corruption, the gods passed fragments of their arcane power to their own mortal Disciples. These chosen few were tasked with protecting Arath, waging war on behalf of the heavens, and striking down the heretical spawn of rival deities.

  And so it was, after centuries of relentless conflict, the last of the Cultists were vanquished. The Forsaken God, cast into exile beyond the farthest reaches of existence, banished beyond the last horizon. Thus ended the Age of Chaos. Peace returned, and endured for millennia.

  “So in the end, both sides waged a proxy war,” Rhys muttered, exhaling sharply. “Empowered their champions and simply watched the slaughter unfold. Mortals died by the thousands, and the losing gods were just kicked out of the club.”

  He shook his head with a weary sigh.

  If Bratos’s account was to be believed, Rhys found little reason to place his faith in the so-called gods. Outlaw deities or not, the divine felt no more trustworthy than the politicians he’d known in his former world.

  A scientist’s mind in the guise of a sorcerer, Rhys turned the page again. He skimmed through the content using the rapid parsing technique he'd honed back on Earth, seeking the essence rather than every word.

  “So magic, the kind used by humans today, is a legacy of the Divine War. Not something invented by the people of this world,” he murmured. “But some spells… like cleansing magic? They don’t feel like divine weaponry. More like utilities.”

  He scratched his chin thoughtfully.

  “Could it be… that early humans researched and developed everyday spells on their own? After the war?”

  Just like technology from his old world: many modern conveniences had roots in military applications, GPS, for instance.

  Rhys closed his eyes. In the past, he would have scoffed and called it absurd. But now… he could only marvel.

  Yet nothing he’d read thus far stirred his spirit quite like the chapter that followed.

  This glossary defines terms related to magical theory, divine mythology, and linguistic phenomena introduced in Chapter 4.

  Books & Scholars

  Fundamentals of Magical Theory

  A beginner-level textbook authored by Professor M. Bratos, widely used in Arcadian magical education. It outlines the theological origins of magic and the historical Divine War.

  Professor M. Bratos

  A scholar of magical theory. His writings propose that magic originates from divine beings and was passed to mortals after a long divine conflict.

  Magical & Linguistic Phenomena

  Common Arcadian

  The universal spoken and written language across the Arcadia Kingdom. Rhys is able to read and write it as if it were his native tongue, despite never learning it formally.

  Ancient Mana Tongue

  The original magical language used in grimoires, spell incantations, and arcane contracts. Known for its complex grammar and syntactic structure, it is rarely mastered by non-specialists.

  Glyph Perception

  A mysterious phenomenon where written words appear as foreign glyphs, yet are automatically translated in Rhys’s mind. He likens this to an “AR translator” effect.

  Spells & Techniques

  Cleansing

  A basic utility cantrip spell used to instantly purify objects or surfaces. Commonly employed by mages to tidy up their living quarters or equipment.

  Though often perceived as conjuring cleansing light, the spell actually works by condensing ambient mana into a radiant field that binds to dirt, stains, and foreign particles on a surface. This bound matter is then displaced or disintegrated, similar in function to soap or a mild solvent. The glow observed during casting is a byproduct of this mana-matter interaction.

  While harmless to skin and most materials, the spell has limited effectiveness against magical contaminants or curse-bound filth.

  Cure Wounds

  A standard healing spell of the Troposphere Tier, commonly used by trained Healers. It is capable of closing cuts, bruises, and minor injuries with near-instantaneous effect.

  Though traditionally associated with divine blessings from Luminara, the spell can also be cast through secular magical means. When activated, ambient mana gathers above the wounds and is converted into radiant light. This light simultaneously disinfects the surface and injects mana into the injured tissue, stimulating accelerated biological repair for a short period.

  The spell cannot be stacked or cast redundantly on the same target. Due to the mana strain and healing fatigue, most Healers can only cast it up to three times per day without assistance.

  Mythology & Divine Lore

  Divine Realm

  A divine plane of existence where gods reside after being barred from Arath by unknown Laws.

  The Laws / Ancient Laws

  Immutable cosmic laws that prevent gods from interfering directly in the mortal realm.

  Forsaken God

  A rogue deity who violated the Laws and attempted to influence Arath. Their intervention sparked a Divine War through mortal Cultists.

  Cultists

  Mortal worshippers of the Forsaken God. Granted dark powers, they waged a centuries-long war against the disciples of the divine pantheon.

  Disciples of the Divine

  Mortals chosen by the lawful gods to act as champions in the Divine War, receiving fragments of divine magic to counter the Cultists.

  Age of Chaos

  The era marked by the Divine War and its aftermath. It ended with the banishment of the Forsaken God and restoration of peace to Arath.

  Thematic Concepts

  Magic as Divine Legacy

  According to Bratos, magic was not invented by humans but is a gift or remnant of divine warfare, later adapted into practical spells.

  Some laws of this world bend. Others refuse.

  then it also has loopholes.

  See you in the next chapter.

  —Re:Naissance