Chapter 1

Rebirth

My consciousness flickered like a sputtering flame, yanking me from the void only to hurl me back into it seconds later. Each time I surfaced, the world around me was chaos—a blur of light and sound that made no sense. My mind clawed at the fragments, trying to piece them together, but they slipped through my grasp like grains of sand.

I opened my mouth to scream, to demand answers, but no words came. Instead, a wretched, fragile cry tore free, high-pitched and weak. My chest heaved with the effort, but the sound that escaped wasn't mine.

It wasn't mine.

A cold realization swept through me like ice in my veins, and panic gripped me harder than any fear I had ever known.

Something was wrong—no, everything was wrong.

I tried to move, but my body rebelled, limbs jerking awkwardly like they didn't belong to me. They felt... off. Tiny. Weak. My hands—if I could even call them that—curled into useless, trembling fists as I flailed, trying desperately to push myself upright. The effort was pitiful, and every attempt only made the crushing wrongness settle deeper into my core.

The world around me wasn't helping. It was too bright, too loud. Muffled voices rose and fell like distant thunder, and the air felt heavy, stifling. I twisted my neck, trying to see, to orient myself, but my head lolled uselessly to the side. My vision tilted, catching fragmented shapes that my brain couldn't process.

What was this?

My limbs were trembling now, tiny jolts of movement that sent a jarring ache through my fragile frame. It was like my body wasn't my own, like I had been stuffed into a foreign, unrecognizable shell. My chest heaved with short, panicked breaths, the kind that made my throat raw. I felt trapped—locked in a body that didn't feel real, in a world I couldn't understand.

I tried again to scream, but the sound that came out was the same pitiful wail, sharp and grating. It pierced through the air, but instead of bringing relief, it only made the voices grow louder. Shapes shifted around me, drawing closer, and my heart hammered in response.

I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the nausea and disorientation. My mind raced, searching desperately for answers, for some kind of grounding. But there was nothing. No clarity. No sense of self. Only this gnawing, suffocating wrongness.

I wanted to wake up. I had to wake up.

Because if this wasn't a nightmare, if this was real...

Then what had I become?

What is going on? The thought repeated in my mind like a drumbeat, frantic and loud, drowning out everything else. My heart raced as I forced my aching eyes open, only to be greeted by a haze of blurry shapes and bleeding colors. The world around me shifted and swayed, disorienting and unreal.

Shadowy figures loomed over me, massive and undefined, their movements slow and deliberate. They were talking—murmuring—but the sounds were incomprehensible, like a radio stuck between stations. Each syllable washed over me, distorted and meaningless. I shivered, instinctively trying to focus, to bring the shapes into clarity, but my eyes refused to cooperate.

They were giants. No. That wasn't right. I was small.

A pitiful, gasping breath clawed its way into my chest, and I froze. Small. Fragile. Was that even possible? My limbs felt like twigs, thin and weak, and my skin prickled with cold, a raw sensation unfamiliar in its vulnerability.

Had I been reborn?

The thought was absurd, yet it rooted itself in my mind, growing heavier with each passing second. Was that what this was? Some cruel twist of fate? My mind rebelled, refusing to accept what my body seemed to confirm.

The memories came next. They surged forward like a tide, sweeping me under their weight. Sharp. Unforgiving. Unstoppable.

Flashes of my life unraveled in my mind, as vivid as if I were still living them. Laughter echoing in my childhood home, a melody of warmth and familiarity. The scent of coffee and cinnamon hanging in the air, mingling with the soft hum of my mother's voice as she cooked dinner. The rhythmic clink of dishes as she moved about, always smiling, always creating a space that felt like love.

My father's voice came next—deep and steady, a sound I had always associated with safety. He had been my rock, always there, always watching. I could picture him just behind me, ready to catch me the moment I stumbled. And my sister—her boundless energy, her laughter that could fill any room. I could see her chasing the dogs around the house, her small hands grabbing at them before dressing them up in ribbons and scarves.

It was too much. Too fast.

The flashes grew sharper, more chaotic, until they became a frenzied kaleidoscope of joy and sorrow, rushing toward the moment that had brought me here.

The accident.

The memory hit me like a sledgehammer, and I felt my chest tighten, my breath hitching as it overwhelmed me.

I was driving. Was it my car? Or had I borrowed Dad's? My fingers gripped the wheel, the leather warm beneath my hands. The golden streaks of sunlight filtered through the windshield, painting the dashboard in muted hues. Music played softly in the background—a song I liked, but not enough to remember the lyrics.

Then it happened.

The screech of tires. The blaring horn, sharp and jarring. The flash of another car, too close, too fast. My heart lurched as I swerved, instinct taking over. And then—

The crunch.

Metal twisting, groaning under impossible pressure. The world spinning as the car careened out of control. I felt it all—the weightlessness of being thrown forward, my body suspended in midair, time stretching impossibly thin. Every second dragged out, mocking me with its slowness.

And then nothing.

A void. Silent and empty.

I gasped, my chest heaving as I clawed my way back to the present, my mind frantically trying to make sense of where I was, what I had become.

But the truth was already sinking in, wrapping itself around me like a vise.

I wasn't the person I had been. Not anymore. That life—the laughter, the warmth, the love—it was gone. And now, here I was, trapped in this tiny, trembling body, surrounded by giants and shadows.

I cried.

For the life I had lost. For the goodbyes I never got to say. For the fact that I was a baby again. Small, pitiful wails tore from my chest, the only way my fragile body could express the anguish I felt.

I cried for everything.

The warmth of my old life. The laughter I'd shared with my family. The future that had been stolen from me in the cruelest, most abrupt way imaginable. My sobs wracked my tiny body, my fingers curling into weak, trembling fists as I flailed in helpless frustration.

Around me, the blurry shadows—the people—kept murmuring softly, their voices unintelligible and foreign. It only added to the crushing weight of my emotions. I hated this. Hated being so vulnerable, so small. I didn't even know if I was a boy or a girl.

The memory of my death flashed through my mind again and again, an endless, agonizing loop. It didn't make sense. None of this did. And yet, it was all I had.

Then I felt hands scoop me up, cradling me with a gentleness that I couldn't bring myself to appreciate. Soft noises—soothing, melodic—filtered through the haze of my despair. My tears kept flowing, though my body, exhausted and overwhelmed, began to surrender.

Eventually, my eyes grew too heavy to keep open. My sobs quieted to hiccups, and then to silence. I didn't want to fall asleep, but my body had no choice. I slipped into unconsciousness, the numb weight of my grief lingering even in the darkness.

I won't bore you with the details of my first year of life. It was uneventful, to say the least. And honestly, weird.

My new mother—if that's who she was—kept me in the nursery, barely letting me out of her sight. She hovered constantly, always ready with medicine at the first sign of a sniffle or a cough. It was suffocating. Over time, I began to wonder if there was something wrong with me. Did I have some chronic illness? Was I cursed with frailty in this new life?

Or... was she just paranoid?

Year two wasn't much different. By then, I was crawling, walking, and babbling nonsense like every other baby. I'd reluctantly accepted my fate somewhere along the way. Fighting it felt pointless. This was my reality now, so I tried to make the best of it, as pitiful as it was.

Year three? Oh, that was a thrill. Play. Stare. Play. Stare. Wow, what a nice wall. Oh, what a pretty plant. Hey, my mother looks lovely today. Oh, Father's home? That's new. Look at that lightbulb—it's so shiny.

You get the idea. Boring. Mind-numbing. Endless monotony.

But year four... year four was different. That's when everything changed.

It started innocently enough. My mother decided to take me out for sweets—a rare treat. We walked through the cobbled streets, my tiny hand tucked into hers, and I stared wide-eyed at the bustling world around me. The bright awnings, the chatter of shopkeepers, the hum of machinery—it was almost overwhelming.

And then I saw them.

The guards.

They were standing at their posts, polished armor gleaming in the sunlight, weapons at their sides. At first, I thought nothing of it. I'd seen them before. They were a normal part of the scenery.

But this time, something felt... off.

A nagging sensation tugged at the edges of my mind, insistent and sharp. I stared at them, my gaze narrowing as a creeping familiarity settled over me.

And then it hit me.

The memory slammed into me with the force of a freight train, and I staggered—literally staggered—against my mother's leg. My breath hitched, my heart pounding as realization crashed over me like a tidal wave.

I was in Piltover.