The Power of Creation
Copyright© 2026 by Vasantrutu
Chapter 1
Hi. My name is Rowan, and I am the main protagonist of this story.
I cannot describe myself in much detail yet—I am only six years old. You can imagine the height and build of any ordinary boy of that age: small hands, thin arms, and a body that has not yet learned the meaning of real strength. What I lack in physical growth, however, I make up for with memories that do not belong to a child.
My father’s name is Ragan.
He is a broad-shouldered, muscular man, forged by years spent underground. His body still carries the strength of a miner, though it no longer carries him the way it once did. He lost his left leg during a cave-in deep within the Ironspine mines. The collapse crushed more than stone—it ended his days as an active miner.
Now, he works as an overseer.
From dawn until dusk, he watches over the workers, ensuring they wear proper protective gear, follow safety markings, and store extracted ores in their designated locations. His voice carries authority, not because he shouts, but because every miner knows he has paid for that authority in blood and bone. Though his body is incomplete, his presence remains whole.
To me, he is a quiet man. He speaks little, but when he does, his words are measured and heavy—like ore waiting to be refined.
My mother’s name is Elira.
She is an alchemist, skilled in brewing potions, salves, and remedies essential to survival in a harsh mining settlement. Where my father is stone, my mother is fire—controlled, unwavering, and relentless when needed.
She is a beauty in her own right, though she does not dress like one. Her hands often smell of herbs and reagents, stained faintly by years of work. After my father’s accident, she became the pillar of our family, taking on responsibilities that would have broken many others.
In our home, she is the final voice.
When difficult decisions arise, we children go to her. She rules the household with firm hands and a sharper mind. There is no hesitation in her actions—only resolve. The village survives because of her work, and so do we.
My sister’s name is Mira.
She is five years older than me and far more capable than she realizes. She assists our mother using her Gather Slot skill, wandering the forests surrounding the village in search of herbs, roots, and rare plants required for alchemy. The forest is dangerous, but Mira moves through it with instinctive confidence, as though the land itself whispers directions to her.
She is also the one who educates me.
Books are rare in a poor mining village, but knowledge does not always require paper. Mira teaches me letters, numbers, and stories passed down by travelers and miners alike. She explains the world to me patiently, never treating me like a burden, even when I ask questions no six-year-old should.
Our house serves a purpose greater than shelter.
It is the primary supplier of medicine for the entire village. When miners are injured, when children fall ill, when beasts leave wounds that refuse to close—it is our door they knock on. Payment is often inconsistent, sometimes nonexistent, but my mother never turns them away.
Our village lies on the border of the Ironspine Mountains, pressed against the edge of civilization and the beginning of danger. It has no official name. Poor villages rarely do. They exist only because the mines require hands, and hands require bodies willing to live where others will not.
This is where I was born.
A nameless village.
A fragile body.
A family bound by necessity and resilience.
Now let me tell you why I am different from everyone else.
In this world, people are born like blank books—no memories, no knowledge, no past. They learn, grow, and stumble forward without knowing what came before.
I was not like that.
The moment I opened my eyes, I carried the memories of another life. A full life. One lived on a planet called Earth.
In that life, I lived for ninety-eight years.
I was a craftsman.
I owned a small shop, nothing grand, but it was mine. I spent my days creating tools, furniture, and practical objects—things meant to be used, worn down, repaired, and used again. My hands knew wood grain, metal stress, balance, and function. I worked hard, honestly, and endlessly.
Too endlessly.
I remember a word from that world—novel. In one such story, there was a saying: a man who dies without fulfilling his wishes, who lives only for others, is reborn into another world and given a second chance.
At the time, I laughed at such fantasies.
Now, I live inside one.
So I decided something very early—earlier than any child should be able to decide. This life would not be the same as the last. I would not work myself into dust for strangers. I would live for myself, and for the family I have been given here.
That is enough about my past.
Let me tell you about my present.
The planet I now live on is called Aethern.
Aethern has a single known continent, covering nearly sixty-five percent of the planet’s surface. The remaining world is ocean—vast, unexplored, and spoken of only in rumors. This continent is known as Valecross.
Valecross is divided not by borders drawn on maps, but by danger.
At its heart lie the Crownlands.
This is the safest human territory, where kings rule, nobles scheme, and institutions hold power. Guilds thrive here. Academies test talent. The great mints operate within its cities, producing the standardized currencies of the world: copper, silver, gold, and mana-infused metal coins. Wealth flows inward, and power rarely leaves.
Far from the Crownlands rise the Ironspine Mountains.