Re:Birth: A Slow Burn LitRPG Mage Regressor

The world was nothing but red and white.

Red from the blood freezing on his face. White from the snow blizzard piling around his small frame.

Mikael's breath came in sharp, desperate gasps—hah...hah...hah—each one a knife of frozen air in his lungs.

Blood from the gash across his forehead had crusted over his left eye, and every few steps he had to stop and scrape it away with numb fingers just to see where he was going.

Hah...hah...

His left shoulder screamed where the crossbow bolt had torn through muscle and sinew before he'd managed to pull it free. The makeshift bandage he'd torn from his shirt was already soaked through, bright red against the endless white around him. Each heartbeat sent fresh warmth trickling down his arm.

Behind him, the orange glow of his burning village made the storm clouds look like a false dawn. The clash of steel and the roar of combat magic still echoed across the frozen fields, but fainter now. More distant. The screaming had stopped an hour ago.

That was the worst part—the silence where voices used to be.

Hah...hah...hah...

Mikael stumbled forward through snow that came up past his knees, his bare feet so numb he could barely feel them anymore. The wind howled around him like something alive and hungry, driving ice crystals into his face hard enough to draw blood.

"Anyone," he whispered to the storm, his voice barely more than a breath. "Please. Anyone."

The mill. He had to reach the mill. Mister Henry might still be there. Henry who'd shown him how to whittle duck calls and always saved the best apples from his orchard. Henry who'd fought in the border wars and knew about wounds and healing.

If Henry was still alive.

Don't think about that. Just walk. Just—

Something moved in the white curtain ahead.

Mikael's heart lurched—with hope, terror, he couldn't tell which anymore. The shape was tall, broad-shouldered, moving through the drifts that had been swallowing him step by agonizing step.

"Help!" he called out, his voice cracking. "Please, I need—"

The figure stepped closer, and Mikael's words died like candle flames in rain.

Black plate armor, polished to a mirror shine despite the storm. A closed helm with narrow eye slits that revealed nothing but darkness within. And on the breastplate, etched in silver that seemed to glow with its own light—three ravens clutching a crown of thorns.

The Ravensguard. The Northking's executioners.

No. No no no—

"Please," Mikael whispered, backing away on legs that felt like water. "I'm just—I'm only sixteen. I don't know anything about—"

The knight's hand moved to his sword hilt. The blade sang as it cleared the scabbard—not the full length, just enough steel to catch what little light filtered through the storm. Enough to promise what was coming.

"Please don't kill me," Mikael sobbed, falling backward into the snow. "I won't tell anyone what I saw. I promise I won't—"

Hah...hah...hah...

His breath came faster now, panic stealing what little strength he had left. He tried to crawl away, his good arm flailing in the snow, but the knight followed with unhurried steps. Stalking. Like this was just another chore to finish before heading home.

"I want my mother," Mikael whispered, and hated himself for it. You're sixteen years old. Stop being such a baby. Stop—

But his mother was probably ash and blackened bone in their cottage, and he was alone in the snow with a killer whose face he couldn't even see.

The knight knelt beside him, close enough that Mikael could see his own terrified reflection multiplied in the polished steel. The sword pommel rose like a hammer about to fall.

"Please," Mikael breathed. "Please, I—"

The world exploded.

Something struck the knight from the side with a sound like a mountain falling. The armored figure flew sideways into the storm—flew, like he weighed nothing at all—and disappeared into the white with a crash that shook snow from invisible trees.

Mikael blinked, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. One moment the knight had been there, sword raised to cave in his skull. The next...

Footsteps. Crunching through snow, but different from the knight's heavy tread. Lighter. More careful.

Mikael spun around, still on his hands and knees, expecting another soldier. Another death.

Instead, he saw a man walking toward him through the blizzard like he owned it.

The wind didn't touch him. Snow swirled around his form but never seemed to land on his blue robes or mess his red hair. Wire-rimmed spectacles sat perfectly straight on his nose, not a single flake of ice on the lenses. He moved with the casual confidence of someone taking a pleasant stroll through a garden, not trudging through a storm that had nearly killed a sixteen-year-old boy.

But it was his eyes that made Mikael's breath catch. They glowed. Not with reflection or trick of light, but with actual, honest-to-gods magic. Silver-blue fire that seemed to burn behind the glass, bright enough to see even through the storm.

The man stopped a few paces away and smiled. Not the predator's grin Mikael had expected, but something warm and reassuring that reached all the way to those burning eyes.

"Well now," the mage said, his voice carrying clearly despite the howling wind. "That's quite enough of that nonsense."

Mikael stared up at him, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. Real magic. A real mage, like in the stories his grandmother used to tell. The kind that fought dragons and toppled kingdoms and—

And just saved your life, you idiot. Say something.

"You—you made him fly," Mikael whispered.

The mage chuckled, a rich sound that somehow made the world feel less cold. "Yeah I did. Rather dramatically, if I do say so myself." He tilted his head, studying Mikael with those flame-bright eyes. "You're hurt."

It wasn't a question.

The mage stepped closer, his robes rustling, and Mikael caught the scent of cinnamon and old books and something else—ozone, maybe, like the air before lightning struck.

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"I need to find help," Mikael said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "My village—they burned it. Everyone's probably dead and I need to find someone who can—"

"EMMA!" the mage suddenly bellowed, his voice booming across the frozen landscape with impossible volume. "I need assistance! I found our little trail-maker!"

He looked down at Mikael again, smile softening. "Help is exactly what you're going to get. I promise."

Mikael felt something break loose in his chest—some tight, terrified knot he'd been carrying since he'd crawled out of his burning home. He started to cry, great gasping sobs that shook his whole body.

Hah...hah...hah...

For the first time in hours, he wasn't running from something.

He was running toward it.

Footsteps pounded through the snow behind them, fast and urgent. Mikael twisted around, expecting another soldier, but instead saw a young woman running toward them through the storm.

She had shoulder-length brown hair whipping around her face and wire-rimmed glasses that somehow stayed perfectly clear despite the blizzard. Her green robes were practical, cut for movement rather than ceremony, and she carried a leather satchel that bounced against her hip with each step.

"Sam!" she called out, her voice cutting through the wind. "What are you doing standing around? Get him out of this storm before he freezes to death!"

The mage—Sam—held up his hands in mock surrender. "I was just introducing myself."

"Introduce yourself inside a shelter, you absolute—" She reached them and immediately dropped to her knees beside Mikael, her hands already moving to examine his wounded shoulder. "Hi there. I'm Emma. You're going to be fine."

Her touch was gentle but sure as she peeled back the blood-soaked makeshift bandage. Mikael winced, but her smile never wavered.

"Sam," she said without looking up. "Dome. Now."

"Right, right." Sam raised his hands, fingers moving in precise patterns through the air. The wind around them began to slow, then stopped entirely as a shimmering barrier formed overhead. Within moments, they were enclosed in a bubble of calm air while the storm raged harmlessly around them.

"Better?" Sam asked.

"Much." Emma's palms began to glow with soft green light as she held them over Mikael's shoulder. The warmth was immediate and wonderful. "Now then. What's your name?"

"Mikael," he managed, still staring at the magical light flowing from her hands.

"Nice to meet you, Mikael. Where are you from?"

"Thornwick. The village back there." He gestured vaguely toward the orange glow still visible through the storm.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Any other injuries besides this shoulder?"

"My head. And my feet are pretty torn up."

Emma nodded, her expression serious but reassuring. "We'll get you sorted. Don't worry."

The green light was doing something to the pain. Not eliminating it entirely, but making it manageable. Mikael felt his breathing slow for the first time in hours.

Then reality crashed back in.

He grabbed Emma's wrist with his good hand, making her startled. "Please. You have to help them. My village—the Farmusians attacked and I don't know if anyone's still alive. Please, you have to go help them."

Emma glanced at Sam, who nodded grimly.

"We're already on it," Sam said. "That's why we're here. Don't worry."

"Really?" Hope flared in Mikael's chest, bright and desperate. "You're going to help them?"

"That's the plan. Emma, how's he looking?"

"Stable enough to move. The shoulder wound is clean—went straight through. I can keep him mobile for now."

"Good. Let's go then." Sam gestured, and the dome dissolved around them.

They helped Mikael to his feet, Emma supporting his injured side while Sam led them through the snow. The wind hit them again like a physical blow, but somehow it felt different now. Less like nature trying to kill him and more like just weather.

As they crested the hill, Mikael's village spread out below them like a battlefield from hell.

The orange glow wasn't just from burning buildings anymore. It was from magic—brutal, efficient, and deadly.

A massive blond figure carved through a group of Farmusian soldiers like they were made of paper. His sword blazed with white-hot light, and every swing sent arcs of energy that cut through armor and bone alike.

Two soldiers rushed him from behind. He spun, the glowing blade taking both their heads in a single motion that sprayed steaming blood across the snow.

Beside him, a shorter mage with cropped dark hair wielded a war mace that hummed with power. Every time it connected with a soldier, the man didn't just fall—he flew, launched backward like he'd been hit by a catapult.

One Farmusian tried to flank him, sword raised. The mage's mace caught him in the chest, and the soldier sailed twenty feet through the air before smashing into the side of a burning cottage with a wet crunch.

"My god," Mikael breathed.

A red-skinned woman with curved horns and a lashing tail moved between the enemy ranks like a dancer. She fought with both magic and her bare hands, dodging sword strikes with inhuman grace before retaliating with spells that turned soldiers inside-out or punches that caved in breastplates.

A crossbow bolt meant for her head passed harmlessly through empty air as she twisted away, her tail whipping around to grab the shooter's ankle and hurl him into his companions.

But it was the girl with silver hair that made Mikael's knees go weak with relief.

She stood in the village square, surrounded by a huddle of terrified civilians, her hands weaving patterns in the air that turned the falling snow into a barrier of deadly ice. Any soldier who got too close found himself flash-frozen in his own armor, then shattered like glass by precise bursts of superheated air.

And there, crouched behind her protective barrier, Mikael saw them.

His parents. Alive. Bloodied and terrified, but alive.

He collapsed into the snow, sobbing with relief so intense it felt like drowning.

"They're okay," he gasped. "They're okay, they're—"

"Easy there," Emma said, her hand on his good shoulder. "They're safe. The cavalry arrived."

Above the village, a massive semi-transparent lizard circled like a predator, its rider barely visible against the storm clouds. The creature would swoop down periodically to snatch up soldiers in jaws that could crush a man in plate armor, then disappear back into the sky before their comrades could react.

Near the mill, another young mage with long, dark hair flowing behind him was locked in combat with something that had to be seen to be believed—a troll, easily twelve feet tall and covered in crude armor, swinging a tree trunk like a club.

The mage moved around it, sending lances of pure force that carved chunks from the creature's hide while being careful not to let the battle drift too close to the fleeing villagers.

But there were so many enemies. Too many. The young mages—and Mikael could see they were young, maybe only a few years older than him—were holding back, unable to unleash their full power without risking the people they were trying to protect.

"They can't go all out," Mikael said, understanding flooding through him. "There are too many villagers mixed in. They're trying to evacuate everyone but—"

"Hey. Mikael," Sam said quietly. "Look up."

Mikael tilted his head back and squinted through the falling snow.

High above the village, maybe two hundred feet up, a figure hung motionless in the air.

The wind twisted around him in visible spirals, holding him aloft like he weighed nothing at all. His arms were crossed, and he was looking down at the battle with what seemed like casual interest.

Mikael wasn't sure if Emma had done something to his vision when she healed him, but he could see the man clearly despite the distance and storm.

Short, dark, curly hair with a distinctive streak of white running through the front. Tall. Wire-rimmed glasses that caught the light from the fires below. His build was lean but solid, and on his arms were metal gauntlets that gleamed like polished steel.

"No way," Mikael whispered.

He'd heard the stories. Everyone had. Even in a backwater village like Thornwick, forgotten by the Empire and barely worth a mark on most maps, the news had reached them.

The young mage who'd stopped the crown prince and exposed his treason to the people. Who'd won the Krozball championship for his academy at thirteen, carrying his team through the finals with plays that were still talked about in taverns five years later.

The youngest magus in the history of the empire. Creator of the newest magic runes protecting the imperial troops.

The Ghost of Arkhos.

Adom Sylla.

"He's such a show-off," Sam muttered.

The floating figure raised one hand, fingers spread wide.

Gravity went insane.

Every Farmusian soldier in the village square suddenly shot upward into the air, their screams dopplering as they rose. The massive troll followed, its tree-trunk club spinning away as it flailed helplessly in empty air. The young mages and all the villagers remained perfectly grounded, untouched by whatever force was yanking their enemies skyward.

Thirty soldiers and one very confused troll hung suspended two hundred feet above the village, silhouetted against the storm clouds.

Adom raised his other hand.

The sky exploded.

Lightning bolts thicker than tree trunks erupted from the clouds, each one finding its target with surgical precision. The thunder was so loud Mikael felt it in his bones, a continuous roar that drowned out even the screaming wind. For a moment, the entire world was painted white with electric fire.

When Mikael's vision cleared, the sky was empty except for falling ash.

"Sorry we're late," Sam said, his voice carrying easily despite the ringing in everyone's ears. "We only got deployed an hour ago. But everything's fine now. Didn't I promise?"

Down in the village, the silver-haired girl had dropped her defensive barriers. The other young mages were helping villagers to their feet, checking for injuries, generally looking like they did this sort of thing every day.

Above them all, Adom Sylla descended slowly through the falling snow, the wind still spiraling around him.

Mikael stared up at him, mouth hanging open.

"Is he always like that?" he managed.

"Pretty much," Emma said cheerfully. "You get used to it."