Re:Birth: A Slow Burn LitRPG Mage Regressor

Five years. Five entire years since he'd carried that egg out of the Fae Realm, wrapped in his cloak like some kind of magical contraband. Five years of waiting, watching, hoping for something—anything—to happen.

Adom had been patient. Biggins had been very clear about that part: the egg would hatch when the phoenix was ready, when it felt confident enough to face the world. It was a formative step in their development, apparently. No rushing allowed.

So Adom had waited.

He'd carried it everywhere those first few years. Wrapped it carefully in soft cloth and tucked it into his bag for classes. Brought it along on dungeon expeditions, making sure to shield it from any stray spells or monster attacks. He'd even snuck it into formal Academy events, the egg nestled safely in an enchanted carrying case that kept it warm and hidden from prying eyes.

For years, he'd talked to it every night before bed. Just casual conversation, really. Updates about his day, complaints about it, excited rambling about new runes he'd learned. Biggins told him that phoenix eggs were supposed to respond to their caretaker's voice, that they could somehow sense emotions and intentions even before hatching.

Sometimes, the egg grew warmer when he spoke to it. Other times, he was certain he was imagining things.

By the fourth year, the one-sided conversations had grown less frequent. Adom was busier with advanced studies, more missions, the increasing responsibilities that came with being an archmage candidate. The egg remained beautifully, stubbornly unchanged.

A year ago, he'd more or less given up.

Oh, he still took care of it. Still kept it warm and safe in his room, still checked on it regularly. But the eager anticipation had faded into resigned acceptance. Maybe it would hatch in his lifetime. Maybe it wouldn't. Maybe phoenix eggs were just really, really slow.

All those years, there had been nothing but the flames. Gentle, harmless flames that danced around the shell without burning anything, providing just enough heat to let him know the egg was still alive. Beautiful, but ultimately unchanging.

Until now.

Now there were cracks.

Hair-thin lines spider-webbed across the surface of the shell, and through each crack, light poured out. Not fire this time—actual light, warm and golden like concentrated sunlight. The kind of light that made you want to close your eyes and bask in it.

The egg was floating. Actually floating, suspended about three feet above his desk, rotating slowly as if it were showing off. The flames that had always surrounded it were bigger now, more intense, but still completely harmless. They licked at his walls and furniture without leaving so much as a scorch mark.

The entire room was warm—not uncomfortably so, but like stepping into a greenhouse on a spring day. The air itself seemed to shimmer with energy.

And the mana field. Sweet God, the mana field.

Adom had felt strong magical emanations before. But this was different. This was like standing next to a miniature sun.

The house shook again, more violently this time. Outside, thunder rumbled across what had been a perfectly clear summer sky just minutes ago.

"Stay back, Zuni," Adom said quietly, taking a careful step toward the floating egg. "I don't want you to get hurt."

Well, Zuni said from the doorway, whatever is occurring, it's affecting the weather patterns outside in a most extraordinary fashion.

Another crack appeared on the egg's surface, this one accompanied by a sound like church bells ringing. The light streaming through the fissures intensified, and Adom had to shield his eyes slightly.

He took another step forward. The egg's rotation slowed, as if it sensed his approach.

"Hey," he said softly, addressing the egg for the first time in weeks. "Took you long enough."

Adom took another step toward the floating egg, and that's when he heard them.

Whispers. Not one voice, but many—a choir of murmurs that seemed to emanate from the very air around him. The words were indistinct, layered over each other like conversations in a crowded temple.

The egg rotated slowly in its ethereal suspension, each crack glowing brighter as he approached. The whispers grew stronger, more insistent, and through the babble of sounds, fragments began to emerge. Words in languages he didn't recognize, yet somehow understood. Stories of cycles and renewal, of death that led to life, of fires that purified rather than destroyed.

It was the phoenix's voice.

Adom felt an almost overwhelming urge to reach out and touch the shell. It wasn't logical—the thing was clearly radiating enough heat to make the air shimmer like a summer mirage, and whatever was happening here was far beyond anything he'd experienced. But the instinct was so strong it felt less like a choice and more like gravity pulling him forward.

Adom, Zuni said from the doorway. Do be careful!

"I know," Adom said quietly, extending his hand toward the egg. The whispers were getting louder now, more urgent. "I think... I think it's been waiting for me."

The moment his fingers made contact with the shell, everything exploded into sensation.

The heat didn't burn, it welcomed. It rushed through his body, settling in his chest and spreading outward until every cell seemed to hum with energy. The whispers became a roar of voices, all speaking at once.

They told him the egg's own story. Ten thousand years of consciousness.

In the beginning, there was darkness.

The first stirring of awareness had been terror. The sounds that filtered through the shell were incomprehensible noise. Vibrations without meaning.

The egg understood only one thing: it was alone. Completely, utterly alone. There were no others like it. No kin to call to, no familiar presence to offer comfort or guidance.

It did not understand what it was. So it stayed hidden in its shell, waiting for some sign that the world outside might be safe.

Suddenly, memories began to come in Adom's mind. Memories that did not belong to him.

Ten thousand years of being passed from hand to hand like a beautiful curse.

From the treasure vaults of forgotten kings to the collections of merchants who never knew what they possessed, from the depths of sunken ships to the private chambers of emperors and the crude shelters of thieves.

The egg had learned languages by listening to slave girls whisper lullabies in royal courts, had absorbed poetry from scholars who used it as a paperweight, had watched civilizations rise and fall from mantlepieces and auction blocks and museum displays.

It had been worshipped, stolen, sold, gifted, lost, and found again countless times.

Each transition brought new voices, new fragments of understanding. The egg absorbed wedding songs and funeral dirges, battle cries and prayers, conversations in tongues that died with their last speakers. It learned about love from poets, about war from generals, about fear from everyone.

But more importantly, it began to hear stories about itself.

Bards sang of the phoenix that died and was reborn from its own ashes. Poets wove verses about eternal cycles of death and renewal. Slaves whispered legends of the firebird that rose again no matter how many times it fell. And criminals told tales of creatures that could not truly die.

Slowly, through fragments of legend and lore, the egg understood what it was. Phoenix. Creature of endless renewal. Master of the cycle that turned death into life, ending into beginning, despair into hope.

Rebirth.

That was its nature. That was its essence. That was what made it different from every other living thing.

But the knowledge brought no comfort. If anything, it made the loneliness worse. It was the only one. The last phoenix. Perhaps the only one that had ever truly existed outside of stories.

But still, after witnessing another war, another collapse, another betrayal, it remained too frightened to emerge.

More waiting then. Perhaps one day...

There had been periods of bliss, but there had been darker times too.

The egg remembered being taken from a burning temple by dwarven raiders who thought it was made of precious stone. It remembered three hundred years at the bottom of the ocean after the raiders' ship carrying it sank in a storm, lying in the cold darkness among coral and forgotten bones.

It waited still. Alone, terrified.

Eventually, mermaids had found it, glowing faintly among the wreckage.

They'd taken it to elven cities where scholars had puzzled over its nature, passing it from one academy to another like an unsolvable riddle.

The elves were kinder. They recognized its magical properties, even if they never understood its true nature. They kept it safe, kept it warm.

And yet, it did not hatch. The world sounded still violent and strange and full of terrors. Better to wait.

Years passed. It remembered being offered by the elves as a gift to a duke.

That duke gifted it to his seventh wife who passed it to her son, who eventually gave it to the dryads of the Fae realm.

Three thousand years in the cave, tended by tree folk who understood its importance, taught it new concepts, loved it but could never provide what it truly needed. The dryads knew it was alive. They knew it was waiting. But they were not phoenix, and the egg remained alone.

Until something changed.

A presence entered the cave. Young and desperate. But underneath the immediate crisis, the egg sensed something it had never encountered before.

Rebirth.

Not phoenix, no, but something that carried the same fundamental essence. The same understanding of cycles, of transformation, of death becoming life. This presence had died and been reborn. Had experienced the cycle that defined phoenix nature.

The egg recognized kin.

And for the first time in ten thousand years, it was no longer alone.

The presence left, taking the egg with him. Even wrapped in cloth and carried away from the only home it had known for millennia, the egg was not afraid. It had found its kin at last.

Still, it waited.

Was this real? Could this presence truly understand what it meant to die and live again? How many times had the egg been disappointed by those who seemed promising at first?

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But then the voice began.

Soft at first, hesitant. The presence spoke to it each night, casual conversation about daily events, complaints about weather and studies, excited rambling about magical theory. The voice was young, earnest, sometimes frustrated but never cruel. It spoke to the egg as if it were alive, as if it mattered.

The egg listened. Learned. Began to trust.

Years passed. The voice grew deeper, more confident, but remained fundamentally kind. And always, always, that unmistakable resonance of rebirth hummed beneath everything else. This was truly kin. Someone who understood cycles and renewal not as theory but as lived experience.

When the presence returned home, tired and successful and radiating that familiar essence of transformation, the egg finally made its choice.

Its kin was ready. It was time.

Whispers of a name resonated in Adom's bones.

The egg pulsed beneath his palm, once, twice, then began to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat. The cracks spread rapidly and with each new fissure, more light poured out.

Outside, the thunder was getting louder. Adom could hear his mother calling from downstairs, asking if everything was alright, but her voice seemed to come from very far, far away, muffled by the increasing intensity of whatever was happening in his room.

The mana around the egg was growing stronger, so powerful now that the air itself seemed to thicken. Zuni had backed all the way to the stairs, his quills standing on end.

The shell began to crack more violently now. But instead of falling to the floor, each fragment dissolved into motes of golden light that swirled around the room like tiny stars.

Through the widening gaps in the shell, Adom caught his first glimpse of what was inside.

Feathers. Brilliant blue feathers that seemed to contain entire universes, each one shifting and shimmering with patterns of flame and starlight. They moved with a life of their own, responding to currents of magic rather than air.

A delicate head emerged, no bigger than his fist.

Then its eyes opened, bright and golden, and immediately focused on Adom with clear intelligence.

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, Adom knew.

The name came to him not as a sound or a word, but as a certainty that settled in his mind like a key finding its lock. It was a name that had been spoken in temples dedicated to the sun, carved into monuments that had crumbled to dust centuries ago, whispered by priests who had tended sacred flames in the darkness as early as the Primordial age.

The phoenix chirped once. The sound resonated through the room, through Adom's body, through what felt like the very fabric of reality itself.

The last of the eggshell crumbled away into streams of light, leaving the phoenix hovering in the air surrounded by gentle flames. It was beautiful in a way that made his chest tight, beautiful in a way that reminded him of everything good he'd ever believed about the world.

Adom found himself smiling.

"Bennu."

The phoenix—Bennu—chirped again, this time with what sounded distinctly like contentment, and settled gently onto Adom's outstretched palm as if he'd been waiting his entire life for that exact moment.

And he had.

As the last fragments of eggshell dissolved into golden motes, the oppressive heat in the room began to fade. The flames surrounding Bennu settled into a gentle glow that barely warmed the air, no longer threatening to set anything ablaze. Even the thunder outside quieted to distant rumbles.

Adom found himself smiling as he looked down at the creature perched on his palm.

Bennu was smaller than he'd expected—about the size of a young hawk—but there was nothing fragile about him. Four paws gripped Adom's hand with surprising strength, the obsidian black claws gleaming like polished metal. They felt metallic too, warm and sharp against his skin, though Bennu was careful not to dig them in.

His beak had the same lustrous quality as his claws, the tip sharp and metallic like an eagle's. But when Bennu tilted his head, the softer part near his skull shifted in what could only be described as a smile, even though the hard tip remained unchanged.

The eyes were extraordinary.

They weren't just golden—they were like looking into actual flames, complete with tiny flickers and movements that made them seem alive in their own right.

Bennu had two sets of wings folded against his body. The upper pair was larger, clearly built for flight, while the smaller lower wings seemed more decorative. His tail was magnificent—long and flowing like a peacock's, but instead of the traditional eye patterns, it displayed swirling designs of fire and sparks that seemed to move when he shifted position.

Adom reached out carefully with his free hand to touch one of the royal blue colored feathers. It was impossibly soft, like silk that had been warmed by sunlight, and the moment his fingers made contact, a gentle warmth spread up his arm.

That's when he heard it. A low, rumbling sound coming from Bennu's chest.

"Are you purring?" Adom asked, delighted.

Bennu blinked slowly—a distinctly contented expression—and the purring grew slightly louder.

"So that's what a human looks like," Bennu said, his voice carrying the same musical quality as the whispers from the egg, but clearer now, more focused.

Adom's smile widened.

The whole interaction felt strangely familiar, less like meeting someone new and more like finding an old friend again. He couldn't quite explain it, but there was an easiness between them that seemed to bypass normal introductions entirely.

"Do you want to see what you look like?" Adom asked.

The softer part of Bennu's beak shifted again in that distinctive smile, and his eyes brightened. "Please."

Adom walked carefully to the mirror mounted on his wall, conscious of keeping his movements smooth so as not to startle his passenger. Zuni remained by the doorway, watching silently, his usual commentary notably absent.

When they reached the mirror, Bennu's reaction was immediate and wonderful.

"Oh," he breathed, staring at his reflection with fascination. "This is me? How extraordinary." He paused, studying the image. "First I see a human, and now..." He tilted his head, considering. "Are those your legs?" He indicated Adom's hands with a wing tip.

Adom chuckled. "No, these are my hands. My legs are down there." He shifted slightly so Bennu could see his actual legs in the mirror.

"Ah, I see. Much more sensible arrangement than I initially assumed." Bennu looked between their reflections thoughtfully. "We truly don't look alike at all, do we?"

"Not physically, no."

"But our souls..." Bennu's head tilted again, studying Adom's reflection with those flame-bright eyes. "Our souls resemble each other quite remarkably."

A soft chirp from the doorway caught their attention. Zuni had taken a tentative step closer, his quills relaxing slightly from their earlier defensive posture.

Bennu's gaze immediately fixed on him with keen interest. "Oh, Adom, what is this?"

"Zuni," Adom called gently. "Come here."

The quillick approached cautiously, stopping just within arm's reach. "This is Zuni," Adom said. "My friend. My first bond."

Adom, Zuni's voice sounded in Adom's mind. I believe congratulations are in order. Your phoenix is quite... luminous.

Bennu's eyes widened with delight. "Oh, how wonderful! I can understand you perfectly." He addressed Zuni directly, inclining his small head with surprising dignity. "It's very nice to meet you, Zuni. You're a beautiful creature."

Zuni's chest puffed out slightly with pride. The phoenix has excellent taste in aesthetic appreciation.

"And so are humans," Bennu added, looking up at his Adom with fondness.

Adom chuckled. "Thanks."

Bennu settled more comfortably on his palm, still purring softly. "Everything is so much more fascinating than I imagined. Colors, shapes, the way light moves..." He paused, looking around the room with wonder. "Even the dust particles dancing in the air are beautiful."

"You find dust beautiful?" Adom asked, amused.

"I find everything beautiful," Bennu replied simply. "I've been waiting ten thousand years to see any of it."

"Adom!" Maria's voice carried up the stairs, more urgent now. "What's happening up there?"

Before Adom could respond, a new sound joined the conversation: the distinctive wailing of a very upset five-year-old.

"I want my brother!" Ada's voice rose to a pitch that could probably be heard three houses down. "Something's wrong with Adom! Something's wrong!"

Bennu's head snapped toward the doorway, then to Adom. His flame-bright eyes wide with alarm. "Is something wrong with you?"

"No. That's my little sister," Adom laughed. "She's worried about me."

"She sounds quite distraught."

The crying was getting louder, punctuated by hiccupping sobs and what sounded like Ada trying to negotiate her way past their mother.

"Mother, Ada," Adom called down. "It's okay. You can come up now."

"Are you certain?" Maria's voice was closer now, already on the stairs. "The heat, and the shaking—"

"It's safe. Come see."

Footsteps on the stairs, quick and light ones accompanied by heavier, more cautious steps. Ada appeared in the doorway first, her face red and streaked with tears, her dark hair disheveled from whatever tantrum she'd been throwing downstairs.

She took one look at Adom standing perfectly fine by the mirror and stopped crying immediately.

Then she saw Bennu.

Her mouth fell open in a perfect little 'o' of astonishment.

Maria appeared beside her a moment later, took in the scene and stopped dead in her tracks.

"Adom," she said carefully, "what exactly is that?"

"This is Bennu," Adom said. "The egg finally hatched."

Bennu straightened up on Adom's palm, preening slightly at being the center of attention. His eyes moved between Maria and Ada with fascination.

"This is great!" he chirped, his voice making the newcomers blink in surprise. "You're Adom's family! My family! How extraordinary you both look. So different from each other, and yet similar in such interesting ways."

Ada's eyes went impossibly wide. "He talks!"

"Indeed I do," Bennu replied with what could only be described as delight. "And you must be Ada. I've heard your voice so many times. It's lovely to finally see what you look like."

Ada took a step forward, but Maria's hand immediately caught her shoulder.

"Ada, wait—"

"It's alright," Adom said quietly, meeting his mother's eyes. "He's safe. I promise."

Maria studied his face for a long moment, clearly torn between maternal protectiveness and trust in her son's judgment. Finally, she nodded and loosened her grip on Ada's shoulder.

Ada needed no further encouragement. She practically launched herself across the room, arms outstretched.

"Easy, Ada—" Adom started, but Bennu was already laughing.

"Oh, how delightful!" Bennu exclaimed as Ada's small hands closed around him. "This is much more interactive than I expected."

Ada lifted him up to eye level, studying him with the intense scrutiny that five-year-olds reserved for particularly interesting new things. Bennu bore the examination with remarkable grace, even as she turned him slightly this way and that.

"You're so pretty," she announced. "And warm. And your feathers are so soft." She touched one of his wing tips with a careful finger. "Are you magic?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Can you do magic things?"

"Some, I think. I'm still learning."

Ada's grip shifted, and she pulled him closer to her chest in what was clearly intended as a hug. Bennu's purring intensified, and his eyes half-closed with contentment.

"Are you what they call a child?" Bennu asked with curiosity. "You seem... less developed intellectually than the other humans."

"I am not!" Ada protested immediately. "I'm very smart! I can count to one hundred and I know all my letters and I can read three whole books by myself!"

"How impressive," Bennu said seriously. "I apologize for my assumption."

"And I'm five years old, which is very grown up."

"How old is 'grown up' exactly?"

"Well, Adom is nineteen and he's very grown up. Mother is thirty-eight and she's very very grown up. Father is forty and he's old."

"Fascinating. So you're somewhere between not grown up and very grown up?"

"Exactly." she nodded solemnly, apparently satisfied with this classification system.

"I like you very much," Ada announced suddenly, looking directly into Bennu's golden eyes.

"I like you very much too," Bennu replied without hesitation. "You're wonderfully warm and soft, and you smell like flowers and something sweet."

"That's because Mother made cookies this morning and I helped."

"Cookies sound delightful."

Ada squeezed Bennu tighter, her face lighting up with pure joy. "I love you SO MUCH!" she declared. "You're the best thing ever! Better than cookies! Better than ice cream! Better than when Father lets me stay up late!"

Bennu's purring grew even louder. "I think you might be the most delightful creature I've ever encountered."

"Can you fly? Can you breathe fire? Do you like fish? I like fish but only the ones Mother cooks, not the ones that are still swimming because they look at you with their fishy eyes—"

"Ada," Maria said gently, "let Bennu breathe."

"I don't mind at all," Bennu assured her.

The young phoenix seems to have found his perfect companion, Zuni observed from his spot by the door. They both possess a rather remarkable capacity for joy.

"Yes!" Ada agreed immediately, turning toward Zuni with Bennu still clutched in her arms. "Zuni understands everything! He's very smart, aren't you, Zuni?"

Indeed I am.

Watching Ada chat so easily with Zuni reminded Adom of something he'd almost forgotten in the excitement of Bennu's hatching.

Most humans awakened to magic between the ages of seven and eight, if they had the aptitude for it at all. Adom himself had been seven when his mana core had formed, which was considered perfectly normal timing.

Ada had been two.

It had been such an unusual occurrence that Adom had consulted Biggins about it. The old dragon had been fascinated, explaining that the phoenix egg's presence in their home had been slowly purifying the ambient mana for years. The cleaner, more concentrated magical energy had made it significantly easier for Ada to form her mana core at such an early age.

Interestingly, the same phenomenon was responsible for Adom's own accelerated development. In just five years, he'd managed to nearly complete his second circle—progress that should have taken normally eight to ten years to achieve.

But Ada's case had been even more remarkable. At two years old, mages were apparently much more malleable than at seven. They grasped magical concepts not through verbal instruction but through pure feeling and instinct. That's why Adom had been able to teach her the druidic ability to communicate with creatures before she could even speak in full sentences.

It also explained why Ada and Adom were the only family members who could understand Zuni directly. Maria and Arthur could sense the general emotional tone of Zuni's communications, but the actual words remained a mystery to them.

"Bennu," Ada said suddenly, "do you want to see my room? I have toys! And books! And a really pretty dress that Mother says I can only wear on special days but this is a special day because you hatched!"

"I would love to see your room," Bennu replied. "Will there be some of those cookies and ice cream?"

"YES!" Ada scrambled to her feet, still holding Bennu carefully. "Can we, Adom? Can I show him my things?"

"Of course," Adom said. "Just be gentle with him."

"I will!" Ada promised, already heading toward the door. "Come on, Bennu! You're going to love my dollhouse!"

As she disappeared into the hallway, chattering excitedly about all the things she wanted to show her new friend, Maria shook her head in amazement.

"Well," she said quietly, "I suppose we should get used to having a phoenix in the family."

Adom opened his mouth to respond, but the words died in his throat as a familiar translucent window materialized in his vision.

[You have formed a formal bond with the entity named 'Bennu'.]

[New shared skill unlocked: Resonance (Transcendent) Lvl 1.]

Below the notification, additional text began to appear:

[Resonance: Allows the user to wield the power of a phoenix in body and soul. The System encourages exploration of this skill to discover its full potential.]

Adom stared at the window for a long moment, processing what he was seeing.

After [Indomitable Will] , this was his second transcendent-level skill. One that would let him wield phoenix power directly. Suddenly, he remembered that he read somewhere how the phoenix had the power of the sun.

The sun...

"The power of the sun… in the palm of my hand." Adom murmured quietly.