Re:Birth: A Slow Burn LitRPG Mage Regressor

Question.

How do you face the people you loved and buried?

Not in dreams, where everything feels half-real and fades with the morning light. Not in memories, growing fainter with each passing decade. But here, now, solid and warm and alive?

Adom had imagined this moment countless times over sixty years. In quiet nights alone, in busy days when something would remind him of them. He'd imagined what he'd say, what they'd say. Sometimes he'd talk to them, feeling half-mad but needing it all the same. "You should have seen this sunset, Mother." Or "Remember that silly joke you used to tell, Father?"

The reality was nothing like his imaginings.

His mother reached him first. She didn't slow down, didn't hesitate - just crashed into him with enough force to make him stumble back. Her arms wrapped around him, and suddenly he was enveloped in that familiar scent - sweet apple and ink and home. She was crying, he realized dimly. Or maybe he was. Maybe both.

"My boy," she whispered, her voice cracking. "My foolish boy."

He wanted to say something. Anything. But his throat had closed up entirely, and all he could do was hold on, press his face into her shoulder like he used to do when he was small. When he was actually small, not just wearing the shape of youth.

His father's arms encircled them both. Adom felt the scratch of his beard, smelled the familiar mix of steel polish and pipe tobacco. How had he forgotten these details? How had sixty years dulled the memory of exactly how his father's embrace felt?

They stood like that, the three of them, while the snow fell and the drums played and the world kept turning. And was that Bob crying over there? Huh. What an odd thing to see. That would make for excellent teasing material later.

Anyway.

"Don't you ever," his father's voice was rough, "ever do that to us again."

Adom tried to laugh, but it came out more like a sob. "I won't."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

His mother pulled back just enough to cup his face in her hands, studying him with tear-bright eyes. She traced the white streak in his hair, her expression flickering between relief and worry.

"You look thin," she said, and it was such a mom thing to say that Adom did laugh then, properly.

"I'm fine now," he said. "I'm home."

And he was. Not in the physical sense - they were standing on a beach in the snow, surrounded by nomads and their drums, with a talking mouse peering cautiously from behind. But home had never really been about places.

His father's hand was steady on his shoulder, grounding him in the moment. His mother's fingers were warm against his face. They were here, alive, real.

In his past life, he'd dug their graves himself. The soil had been hard, frozen. He'd refused help, needed to do it alone. Afterward, he'd sat between the mounds until his tears froze on his face.

But that was then. That was there. This was now, and they were warm and solid and alive.

"You have so much explaining to do," his father said, but his voice was gentle.

"I know." Adom managed a wobbly smile. "But can we just... stay like this? Just for a minute?"

His mother pulled him close again, and his father's arm tightened around them both.

"As long as you need," his mother whispered.

The drums played on, softer now. The snow kept falling. And if Bob was still crying somewhere behind them, well, nobody mentioned it.

Some moments don't need words. Some moments just need to be lived.

*****

There was a lot to explain. Like, a lot. Evil plans involving mass murder weapons that would destroy the world? Check. Dungeons full of death and monsters? You bet. Political mess threatening to tear apart the Empire? Oh yeah.

But honestly? None of that mattered right then.

When his parents approached, Morgana quietly pulled her shawl over her head in the Veyshari style, blending into the background with practiced ease. The tribe welcomed them with calls of "Aven! Aven!" while Mirko directed everyone to make space around the fire.

"Welcome, welcome!" he boomed. "Parents of little mage always welcome here! Sit, eat, be warm!"

Instead, they sat around the fire, and his mother fussed over how thin he was (he wasn't), and his father pretended not to be emotional (he was), and Bob definitely wasn't wiping his eyes every few minutes (he absolutely was).

"And who's this?" his mother asked when Valiant finally gathered enough courage to emerge from hiding.

"Valiant," the mouse said with a tiny bow. "Your son's savior and companion through dark dungeons and-"

"Have some more bread," his mother interrupted smoothly. His father just nodded sagely, clearly deciding that some questions could wait for another day.

Mirko kept bringing food - more of that amazing bread with melted cheese, rich stews, something sweet with honey that made Adom's teeth ache. His mother tried everything, asking about spices and recipes, while his father nodded along, clearly having no idea what they were talking about but content just to be there.

"Dikhen!" A child called out, pointing at the fire. The young sorceress had emerged from her tent, bells in her copper hair chiming softly as she settled near the flames with the grace of a dancer.

"Purani story," Mirko announced proudly to Adom's parents. "My niece, sorceress. She knows old magic best."

The sorceress began to speak, her voice carrying across the camp. As she spoke, she gestured at the fire, and shapes began to form in the flames - giants walking across mountains, a small figure stealing their secrets. The flutes started playing, low and haunting, while someone tapped a steady rhythm on a drum.

"The story of how we learned magic," Morgana translated quietly from her spot nearby. "How the first Veyshari tricked the giants and stole their runes."

The children gathered closer, their eyes wide as figures danced in the flames. Even Valiant stopped mid-story to watch, cheese forgotten in his paws.

As night deepened, more stories followed. The Veyshari started singing, their voices rising with the sparks from the fire. Adom's mother knew some of the words - of course she did - and joined in. His father hummed along, off-key but trying. Even Bob gave it a shot, though his accent made several children giggle.

"Šukar gilă!" someone called out, and more voices joined in.

Adom didn't sing. He just sat there, between his parents, letting the warmth of the fire and their presence wash over him. Sixty years of missing them, and here they were, his mother's hand in his, his father's arm around his shoulders.

When he finally fell asleep that night, it wasn't in some fancy bed or comfortable room. Just a simple tent, warm with borrowed blankets, the sound of the sea mixing with distant singing and his parents' steady breathing nearby.

Best sleep of his life? Yeah, pretty much.

The world-ending weapons could wait until morning.

*****

Almost morning.

Adom wasn't sleeping. Well, not anymore at least. Hadn't been for about fifteen minutes now, but he kept his eyes firmly shut, breathing carefully measured. Just five more minutes. That's all he needed. Just five more-

"You do realize I can notice your breath pattern when you're not sleeping anymore, right, son?"

Ah, for God's sake. Right. He could do that.

Adom cracked one eye open. The sun hadn't rised yet. The air smelled of sea salt and last night's fire, with a hint of his mother's ink-and-apple scent from the bedroll next to his. She was still sleeping, one hand curled under her chin like always.

"Good morning, Father," he managed, trying for casual and probably failing spectacularly as he pushed himself up and wiped sleep from his eyes. The borrowed blankets pooled around him, warm and heavy.

Arthur Sylla sat cross-legged on his bedroll, already dressed and looking irritatingly alert. He reached over and ruffled Adom's hair - now a mess of black and a little white - with that familiar half-smile that always meant he knew more than he let on.

"You little trouble maker. Good morning."

That was his father alright. Arthur had always been like this - quiet, observant, with that uncanny ability to read people that made him such a good commander.

He'd given Adom the grace of no questions yesterday. But knowing him...

"Look at you," Arthur said, confirming Adom's suspicions. "Leave you for a few months, and you get white hair, and lose your glasses. Again." He paused, head tilting slightly. "Are those muscles I see on you, son?"

Right. Months. For them, he'd just left for his second year at the Academy a few months ago. Wow. That was... that was something to process.

His father was still watching him, patient but expectant. The questions were coming. They both knew it. But first-

"I didn't lose my glasses," Adom protested weakly. "I just... don't need them anymore?"

Arthur's eyebrow went up. "Uh-huh. And the white hair?"

"Would you believe me if I said it was a fashion statement?"

"No."

"Worth a try." Adom sighed, running a hand through said hair. "It's... a long story."

"I imagine it is." His father's voice was gentle. "But we've got time."

And that was the thing about Arthur Sylla - he always did have time. For questions, for mistakes, for long stories that made no sense. Even now, sixty years and one resurrection later, that hadn't changed.

"Yeah," Adom said softly. "I guess we do."

"Good morning, boys," came Maria's voice, Adom's mother.

Adom turned to see her sitting up, not a hair out of place, looking far too alert for someone who'd just woken up.

Of course she was already awake. Of course this wasn't a coincidence.

"Morning, Mother," Adom managed.

"Sleep well, Lionheart?" his father asked her.

They shared a look that spoke volumes. Yeah, they'd definitely planned this.

Well, fair enough. He had sort of caused the whole Empire-wide crisis they were dealing with.

Adom looked between his parents - his father's patient smile, his mother's steady gaze - and suddenly felt very young again.

"So," his mother said. "About that white hair..."

*****

The secret to a good lie is to sprinkle it with some truths.

That's what Adom had been thinking all night long. How to deceive his parents. Tell them half truths, hide what he truly went through for the past decades.

But now....

As his parents looked at him expectantly, waiting for explanations, Adom felt his heart hammering against his ribs. The tent suddenly seemed too small, the air too thick. Every breath felt like a decision.

He was about to break one of the fundamental taboos.

From childhood, everyone knew the laws of magic - the boundaries that kept the world safe.

Don't try to manipulate time.

Don't attempt to revive the dead.

Don't even think about creating something from nothing.

It was annoying and borderline harassment the way these principles were drilled into anyone who could manipulate mana. But again, these weren't just rules; they were survival instincts embedded in society. Breaking them wasn't just illegal - it was heretical, dangerous, the kind of thing that could get everyone around you killed.

And here he was, living proof that those laws had been broken.

He hadn't done it himself, technically. He'd just... agreed to a deal with a rather suspicious entity. Been revived. Sent back to when he was young with sixty years of memories intact. Simple, really. Nothing worth getting executed over.

...Right?

But these were his parents. His actual parents. Alive and breathing and looking at him with concern.

His father, who had built House Sylla from nothing. A commoner who had fought his way to knighthood through blood, sweat, and tears. His shoulders bore the weight of four hundred Star Knights who had followed him into what might become rebellion.

His mother, descended from the ancient Lionheart mages who predated even the Time of Law. A high-ranking noble who had abandoned her house to marry a commoner. Her family had disowned her for it.

Come to think of it, his parents had always been rule-breakers in their own way. They were doing it again now, mobilizing forces against the Empire for their son's sake. They'd risk everything they'd built on the mere suspicion that something was wrong.

And with the scope of what Adom was facing - corrupt officials, catastrophes, ancient conspiracies, weapons that could destroy the world - one thing became clear: he needed help. Real help. Not just Bob and Valiant and whatever allies he could scrape together. No offence to the mentioned ones, of course.

What better help than his parents?

Adom opened his mouth, then closed it again. His tongue felt like lead. The words wouldn't come.

What if they rejected him? What if they feared what he'd become? What if, after hearing his story, they didn't see him as their son anymore but as some abomination, some stranger wearing their boy's face?

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

This could ruin everything.

Or it could make things so much easier.

"Adom," his father's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. "Are you alright? You've gone pale."

His mother leaned forward, brow furrowed. "Is it that bad, whatever you're afraid to tell us?"

Adom's heart pounded so hard he thought they might hear it. He could feel sweat beading at his temples despite the morning chill.

"I—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I don't know how to—"

"You're scaring me, son," his father said, the worry lines around his eyes deepening.

His mother reached out, placing her warm hand against his cheek. The familiar gesture nearly broke him. How many times had she done this when he was a child? When he had a fever, or when he was upset about something at school?

"Listen to me," she said softly. "Whatever it is, you can tell us. We're your parents. There is nothing - nothing - you could say that would make us love you any less."

"Even if I've done something impossible?" Adom whispered.

His father's expression hardened slightly. "Is that what you're worried about? Breaking some Academy rule? Some law?"

"Arthur," his mother chided gently, then turned back to Adom. "What your father means is that we've broken plenty of rules ourselves. Important ones, sometimes."

"When it matters," his father added.

Adom took a deep breath, then another. His parents waited, patient but concerned. Outside, the camp sounds continued - the clinking of pots, children's laughter, the steady rhythm of drums.

His father nodded encouragingly. "Go on."

Adom closed his eyes briefly, gathering his courage. When he opened them again, he looked directly at his parents.

"Mother, Father, the truth is..." He swallowed hard. "I have died once and came back to life."