I looked up at the registrar, thinking, Oh. Thank goodness, because it would be incredibly hard to explain who I was. Luckily, that rule hadn’t changed. I nodded once as he continued, “Do you remember when you are from?” His tone was patient, professional, the kind of voice used for children and the recently reborn alike.

  I nodded again. He then pulled out a star chart, one that we, in this world, had long established as a universal way to measure time. Even the earliest generations could point to their birth star and mark their origin. The parchment shimmered faintly with embedded starlight ink, constellations dancing across its surface as he tilted it toward me. I pointed to Lepurus, the star I had been born under, and he gave a small, approving nod, making a note with a fine-tipped quill that smelled faintly of crushed berries and smoke.

  Then came a map. Actually, three of them. Each one was a different era’s version of the world, its borders redrawn again and again across the centuries. The parchment edges were worn from use, and I could see where lines had been erased and re-inked. I studied them carefully, tracing the coasts and rivers with my eyes before pointing to the second one, the one that matched the world I remembered. The newest map was completely foreign to me. New kingdoms dotted the landscape where once there had been wilderness or empires long fallen. I would need to get myself a new map and learn these lines. Maybe it would become part of my re-education, understanding how much the world had shifted while I had been gone.

  I pointed finally to Enzimora, the city of my first birth, and the registrar gave a low hum of recognition. “Ah, Enzimora. Good, good, good. Not much has changed since then. That kingdom provided many of the laws we’ve adopted since. So, your education will mostly be geographical, maybe a bit of policy and trade regulation. Some dealings with the adventurers’ guilds, charter updates and all that.”

  When he said adventurers’ guilds, I almost spat. The words felt like bile on my tongue. They had been a scam in my time, and now they seemed to have achieved legitimacy. Once, they had come to me, back when I was a great wizard, asking me to design their trial system. I had agreed out of curiosity. It didn’t take long to see their true nature. The guilds served nobles and sponsors, not the people. I finished the project but never worked with them again, leaving them to collapse under their own corruption. But clearly, they hadn’t. They had become institutions now, official arms of law and trade. Even their insignia was stamped in the corner of the registrar’s desk, a sigil of bureaucracy masquerading as heroism.

  The registrar continued, his voice easy and instructional. He explained how many reincarnators joined the guilds since they could begin adventuring earlier, already knowing things their first-life peers had yet to learn. “It’s a good living, if you’re able to afford the entrance fee,” he said, clearly reciting something he had told hundreds of parents before. He smiled, not unkindly, but with that weary familiarity of someone who had processed too many lives.

  I let him talk. The words entrance fee rang hollow. Paying your way into a system that once belonged to the brave and the free was laughable in my day. But perhaps the world had changed out of necessity. I had heard, before I died, that some dungeons had broken, spilling monsters into the open world. Maybe this new adventurers’ guild had formed to deal with those outbreaks, protecting towns and settlements. If so, I might need to work with them. Dungeons still held much of what I would require, and if they controlled access, I would have to play along.

  He asked if I had held a class in my previous life, perhaps as part of the old guild structure. I nodded. The registrar’s expression brightened, and he pulled out a set of ten illustrated cards, fanning them neatly across the table. The pictures shimmered faintly with enchantment, the ink alive in ways only magical art could be.

  “Let’s see if any of these look familiar,” he said, his tone almost indulgent.

  I leaned forward and studied them. Each illustration was rendered in glimmering metallic inks that seemed to breathe under the light. The faint hum of enchantment lingered in the air, so light that it felt like the room itself was holding its breath.

  The first showed a man with a pointed hat and staff. That one I knew instantly, a wizard. The next card showed a man holding vials and potions, and I frowned. That was also a wizard. Why would they be separate? The arts were never meant to be divided.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The third card showed a knight in heavy armor, his polished plate reflecting light like molten silver. His shield bore a crest I didn’t recognize, a lion biting its own tail, surrounded by etched runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. The fourth was a broad man swinging a great axe, bare to the waist, his muscles carved in strokes of scarlet and black. His face was wild and proud, painted with a grin that promised a short but glorious life.

  The fifth depicted a cloaked figure crouched low, blades reversed in both hands. Silver dots for eyes made the painted face seem alive, tracking my movement as though it saw me too. The sixth card bore a serene woman in white robes; hands raised over an open book glowing with faint blue light. Golden runes framed her halo, her expression one of endless calm. Beside her, the seventh card showed a man carrying a greatsword larger than his own body, his form limned in white fire, the air painted with faint streaks of divine radiance.

  The eighth card was strange, depicting an archer, thin and almost fragile-looking, with a bow drawn halfway. The figure’s limbs were lean and delicate, so much so that it made no sense. Bows were strength weapons, not toys for the frail. The way the artist had painted it, the archer looked as though they would collapse after a few minutes of firing. The sight almost made me laugh. The ninth showed someone bent under the weight of an absurd amount of gear, bags and tools hanging from every strap and belt. In one hand, they carried a tiny crossbow that looked like a child’s toy. I had no idea what this one was supposed to be, some kind of walking storage chest perhaps, but it made no sense. The final card, the tenth, showed a bald man in robes with his fists clenched tight. His stance was low and steady, muscles drawn in soft shadow. I stared at that one for a long time.

  I gave up trying to make sense of them. None of this matched the world I had known.

  In the end, I circled back to the first card, the wizard, and tapped it with my finger. The registrar smiled.

  “Oh, a wizard,” he said warmly. “That one’s very lucrative if you can afford the fees.” He made another note and looked at me with approval. “Planning to take it up again in this life?”

  When he asked, I looked at him, thinking about how many more fees there must be now to become a wizard. It made sense. Even in my time, it had been one of the costlier professions. Of course, it would cost more than swinging an axe half-naked. But I could not be a wizard in this life. I did not have mana, and I never would. I could manipulate mana through rituals and enchantments, yes, but in the same way everyone else could. My goal now was to build a body in this life.

  So, I pointed at the man with his bare fists and rippling muscles. The registrar looked at me oddly and said, “You wish to be a monk? Why would you give up your magic to be a monk?” His brow furrowed slightly, but his tone stayed polite.

  I met his gaze, a child’s body carrying the stare of someone far older, and said nothing.

  He studied me for a moment longer. “Are you sure?” he asked, clearly uncertain.

  I nodded once.

  He sighed softly and leaned back in his chair. “Alright then. I suppose we have some remedial exercise manuals you can look through. How much do you know about calisthenic?”

  I didn’t answer. I only stared, blank and small, and he took that as a no. His quill scratched against the parchment, the sound sharp and final.

  “Well,” he said at last, “it’s your life. We don’t judge. Still, it’s odd. Most who get a second chance take up their vocation again, wizards, alchemists, priests. Even if they change paths, they keep their magic. I think you’re the only case I’ve heard of someone discarding it.” He paused, tapping his quill against his chin, then gave a small shrug. “But it isn’t my place to judge. I’m only here to set up whatever training you wish to pursue. The Adventurers’ Guild provides reincarnators with basic education free of charge, part of their outreach to those who came before. Take advantage of it. Few do. Would you like to enroll? If you do, we can sign you up for next month’s class right now.”

  He slid the parchment toward my mother to sign, then stamped it with the guild’s insignia, a pair of wings wrapped around a coin. I caught the faint glimmer of enchantment in the ink as it dried, locking my decision into record. My path was set, at least on paper.

  The registrar flipped the stamped parchment closed and added, almost absently, “Your details will be passed to the guild records. This is just standard procedure. We’ve always kept that on file so instructors know what background a returning soul might have. Your information will be kept in the guild’s records until you reach adulthood, which is twelve for reincarnators like yourself.”

  He rested his quill beside the stack and gave a small shrug. “And don’t worry too much about the class cards. None of that really applies until after your Tin Rank training is finished. Before that, everything is just general foundation work.”

  It was said casually, as if clearing away a misunderstanding he corrected a dozen times a week.

  I nodded once, accepting that I would need to join this adventuring guild after all if I wanted to further my goals. I would take advantage of their education. Maybe then I would finally understand how to train this body of mine properly.