Amidst the Waves [Wuthering Waves]

Amidst the vast reaches of the cosmos, the planet Solaris III—known to its inhabitants as Sol III—orbited gracefully as the third planet from its sun. Once a tranquil world of beauty and harmony, Sol III was forever scarred by a catastrophic event that occurred over a century ago.

This calamity, known as the First Lament, unleashed chaos upon the land. Disasters struck relentlessly, shattering civilizations and transforming the world into a desolate shadow of its former self.

The event began with a surge of energy—a dissonant frequency that reverberated across the globe, leaving behind grotesque stone spires and jagged, X-shaped fissures called Tacet Marks.

From these marks, twisted creatures known as Tacet Discords emerged, spreading destruction. The skies themselves turned into a mirrored expanse, an Etheric Sea, connecting the world below to unknown dimensions above.

Amid this devastation, humanity changed. Some survivors bore X-shaped marks on their bodies, becoming Resonators. These individuals gained resonance abilities, which can manipulate reality by harmonizing with hidden frequencies

While some Resonators brought hope, others sowed fear, using their powers for dominance.

In the absence of the ancient guardians known as Sentinels, many regions of the world fell into chaos. The nation of Huanglong, crippled by the loss of one of its six Sentinels, became a battleground for power-hungry factions.

Among them, Fractsidus pursued dark experiments, believing mutation held the key to humanity's evolution. Others, like the Midnight Rangers and the Public Security Bureau, fought to maintain order in a crumbling society.

Yet, in the farthest corners of Sol III, where neither Sentinel nor Resonator existed, forgotten villages struggled to survive. One such place was Yáng Niú, a remote settlement untouched by the larger conflicts but still haunted by the scars of the First Lament

--

"Hup!"

In a modest household, a young child clumsily attempted to stand upright. His tiny, unsteady legs wobbled before giving out, sending him toppling back onto the straw mat beneath him. A flicker of frustration crossed his face as he shook his head, trying to make sense of the strange, disorienting sensations.

Kyorin—once the fearsome Wraithblade Sentinel, a terror across worlds—now found himself trapped in the delicate and helpless body of a toddler. He let out a grunt of annoyance, glaring at his stubby fingers.

"Damn, I'm too chonky!" he thought, unable to suppress the absurdity of his situation.

Sighing heavily, Kyorin glanced down at his round belly. "If I curl up, I'd probably mimic a ball. Great... I'm a cultivator reincarnated into this."

A part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity, but the instinctive curiosity of his young body kept pushing him to try again. Every topple and tumble only reinforced how far he'd fallen from his former strength.

"Still... this house."

His sharp eyes, even in this tiny form, scanned the room. The glow of a lantern painted the walls in soft, flickering hues. The earthy aroma of herbs and firewood filled the air, creating an unexpectedly comforting atmosphere.

"Cozy... and warm," he thought, his ever-analytic mind momentarily distracted by the simplicity of his new surroundings.

Just as Kyorin began to gather his thoughts, a voice, gentle yet bursting with affection, interrupted his musings.

"My baby~!"

The words sent an involuntary shiver through him, and he turned toward their source—a motion that felt awkward and foreign in his uncoordinated body.

A woman approached, her kind face glowing with maternal warmth. Yet there was something deeper—a strength in her presence that made Kyorin take note. She knelt beside him, her hands steady as she carefully helped him sit upright.

"Careful now," she murmured, her voice soft and soothing.

Kyorin's mind raced. "I've been reborn... but why here? Why now? And... wait—"

His thoughts screeched to a halt as the woman smiled down at him and offered her breast.

"No, no, no... seriously?"

Instinctively, Kyorin gave her a bewildered are-you-serious look. But this was a routine he was growing disturbingly accustomed to.

Without much choice, he closed his eyes and begrudgingly complied, his thoughts attempting to shield his pride.

"This is normal. Take this woman's (mother's) kindness as an offering of sustenance... nothing more," he rationalized to himself, though the indignity of it all lingered.

As he fed, Kyorin's sharp mind wandered. The simplicity of this new life was baffling, yet it carried a strange charm. This small, warm home stood in stark contrast to the brutal worlds he had known.

For now, he had no answers—only questions and the odd mix of helplessness and determination that came with a second—no, third chance.

Still, it wasn't as though Kyorin had fully adapted to this bizarre new lifestyle. Some things were within his control—like how he spent his waking hours scheming how to regain strength. Others, however, were decidedly not.

Like this breastfeeding hour.

And then… poop.

An internal pause followed, punctuated by a deep, silent regret. "..."

[A/N: Shit happens]

Yes, he had just soiled himself. Again. No amount of former glory could spare him from this indignity. It was an act over which he had no physiological control, and it happened far too often for his liking.

He sighed internally, staring blankly ahead as the warm, unpleasant realization spread. "Well... sometimes shit happens. I will ignore it and try to be a chill guy."

The woman, blissfully unaware of his internal turmoil, smiled as she gently lifted him, humming softly. Kyorin, for all his might and experience, resigned himself to the situation. This was just another part of life he couldn't escape—at least not until he could reclaim some useful semblance of autonomy.

"One day..." he thought his resolve hardening amidst the mortifying reality. "One day, I'll regain control over this ridiculous body."

As Kyorin resolved to regain power and adapt to his new life, a faint cry from outside broke the silence—a mournful, uneasy sound that prickled the edges of his curiosity.

The woman—his mother—paused, startled by the noise, but not before changing his soiled undergarments with practised care. Kyorin remained still, more out of obligation than contentment, though his mind stirred with curiosity about what had transpired.

Another cry followed, louder and filled with raw emotion. This one belonged to the woman herself. She burst back into the house, her face pale and streaked with tears. Her frantic movements drew Kyorin's attention as she locked the door behind her.

His gaze settled on her trembling form. From the recesses of his fragmented memories, a haunting image emerged. The visage of a monarch—a woman who once stood at the apex of his second life—briefly overlapped with the tear-streaked face of this kind soul.

Kyorin's chest tightened involuntarily, his tiny body unable to fully express the unease welling inside him. 'A premonition,' he thought grimly. Something was wrong.

Before he could make sense of the unfolding chaos, a commotion arose outside. A swarm of villagers gathered, banging on the locked door. The muffled noise of arguments filled the air until an elderly woman pushed her way through the crowd and entered the house.

Her presence was commanding despite her frail appearance. Her sharp eyes scanned the room, eventually landing on Kyorin. She froze, her gaze softening in an almost reverent way, as though she felt humbled in his presence—a reaction Kyorin found both perplexing and irritating.

This woman, known as Grandma Tang, was the eldest and most respected figure in Yang Niú village. Revered for her wisdom, she carried an air of quiet authority.

Lifting Kyorin with surprising ease, she examined him with a mixture of pity and resignation. Her voice trembled slightly as she muttered, "I had hoped this wouldn't happen."

Kyorin's confusion deepened. What had happened?

Grandma Tang glanced at the locked door, where the faint sobs of the woman—the one who had so tenderly cared for him—filtered through. Her expression darkened.

"That bastard of a man," she began, her tone heavy with disdain. "Your father went to the New Federation... and married another woman."

The pieces clicked into place for Kyorin, yet the situation only grew more unsettling. He now understood the source of his mother's sorrow.

Grandma Tang sighed, looking at the door where his mother had shut herself away. "Your mother loved him deeply," she murmured. "Too deeply. Even now, she clings to that love, even as it breaks her."

Kyorin's gaze remained fixed on the locked door. Memories of his second life surged to the forefront. He saw the face of the heartless woman he had once called the mother—the empress who abandoned him without hesitation, instructing the guards to toss him into a river.

The old wounds reopened, raw and festering. Kyorin had long since stopped referring to that cruel woman as his mother, a word that carried only bitterness and rejection.

Now, looking at this crying woman—his new mother—he felt a gnawing apprehension. Could he trust her? Could he allow himself to see her as the maternal figure he had never truly known?

The answer didn't come, leaving Kyorin trapped between the ghosts of his past and the fragile reality of his present even after witnessing such a reaction from the weeping woman. Even still.

Kyorin swallowed the lump forming in his throat—or at least, he tried to. He couldn't fully bring himself to accept her. Not yet. But something deep inside him stirred an ember that refused to be extinguished. But...

He couldn't dismiss her(his new mother) either.

He knew, faintly yet firmly, that something must be done. The weight of the moment pressed against him, heavier than his small frame could bear. Yet, reality mocked him—he was nothing but a toddler, trapped in a frail body with no power, no control.

Just then, a harsh, grating noise broke through his spiralling thoughts.

Both Grandma Tang and Kyorin turned their attention toward the door, their eyes widening in realization. The grinding was unmistakable—the grating sound of a chair being dragged across the floor or, worse, the ominous swish of rope brushing against the wood.

Kyorin's thoughts churned alongside Grandma Tang's, both coming to the same horrifying conclusion. "She's planning to end it—her life."

"Little Xia, don't!" Grandma Tang cried, still holding Kyorin in her one hand, banging desperately with the other on the locked door. The wooden frame rattled, but it didn't budge. Her pleas grew frantic, laced with both anger and anguish. "Think about your—"

Her voice attempted to reason with the lost woman. When...

A soft, strained sound broke through the tension.

"...Mama."

It was barely a whisper, yet it cut through the oppressive silence like a lifeline. Grandma Tang turned, startled, as did Xia on the other side of the door.

Kyorin had spoken.

Unaware of the trembling shock his voice caused, he pushed on, urgency clawing at him. His chest burned with effort, his body screaming in protest, but he forced himself to repeat it louder this time.

"MAMA!"

His voice was raw and broken, each syllable scraping like gravel against his throat. Kyorin felt his chest tighten, the strain of his premature vocal cords threatening to tear him apart.

But he couldn't stop now.

One final time, summoning every ounce of strength he had, he shouted, "MAMA!"

The effort drained him. His tiny lungs heaved, all the air in his body expelled in those few words. A sharp, searing pain lanced through his chest, leaving him lightheaded. His consciousness teetered on the brink as tears welled in his eyes—unbidden and uncontrollable.

Kyorin cried.

The urgency of the moment, the pain, and the overwhelming helplessness he felt—all of it burst forth in those tears. He had tried to hold his emotions back, tried to maintain the stoic image he'd always clung to, but this time, there was no holding back.

His sobs echoed through the room, raw and unrestrained.

As the world darkened around him, the last thing he felt was a pair of trembling arms scooping him up—warm, familiar, and safe. He recognized the scent, the gentle embrace he had grown accustomed to.

Droplets of warmth fell on his forehead—tears mingling with his own—as he heard her voice, shaky and full of remorse, whispering, "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry."

And then, everything went black.

To be continued...