Rebirth-Transcending All Beings-Chapter 50: Burden Carrier

The cries of a baby echoed with the wind, the rustle of grain fields swaying under a sudden downpour of sunlight.

Elvira was born on the last days of winter, in the quiet farming village of Thaleen, nestled between rolling valleys and the eldertree forest of Vaeloria — born in a modest wooden home.

A strange child she was. While other children played outside, she would be found in the library, reading and reading in search of an answer to a question unknown to her.

Worn-out tales about angels and demons who walked the land, forgotten wars between countries and the elves who once thrived.

By the time she was five, her mother had caught her levitating a bowl of soup. The spoon floated beside her like a faithful bird. "See, Mama? I didn’t spill it this time." Her voice was soft and innocent.

Her parents. Mira and Halden, were nothing but simple farmers. They didn’t understand magic, not really. But they loved their daughter, and that was enough. Mira would brush Elvira’s hair whispering prayers to the goddess of light.

Halden, when not toiling in the fields, taught her to whistle like the sparrows and carve small toys from wood.

But as time passed, the village began to notice. It was disliked to be blessed by mana — to them it was a curse.

They whispered behind her back, children stayed far away. Rumors of a witch stirred in the town. One morning, someone vandalized her home to ward of the evil.

Elvira didn’t understand why.

She was only six when she first asked her mother, "Why do they look at me like I’m a monster?"

Her mother didn’t answer. She simply pulled her daughter into her arms and held her, long and tight. "You’re not a monster sweetie," she whispered. "You’re a miracle."

Despite the rumors, she went on with her life. Continuing her study on magic even without scrolls or books. She began controlling wind currents abd made them dance through tall grass.

Yet the fear only grew stronger.

Children threw stones when nobody looked. "Cursed witch spawn," one mocked, pushing her into a creek.

She didn’t cry, just sitting in the water — staring at her reflection. The girl stared back, looking at the same features that made her human. Yet the world insisted she was different — something else.

That night, the house was set on fire. The smell of smoke filled the air.

Mira’s hand shook as she pulled Elvira from her bed while Haden forced open the front door, covered in flames.

Halden and Mira barely escaped with her, the roof already collapsing by the time they got outside. A local mob had set it ablaze.

"To cleanse the dark magic," they claimed it was an accident. But they knew better.

Still... her parents never turned her away.

They built another small house on the outskirts of the village. Halden kept farming, and Mira taught Elvira how to cook.

At night, her mother told stories of the stars and the history of the kingdoms and the angels who would come to protect the world of man.

Those stories became Elvira’s lullabies. The stars, her silent companions.

But she changed, slowly. The loneliness began to harden inside her, not bitter, but cold. She became quieter, learning to listen more than to talk.

And when she turned seventeen, everything changed.

A wandering mage from Thaelon arrived. His name was Kelvian. Silver-bearded and blind in one eye, he claimed to have seen her manipulating the flow of mana.

He tested Elvira with a few small illusions and incantations, but she saw through all of them. Not just saw—she instinctively dismantled one spell mid-air with a flick of her wrist.

Kelvian fell silent.

"She doesn’t just have talent," he told her parents. "She has command. Something only found in archmages.

Mira wept, Halden nodded grinly. They knew she would never belong here. It was best for her to leave here.

When Elvira left with Kelvian, she didn’t cry.

She kissed her mother on the cheek and hugged her father tightly. "I’ll come back," she promised.

They watched her leave, a small girl with a bag of books, hair blowing in the wind, walking into the mist with the old mage.

She never saw Thaleen again. Not the fields, not the old well and not the house her father had rebuilt.

And Vergil felt it all.

Every emotion and thought Elvira had been through. The warmth of her mother, the hatred and the cruel acceptance of her path.

All of it was being imprinted on his brain.

It was something he had not experienced in years.

The memory faded.

The world around him shifting once more as the warmth of the farm faded away.

Now replaced by towering spires of marble and glowing orbs of light that floated in the air.

The Thaelon Arcane Institute. The capital of magical advancement across the continent — where only the elite nobles and prodigies could attend

Elvira was seventeen when she stepped through.

And she did not belong.

Not truly.

Wearing common clothes. Her hands calloused, and mana raw when it came to both her heart and circle.

But what she lacked in refinement, she made up for in instinct and domiance. Magic obeyed her.

Vergil stood in her place now, a phantom observer now tethered to the memories of Elvira’s past, witnessing it all for himself.

He watched as she lay in the dormitory, poring over advanced grimoires, her eyes never leaving the pahes as insults floated by.

"Farm rat."

"Her mana’s wild. She’ll explode one day."

Vergil clenched his jaw, fist twitching even though they weren’t his. Although he would fight, she endured in silence.

But the academy didn’t let up.

Her instructors treated her like a ticking time bomb. Kelvian had warned them all. "She’s a natural, but be careful."

Vergil followed as Elvira walked into her first trial.

A practical spell duel. Her opponent? A noble-born prodigy, her senior, with a wand tipped in mythril and a robe lined in elemental thread.

She didn’t flinch.

The boy summoned a pillar of flame, twisting it into a serpent.

Elvira raised her hand.

No chant. No tool. Just will.

Boom.

The flames shattered, scattering into numerous sparks that moved towards her — reforming behind her, now as her serpent.

She didn’t send it back, letting it coil in the air around her.

The silence was deafening.

Vergil felt it—her choice to show control instead of destruction. The restraint. The message.

And yet... the students feared her more.

"Did you see that?"

"That’s not normal."

Day after day, week after week, Vergil lived her studies. Her sleepless nights. The endless tests.

The ancient languages she memorized with bleeding eyes. The subtle bullying, the empty corridors, the professors who smiled politely but kept their distance.

And still, she persisted.

She passed every test. Mastered every element. She studied under archmagi, traveled to ancient ruins, negotiated with spirits.

Vergil’s chest ached.

"How many times..." he thought, watching her walk the halls. "...did she want to be acknowledged?"

He saw her journal entries. Small glimpses of her mind between pages of diagrams and research.

"Today, I finally caught the attention of Professor Wyland. He asked if I’ve considered teaching one day."

"Some people still whisper, but I just think they’re scared of what they cant understand. I don’t blame them. I would be too."

"..I miss mom."

Vergil stared down at the parchment. He saw the fading ink. Along with a pressed flower between the pages.

She’d kept it—after all those years—a petal from the fields of Thaleen.

She carried her past like a chain.

And still rose higher.

---

As the memory began to fade, Vergil remained suspended in a liminal haze.

He tears had dissolved and his chest felt heavy.

She had lived a life not of power—but of restraint. A flame surrounded by kindling, always afraid she’d burn the wrong thing.

And yet... she still chose to teach.

To protect.

To remain in that quiet village, broken and scarred, helping others rise.

Vergil’s heart throbbed.

"Why," he whispered to the silence around him that clung like a cloud hovering in the air.

Vergil was different to others. Ever since he lived in the orphanage, he did whatever it took to survive — stealing food was the norm for him.

He never tried to care for others, he never had the time to worry about them. He was cold-hearted. Yet he had a hard time trying to understand why selfless people act like this.

’If that were me, what would I have done?’ The question repeated itself in his mind — and he knew what he would’ve done.

"I guess everyone has their own path to follow.’’ Vergil breathed out.

He wasn’t sure if he meant it as an apology.

But deep inside, something stirred.

The next memory waited.

And he braced for it.

A/N

Not all people welcome mages, cultivators ans aura users. They see them in a bad light.