REINCARNATED WITH THE BOOK OF SUPREME LAWS

THE TRUTH ABOUT THE WORLD REVEALED

The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint tang of wet earth and smoke. Villagers bustled through the square, baskets swinging from shoulders, chickens squawking, dogs darting between legs. Children lined the cobblestones, chattering nervously, faces bright with curiosity and fear.

Elior, now six, stood by his mother Rina’s side, holding her hand tightly. Today was the day the chief would gather all children of this age to teach them the first spark of cultivation — a step into something beyond simple chores and village life.

“Stay close,” Rina whispered, her thumb brushing his small knuckles. “Remember what I told you: watch, listen, learn.”

He nodded silently, eyes wide as he scanned the square. Lana bounced on her heels nearby, whispering excitedly to a cluster of girls. Taron stood a few paces away, arms crossed, smirk on his face, pretending not to care.

The villagers fell silent as the village chief, a tall man with a weathered face and a voice that could carry across the hills, stepped onto a raised stone platform. His robe flowed like water in motion, and his eyes, dark and piercing, scanned the children carefully.

“Children,” he said, voice calm but heavy with presence, “today you will begin to sense the Laws of the world. Every one of you carries the potential to touch something beyond the ordinary. Some may sense it immediately, others will take longer. But you will all start.”

He raised a hand, and the air shifted. The grass beneath their feet trembled slightly, and a faint hum seemed to resonate from the stone itself.

“Watch,” the chief continued. “The Law of Gravity.”

With a subtle movement, the ground beneath them softened, then lifted. The children gasped as their feet left the dirt, hovering inches, then inches more, as though an invisible hand had picked them up. Laughter mixed with shrieks of surprise; Lana squealed, Taron flailed his arms, and Elior’s tiny fingers clenched instinctively.

The chief’s voice echoed again. “Gravity can lift, gravity can weigh. Feel its pulse, its pull. Respect it. Balance yourself.”

He twisted his hands slightly, and the children dropped gently to the ground, knees bending under the weight that had suddenly doubled, pressing them down like a wave. One by one, they rose again, panting, laughing, awe in their wide eyes.

Elior, small and unsteady, felt his knees buckle beneath him, chest tight. The effect on him was not simple play — it felt like the village, the earth, the very stones, were whispering. The pull of reality stretched further than he could measure.

The chief lowered the gravity, letting it settle. “Now,” he said, “sit. Close your eyes. Sense the Laws that surround you. Let them touch you.”

Children shuffled into position, cross-legged, chattering quietly, hands pressed to the earth. Elior obeyed instinctively, sitting down on the cool stones. He closed his eyes and reached outward — reaching not with his body, but with something inside.

At first, all he felt was a tangle of faint pulses: gravity, air, heat from the morning sun. But as he pressed further, something else stirred beneath the surface — deeper than air or stone, older than the sun itself.

And then it happened.

The village disappeared. The children vanished. The chief’s voice faded like a distant echo. Elior was falling — not through air, but through time.

Colors exploded around him. Threads of energy spun like rivers of fire, weaving shapes that had no form and form that had no bounds. He felt the pulse of creation itself, rhythmic, eternal. Stars were born, galaxies swirled, and he drifted past uncountable worlds being built from nothingness.

Then a shape solidified in the center of all: a book.

It hovered in the infinite light, its cover shimmering like living leather, pages whispering as they turned themselves. Letters etched themselves onto the first page: The Law of Beginning.

At the corner of the page, faint, almost imperceptible: 0.1%.

Elior’s small hand reached toward it, instinctive, yet the book remained distant. Its glow pulsed, synchronizing with his heartbeat. The threads of creation wove themselves through the letters, each stroke of the pen echoing a galaxy being formed, a law being laid down, a universe being set into motion.

He saw it all: the dance of gravity and light, the weaving of essence and matter, the structure of time itself. Each law birthed the next, and all of it recorded on that first page. The Book of Laws was more than a guide — it was a mirror of reality, a record of the impossible made tangible.

Pressure slammed into his chest. His tiny knees buckled. Body trembling. Mind screaming with comprehension too vast for a child.

And then he saw it clearly: a fraction of understanding. The Book etched itself into his soul. Not awakening fully — only 0.1% — but enough to leave an impression. Enough to mark him.

Elior gasped. The world snapped back. The village square returned, sunlight spilling over stone and grass, children blinking in confusion, chief staring in awe.

He was on his knees. Hands pressed to the cool stone. Small and fragile. Yet… changed.

Rina’s voice called from the edge of the square, tight with worry: “Elior! Are you—?”

Aran’s eyes narrowed, observing the faint glow around his son’s chest. “Careful, boy. Don’t strain yourself.”

The chief’s face was unreadable. He had seen a boy encounter something he could barely comprehend — a child touched by something beyond their teaching. “By the laws…” he muttered softly, mostly to himself. “I… I do not understand. None of this should be visible… not yet.”

Lana bounced closer, unaware of the gravity of the moment. “Elior? You okay? You looked like you went flying!”

Elior blinked. Tiny body trembling, chest still pulsing faintly. He nodded slowly. “I’m… fine.”

But inside, the warmth of the Book pulsed, gentle yet insistent, threading through his soul. A seed had been planted. A promise of something greater, something vast, waiting for him to reach.

The chief’s demonstration of the Laws continued, children still sensing what little they could, but Elior remained slightly apart. He felt the gravity of beginnings, the pulse of time, and something else — something older than anything he had ever known.

When the gathering ended, the children filed away, chattering about what they had felt. Some had glimpsed air, some fire, a few water. Elior walked beside Rina quietly, small hands clasping hers, silent.

Taron gave him a sideways glance. “You didn’t seem scared at all,” he said, frowning.

“I was watching,” Elior replied, voice soft. “Learning.”

Lana tugged at his sleeve. “Will we get to do that again?”

“Maybe,” Elior said. But he did not tell her what he had seen.

That night, as the village settled into quiet, he lay beneath the stars, small hands tracing the faint glow beneath his shirt. The Book of Laws pulsed softly inside him, a heartbeat entwined with his own.

Not yet awakening fully. Not yet ready to wield. But patient. Waiting.

And Elior, small body on the hard mat, adult mind behind his eyes, whispered quietly to himself:

Someday, I will understand.

Someday, I will walk alongside the laws.

And I will not falter.

The first page of the Book of Laws had opened. The universe had whispered its secrets. And the boy, still small in stature, had seen beginnings.