Amron_15

He was once Earth’s brightest mind—a visionary billionaire who reshaped industries with a single idea and believed the future could be built from scratch. But even empires built on genius cannot defy death. Taken too early by illness, Arion Drayke thought his story had ended in a quiet hospital room.

He was wrong.

Reborn in a primitive world where strength reigns and the weak are left to die, Arion awakens in the body of a powerless child in a nameless village on the edge of nowhere. No spirit roots. No talent. No chance. But while others cultivate with brute force, Arion applies logic, memory, and invention. With no divine blessing, he studies fire and rhythm. With no backing, he builds his own path—one trap, one tool, one strategy at a time.

From forgotten dirt, he sparks a rebellion—not of swords, but of ideas.
From ashes, he builds a clan.
From silence, he creates a name feared across continents.

This is not a tale of prodigies or chosen ones. This is the rise of a leader who refuses to bow.
A mind against miracles.
A flame against fate.
A sovereign born not from bloodline, but from brilliance.

“If I cannot cultivate power... then I will cultivate change.”

Eternal Flame: Rise of the Spark Sovereign

Smoke drifted lazily from cooking pits, but the scent was thinner than usual. The villagers were still resting, still remembering. The hound's corpse had been burned outside the fence—Arion insisted on that. Not buried. Not displayed.

"Let the beasts know we return fire with fire."

Not even when the village boys whispered his name. Not when the elders nodded with something like respect. Not even when old Mira left a strip of dried meat at his feet, a rare offering from someone who owned little.

Because that morning, Deno didn't come out of his hut.

Arion sat outside Deno's door, knees pulled to his chest. The boy had been injured before the beast attacked, a shallow cut. But infection ran fast in the Western Plains. Especially when you had no spirit roots to fight it.

"He's lucky to sleep through the fever," the herbal woman said. "He won't wake."

Arion watched the door. He wanted to go in.

Because he didn't know what he would say.

No one had told Deno he was bait. But they all knew. Even Lira. Even the old beggar.

"Why didn't you ask?" Arion muttered aloud.

The wind answered him. Dry. Sharp. Full of dust.

The village couldn't afford questions. Not when survival hung from rotting rope.

Would Deno have agreed, if Arion asked?

Would he have nodded, bloody and pale, knowing his pain might save the others?

The old beggar approached near dusk, dragging a broken chair behind him. Sat with a wheeze beside Arion, both of them facing the shut door.

"Tell me," the beggar said. "Was it worth it?"

The beggar nodded anyway, as if silence were the reply he expected.

"There's no clean victories here, boy. No full stomach without a torn belly. That's the way of the dirt. You think cultivators ask their spirit roots for permission before absorbing?"

"You used a dying boy to bait a dying beast," the beggar said softly. "That's not evil. It's not good, either. It's what a leader does."

"I'm five," he said. "I didn't ask to be a leader."

The beggar's smile was full of rot and memory.

The door to Deno's hut creaked open once.

But Arion sat there until morning anyway.

He just stared at the place where no one had asked a question… and where no one would answer it, either.

Ch 15: A Question No One Asked