Each morning, the first light of dawn painted my room with a golden glow, waking me for another day of training. I knew what awaited—Dad’s intense sessions that tested every ounce of strength and discipline I could muster. Stretching out the stiffness in my limbs, I prepared myself mentally.

Out in the yard, Dad stood with his sword in hand, a steady presence in the cool morning air. “Today, we’ll push a little harder,” he said, his tone firm but encouraging. “But first, let me show you something.”

He raised his sword, its edge catching the sunlight. Then, in one fluid motion, he shifted his stance and executed a perfect strike, the sheer precision of his movement leaving me in awe. The wind seemed to hum with the force of his blade, and I could feel the weight of his intent even as a spectator.

“Swordsmanship isn’t just about strength,” he said, lowering the weapon. “It’s about balance—between speed and control, offense and defense. A single misstep can mean the difference between victory and defeat.”

I nodded, taking it all in. Then came the drills: footwork patterns that made my legs ache, grips and slashes repeated until my arms felt like they might fall off. Dad was relentless but patient, correcting every mistake. “No wasted movements,” he reminded me. “Every swing should have a purpose.”

After what felt like hours, he took a step back and folded his arms. “Now, let’s talk about Battle Aura,” he said.

“Battle Aura,” I repeated, wiping sweat from my brow.

“It’s the essence of a seasoned fighter,” Dad explained. “The ability to draw on the energy within and channel it into your strikes, your speed, your endurance. Watch.”

He closed his eyes, and for a moment, everything stilled. Then, as if by sheer will, a faint glow enveloped him, the air around him charged with an invisible force. When he swung his sword this time, the blade seemed to hum with power, cutting through the air like a gale.

“Feel that?” he asked, turning to me.

I nodded, even though I couldn’t fully grasp what I had just witnessed. “How do you do it?”

“Focus,” he said. “Picture the energy inside you like a flame. Breathe life into it, and let it flow through your body. It’s not something you’ll master in a day—or even a year. But with practice, it will become second nature.”

I tried to mimic his stance, closing my eyes and concentrating. But no matter how hard I focused, I felt nothing.

“You’re forcing it,” Dad said with a laugh. “Relax. This is just the beginning. We’ll revisit this lesson often.”

Later in the day, the rhythm of my training shifted. Mom took over, guiding me into the quieter world of magic. Her lessons were no less challenging, though her approach was gentler.

“Magic is everywhere,” she said, her hands glowing faintly as she conjured a small, flickering flame. “It’s in the air we breathe, the ground beneath our feet, the warmth of the sun. But to harness it, you have to understand it.”

She handed me a crystal and instructed me to focus my energy on it. “Close your eyes,” she said. “Feel the flow of energy around you. Magic isn’t something you take by force—it’s something you invite in, like a gentle current guiding you downstream.”

I chanted word by word in the magical textbook next to me. An F-rank fire spell, which always the clever choice for a beginner like me.

"By my flame, ignite! Ember Flicker!"

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, but the crystal remained dull in my hands. Frustrated, I groaned. “It’s not working.”

Mom smiled, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Because you’re thinking like a swordsman. Magic isn’t about control—it’s about harmony. Watch again.”

She raised her hand, and a breeze swirled around her, light and playful. With a flick of her wrist, the wind shaped itself into a small whirlwind, lifting leaves off the ground.

“Magic responds to intent,” she explained. “You have to communicate with it, as if you’re asking for its help.”

I tried again, this time with a different spell.

"By the water's grace, a drop shall form! Aqua Droplet!"

To my surprise, the crystal flickered faintly, a tiny spark dancing within its core.

“There you go!” Mom said, clapping her hands. “That’s progress. Remember, it’s not about how big the spell is—it’s about understanding the connection.”

To drive the lesson home, she showed me a few more examples—summoning a small orb of light to illuminate the room and creating a gentle gust of wind that ruffled my hair. Each demonstration left me in awe, even if the concepts still felt just out of reach.

After our lessons, Mom and I would sometimes go into the village for supplies. It was a chance to step away from training and take in the peaceful life around us.

Occasionally, we’d venture into the village for supplies after lessons. I wasn’t required to come, but I enjoyed tagging along. The village had a peaceful charm—the kind of simplicity I never appreciated in my past life. Farmers toiled in the fields, their laughter carried on the breeze, while children ran through the streets playing games.

A nearby lake shimmered under the sunlight, its clear waters reflecting the sky above. I found myself drawn to it, watching fish dart beneath the surface. Despite the beauty around me, I couldn’t shake the feeling of disconnection. Talking to kids my own age felt unnatural, as though something held me back. Memories of my past life, the mistakes and regrets, lingered like a shadow.

Noticing my silence, Mom suddenly scooped me up, setting me on her shoulders. “You’re awfully quiet today,” she said, her cheerful voice breaking through my thoughts.

I laughed despite myself, the world suddenly seems much smaller from her vantage point. “I was just thinking,” I admitted.

“Well, stop thinking so much! How about stew for dinner tonight?”

“I’d eat anything you cook, Mom,” I replied, grinning.

She ruffled my hair affectionately. “That’s my boy.”

Later, back at home, I helped Mom in the kitchen. Chopping vegetables and setting the table became part of our routine. These moments of quiet companionship reminded me of the simple joys of family life. The aroma of cooking filled the air, making my stomach rumble with anticipation.

As we ate, Dad shared stories of his own training days. “Did you know your grandfather used to make me run laps around the village before breakfast?” he said, laughing. “Said it would build endurance. It mostly built my appetite.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, imagining a younger version of Dad grumbling through laps. “Maybe I’m already stronger than you were at my age,” I teased, earning a playful glare.

“Oh, really? Let’s see how you feel about that after tomorrow’s training,” he shot back.

Mom smiled, shaking her head. “Enough, you two. Let him enjoy his meal without worrying about tomorrow.”

As the evening settled in, I retreated to my room with a stack of textbooks. History fascinated me—stories of ancient wars, powerful kingdoms, and alliances between the six races that shaped the world.

Humans, adaptable and inventive, formed the backbone of the land’s cultures. Elves, with their longevity and wisdom, often stood as guardians of nature. Beastkin, with their animalistic traits, embodied strength and unity. But the other races intrigued me more.

Drakonians, descendants of dragons, carried an air of mystery and power with their scaled skin and reptilian eyes. Sylphirs, attuned to the wind, seemed almost otherworldly with their shimmering forms and gliding wings. Myrdians, the amphibious race, lived in harmony with both land and sea, their unique features a testament to their adaptability.

The tales of the Third Great War, when all races united to seal the Demon God Bael and his five subordinates, captivated me. It was a reminder of both the strength and fragility of unity. Though peace had largely returned, scars of mistrust remained, lingering like a ghost from the past.

I often lost track of time reading, the flickering candlelight my only companion. On nights like these, I’d hear familiar noises coming from my parents’ room. At first, I ignored them, but over time, I understood what they meant. A sibling was on the way.

As I drifted off to sleep, my dreams were filled with visions of the future—a growing family, new challenges, and a world waiting to be explored. Whatever came next, I knew I was ready.