Shujin was a hardcore gamer, a relentless grinder who never stopped until he reached the peak. Rank, skill, and dominance were everything to him, pushing his body to its absolute limit. Feared and respected in the competitive gaming scene, he was a legend in countless tournaments. From underground LAN events to the biggest esports championships, Shujin crushed opponents with unparalleled precision and strategy. His mind was sharp, his reflexes honed to perfection—but his body paid the price.

Outside of tournaments, Shujin lived in solitude. His world revolved around the glow of his monitor, the rhythmic clicking of his keyboard, and the endless pursuit of mastery. He rarely left his apartment, spoke only when necessary, and ignored everything except the game. To him, the virtual world was his true reality—the only place where he felt alive. His rival, a player known as Vortex, was the only one who had ever challenged him on equal footing, their matches becoming legendary duels that captivated audiences worldwide.

But dedication came with a cost. His body weakened from the lack of sunlight, his muscles atrophied from sitting too long, and his heart bore the weight of exhaustion.

The finals of the World Esports Championship had arrived. The arena was packed, millions watching from their screens, all eyes on him and his opponent—Vortex. The match was brutal, a grueling five-round battle that tested every ounce of skill and endurance. His fingers danced across the keyboard, his focus razor-sharp. He could feel the pressure in his veins, the adrenaline pumping, the thrill of dominance.

Then, the final moment came—a perfectly timed counter, a calculated strike. The victory screen flashed. He had won. He was the undisputed champion.

Yet, as he lifted the trophy, a sudden pain gripped his chest. His vision swam, his breath came in shallow gasps. He staggered, the cheers fading into a muffled haze. Darkness closed in as he fell.

There was nothing.

A weightless abyss swallowed him whole. No sound, no sensation—just endless black stretching in all directions. He felt detached, as though his very existence was unraveling, his memories drifting like specks of dust in an infinite void. He tried to move, but there was no body to command, no hands to reach out, no voice to cry out with.

Was this death? Or was he simply… erased?

A whisper slithered through the darkness, though it carried no words. It was neither friend nor foe, merely an observer. Cold. Unfathomable. Something beyond human comprehension watched him, its presence like a chasm that stretched forever. Shujin should have felt fear—but instead, he felt expectation, as if something was waiting.

Then, a sound.

A deep, resonant gong thundered through the void, shattering the silence like a crack of lightning. It rippled across the abyss, sending waves through the nothingness. He felt it pulse through him, pulling him downward—no, forward—toward something unknown.

A second gong followed. A pressure wrapped around him, like unseen hands molding his form from formless shadow.

A third.

Light exploded, searing into his senses. He gasped—or would have, had he lungs to breathe. The void collapsed, and then—

He was reborn.

Crying as an infant, he found himself abandoned in a small, lawless village—a den of outlaws and criminals. A passing traveler, unwilling to care for him, left him on the doorstep of a distant church, far from the corruption of his birthplace. The church’s sole guardian, an old priest, took him in and named him Lucian.

Lucian’s earliest memories were of the warm glow of candlelight flickering against the wooden beams, the soothing hum of prayers, and the scent of parchment and incense. Father Aldric, a man of wisdom and kindness, became his only family. He taught Lucian about faith, morality, and survival.

But even as a child, Lucian felt different. His body moved with unnatural precision, his reactions sharper than they should be. During chores, his hands moved efficiently, anticipating tasks before he even fully processed them. When he ran, his footwork adjusted mid-step as if dodging invisible attacks. It was instinct—ingrained muscle memory that he couldn't explain.

Lucian’s childhood was one of discipline and quiet wonder. He spent his days tending the church’s garden, learning scripture, and helping Father Aldric repair old furniture and mend torn robes. He enjoyed the routine, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that his body longed for something more. Sometimes, when no one was looking, he would move through strange motions—stances, dodges, counterattacks—movements that felt as natural as breathing, yet entirely foreign.

Father Aldric took notice. “You move with the grace of a trained warrior,” he remarked one evening as Lucian unknowingly executed a perfect defensive stance while balancing a bucket of water.

“I don’t know how I do it,” Lucian admitted. “It just feels… right.”

Aldric studied him with quiet contemplation. “Then it is best we guide that instinct. A sharp blade without control can only bring harm.”

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On his tenth birthday, Aldric presented Lucian with a wooden training sword. The modest chamber where they stood was dimly lit by flickering candlelight, the scent of old parchment and burning wax filling the air. The church, a humble structure of weathered stone and creaking wooden beams, stood alone atop a gentle hill, a sanctuary removed from the village that lay further down the winding path. The village—if it could even be called that—was a den of thieves, criminals, and desperate souls scraping by in a world that had long abandoned them. Law was a distant rumor, and safety was a privilege only the strong could afford. Despite this, Aldric still spoke of the church as a refuge, a beacon of hope where even the wicked could seek redemption.

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“You may not live a life of violence, my boy,” the old priest said, his voice heavy with the weight of experience, “but you must know how to defend yourself.”

Lucian’s small hands wrapped around the hilt, the weight feeling both foreign and familiar. His fingers adjusted instinctively, finding a balanced grip without thought. He glanced up at Aldric, curiosity and excitement flickering in his deep-set eyes. “But why, Father? If the church stands for peace, why must I learn to fight?”

Aldric sighed, his wise old eyes filled with quiet sadness. “Because the world is not kind, Lucian. Not all men respect peace. Some seek to take, to hurt, to destroy. And when that time comes, you must stand—not to seek violence, but to protect what is precious.” His gaze drifted to the church’s wooden cross, worn and cracked from years of silent prayer. “This place, this village—it is fragile. We must be its guardians.”

Training began in earnest. Aldric started with the basics, guiding Lucian through simple stances and strikes. “A warrior’s greatest strength is not his blade, but his mind. A reckless swordsman is already dead.”

Lucian followed every instruction, but something was off. His footwork was precise, his reaction time unnaturally fast, but his body lagged behind. When Aldric corrected his posture, Lucian instinctively readjusted before the priest could even finish speaking. His strikes were fluid and well-placed, yet weak, lacking the strength to carry real force. He would react to an incoming strike before it fully formed, shifting his stance with uncanny speed, but his frail limbs struggled to keep up.

He could see the openings, predict the movements, yet his body was sluggish, unfamiliar. In his past life, he had spent countless hours mastering combat in virtual worlds, refining his instincts through digital battles. But none of that had prepared him for the reality of a physical body. His muscles burned with exertion, his breath grew ragged far too quickly. The motions were there—perfect in his mind—but his body refused to obey them fully.

Aldric watched, his grip on his staff tightening. This was not normal. He had trained many before, guided lost souls into warriors, but he had never seen a child move like this. It was not the result of practice—it was something ingrained, something deeper. Lucian was quick, his instincts razor-sharp, but his frail frame couldn’t yet harness the full potential of his skills. There was ability within him, but it was trapped, restrained by his physical limitations.

Yet with every precise movement, a conflict raged within Lucian. Was this truly a part of him, or was it something foreign that had latched onto his soul? The church had taught him restraint, patience, and kindness. And yet, each strike of his wooden sword felt exhilarating, natural—like something buried in his very being was awakening.

Aldric saw it too. And it worried him.

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The church lay beneath a sky smothered in heavy clouds, the moon a mere sliver of pale light struggling to break through. The evening mist curled between the wooden homes, creeping over cobblestone paths and clinging to the chapel’s stone walls. It was the kind of night that made even the bravest souls uneasy, where the wind carried whispers that weren’t truly there, and shadows stretched just a little too long.

Through the fog, shadows emerged—five ragged figures, their forms shifting as they advanced. Their movements were deliberate, yet unnervingly quiet. Torn cloaks and hollow eyes marked them as desperate men, their faces lined with hunger and greed. They carried the scent of sweat and damp earth, their breaths shallow as they whispered among themselves. The village, now bathed in an eerie silence, seemed to hold its breath.

That night, Lucian couldn’t sleep. The air was too still, too heavy. A single candle flickered on the wooden nightstand beside his bed, its flame wavering as if disturbed by an unseen force. He could feel something creeping in the air, a tension that wrapped around his chest like a vice. His fingers twitched, his body alert despite his exhaustion. Something was wrong.

Then—a crash shattered the silence.

The sound of splintering wood echoed through the church. Lucian shot up, heart pounding. He rushed to the doorway, his breath shallow. Shadows loomed in the dim candlelight, figures moving like wraiths in the darkness.

Father Aldric stood firm before them, gripping his walking staff. His old eyes, usually filled with warmth, were now hard as steel. "This is a house of peace," he warned. "Take what you need and leave."

The leader of the group, a wiry man with sunken cheeks and a jagged scar running down his jaw, chuckled darkly. "We’ll take everything, old man."

Lucian’s hands clenched into fists. The air was thick with unspoken violence, a promise of what was to come. He felt the pull again—the instinct, the call to move before thinking. But this time, he fought against it. He wanted to see. To understand.

The thieves advanced, spreading out like a pack of wolves cornering their prey. One reached for the silver candle stand on the altar. Another edged closer to Father Aldric.

Lucian swallowed. He wanted to fight, to stand beside the man who had raised him. His body screamed at him to move. He tightened his grip on the wooden training sword at his side and stepped forward.

Then, Father Aldric moved.

The old priest became a blur. With a single, fluid motion, his staff arced through the air, striking the closest thief in the temple. The man crumpled instantly. Without pausing, Aldric twisted his grip and drove the base of the staff into another attacker’s stomach, sending him sprawling. The remaining thieves hesitated, eyes wide with disbelief.

Lucian, despite the awe gripping him, reacted instantly. He darted toward a thief, his movements swift and precise. He sidestepped a clumsy swing, his wooden blade slicing through the air with calculated efficiency. His strike landed cleanly against the thief’s ribs—but it did nothing. The thief barely flinched.

Lucian gritted his teeth. He moved with purpose, his footwork measured, his body fluid, but he lacked the strength to make an impact. He struck again, aiming for a pressure point at the shoulder, yet his opponent simply absorbed the blow and retaliated with a brutal shove.

Lucian hit the ground hard, his breath leaving him in a sharp gasp. Frustration flared in his chest. His instincts were right, his movements perfect—but his body was still too weak.

Aldric’s staff snapped out once more, cracking against the thief’s ribs before he could strike Lucian. The man stumbled away, clutching his side in pain.

The fight lasted no more than a minute, but to Lucian, it felt like an eternity. When the last of the thieves groaned on the ground, Aldric turned his gaze toward their leader, still clutching his side in pain.

"Leave now, and never return."

The thieves scrambled to their feet and disappeared into the night, their figures swallowed by the fog.

Lucian lay on the cold stone floor, panting. He had reacted perfectly, read his opponent’s movements flawlessly—but it wasn’t enough. His body had failed him.

Father Aldric extended a hand, pulling him to his feet. "You have skill, Lucian. Your movements are sharp, your instincts honed. But raw instinct and precision are not enough. Strength must follow. We will begin training properly."

Lucian swallowed his pride and nodded. That night, he realized something—he was not strong enough yet. He had won nothing. He needed to build his body, to forge the strength to match his technique.

One day, he would be ready.

As Lucian steadied himself, Father Aldric’s expression softened slightly, though his tone remained firm. "You fought well, but you must understand your limits. Control without strength is as futile as strength without control. You have the foundation. Now, we build on it."

Lucian’s breath caught. He had expected only disappointment, but instead, he felt something else—acknowledgment. His fists clenched in determination. He would train harder. He would grow stronger. And one day, he wouldn’t need to rely on Aldric to protect their home.

Father Aldric nodded, as if seeing the fire in Lucian’s eyes. "Rest now. Tomorrow, your real training begins."