Five years after the previous events
"YAHHHH!" grunted Draco, swinging a wooden sword. The sun was scorching that day, beating down on his back, drenching him in sweat.
"Keep going, boy—50 more swings," said old man Ivar, the same old man his mother had shoved him into the arms of all those years ago. "Then, once you're done, five laps around the village."
"Understood, old man," Draco replied, still grunting as pain and fatigue built up in his arms with every swing.
Draco had started sword training with his grandfather a month ago. He wanted to get stronger. The memories of five years ago still haunted him, gnawing at him. Every day since, he couldn’t shake the frustration and annoyance of not being able to protect his mother. Even if he was just a baby, it pained Draco to have been so helpless as the mother he'd only just met was taken away so quickly. After that day, he rushed himself to learn how to speak and walk, later teaching himself to write by the age of 3. These tasks had been easy for Draco, as he still had memories of his previous life.
"Damn, my arms are killing me. They feel like noodles," Draco thought.
"Alright, done. Going for the laps," Draco told the old man.
"Well, you don't have to tell me, boy. Go!" Ivar said.
Draco leaned the wooden sword against the wall, then began jogging toward the starting line to begin his laps. They were training beside Draco's father's house—Scion Lodbrok, the chief of the village. As Draco jogged, he noticed his father and brother, along with five of Scion’s men, geared up at the village entrance, seemingly preparing for a long journey. Puzzled, as no one had told him his father and brother were leaving, Draco approached.
"Hey, where are you guys off to?" Draco asked, slapping his brother on the back of the neck.
"Ow! What the hell, man? What was that for?" Bjorn snapped, irritated. He had grown quite a bit in the last five years.
He's about as tall as Dad now, Draco thought.
"Oh, nothing. Your neck just looked slappable," Draco said, trying not to burst into laughter.
"Enough out of you two," their father interrupted, his tone strict and fierce. "We’re going to the Thunder Clan to meet with the High Chief. And before you ask, no, you can’t come with us."
"Wha? Why not?" Draco feigned shock. "I find myself bewildered!"
"You know why. Last year, when we visited, you and his daughter burned down half his house," explained Bjorn, with disappointment in his voice. "The High Chief doesn’t want you there. He thinks you'd cause more trouble for him and his daughter."
"Like I explained, that was an accident," Draco muttered.
"You were crawling around and spewing fire like a magma newt, you weirdo," Bjorn added with a smirk.
"You. Stay," Scion commanded. "You've got training with the old man, anyway. Stay close and listen to what he says. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Let’s go!" Scion barked. "We have a long trek ahead. Love you, boy."
"Love you both," Draco called out to his family.
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"Love you too, brother," said Bjorn, giving Draco a hug before they left.
As the group left the village, Draco returned to his training. Jogging around the village, he took in the sights of his home, breathing in the clean air. Even though the village was small and smelled like donkey cheeks for more than half the year, Draco loved it. The people of the village were kind too, greeting Draco as he jogged past. The guards threw him some not-so-witty banter as he passed them by.
After finishing his laps, Draco walked over to the well in the middle of the village. He pulled up the bucket from its depths, filled with cold water. Parched, Draco drank half and poured the rest down his back. He dropped the bucket back into the well and moved to the wash basin to clean his face. But before he did, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the still, cool water.
Draco was a five-year-old Draconian demon. His skin had a blackish hue, and his black hair framed two small horns jutting from his forehead. His bright crimson eyes, with slit pupils, stared back at him. His mother was a demon from another realm, who had come to this world to fight in some hidden war—or so his father and Ivar had explained. Like most demons, his mother was tall, with a slim hourglass figure, crimson eyes, and two horns jutting from her forehead. Her hair was like bloody fire. From what his father said, most demons resembled her: red skin, horns, and eyes that burned like embers. The only thing that could rival her beauty, according to Scion, was her unyielding rage.
Draco's father, a Draconian descended from a great hero, had grey-tinted skin, a jet-black wolf-tail haircut, a bushy beard, and striking blue eyes. He too was tall but had a massive, muscular build. They were both powerful warriors trained in martial arts and the arcane.
Draco wanted to become a fierce warrior like his mother. He had heard dozens of stories about her ferocity on the battlefield. She wielded a giant black claymore and used the hellfire magic from her realm to annihilate her enemies. Draco dreamed of one day seeing her in action. More than that, he dreamed of just having a mother. He never had one who actually cared about him. It devastated him to finally have a mother, only for her to be taken away just as quickly.
"I swear, one day I'm going to rip those fucking wings off his back," Draco grumbled under his breath.
"DRACO!!! Come here, boy," Ivar yelled, beckoning him over.
"Yes, sir. Ready to start the rest of the training, gramps," Draco said.
"Hmmmmm." Ivar looked him up and down before finally saying, "Today, we’re doing something different."
"Oh yeah? What’s that?" Draco asked, curious.
"Follow me," Ivar replied with a smug look on his face. His grandfather loved being hard on him during training. Since day one, he had pushed Draco to the brink.
Ivar led Draco out of the village and down a muddy path that branched off from the main road. They traveled down this path for a good portion of the day. Along the way, Ivar quizzed his grandson on his swordsmanship studies, making sure he knew all the basics. Whenever Draco got something wrong, Ivar gave him a stern smack on the back of the head.
"Dammit, gramps," Draco scowled in pain. "Do you have to hit me so hard?"
"How else am I going to get it through that thick noggin of yours, boy?" Ivar retorted. "Plus, it’s not my fault you’ve got a slappable mug."
This dude, Draco thought, mocking me.
Ivar laughed. They traveled for a couple more hours before his grandfather stopped and turned to face him. He pulled a rough spun sack out of his cloak and handed it to Draco.
"Here. There are enough provisions in there for a couple of days, along with a hunting knife. And here’s your sword," Ivar explained, pulling out an old steel blade and handing it to Draco. "I want you to survive out in these woods for the next week."
"Ya do know I'm five, right?" Draco asked, incredulous.
"Me and your father were the same age when we did this. Now it’s your turn," Ivar explained. "Your father and I believe it's necessary to start your training early, to prepare you for this world. Things aren't so peaceful beyond the borders of the village. Death lurks everywhere, and if you're not careful, this world will grind you up and spit you out. So, I’m throwing you into the forest so I can evaluate where your strengths lie and where you’re lacking. With you being a dumb baby, I give it a couple of hours before you ring the bell."
"Good pep talk, gramps," Draco said, slightly aggravated by the old man.
I know absolutely nothing about this forest or where we are. I’m five. I've never had survival training. But I have watched a bunch of survival shows back in my old life.
"You need to be careful and aware of your surroundings. Keep your senses sharp. You’re a Draconian mixed with devil blood. All five of your senses are superior to regular Dragonoids and demons. Your strength is naturally greater too. Your task is to survive and learn to utilize your senses effectively. Good luck!"
And with that, Ivar vanished.