Another month had passed.

I was glad to have a new book to read. This one was different from anything I’d read before—a massive tome packed with attack chants I could theoretically learn. If only my mana reserves didn’t suck.

Still, I was making slow progress in building them up. Whenever I had the chance to be alone, I’d head to the forest to meditate. I’d tried meditating outside our house once, but it was nearly impossible with all the noise—neighbors chatting, kids playing, the general chaos of daily life. The forest, though, was quiet, secluded. It was the perfect spot, as long as I stayed careful.

Clarisse, after a short break from her tutoring, returned to her studies under her tutor. Although she could be unpredictable, the book she gave me turned out to be incredibly useful.

The majority of its contents focused on Elemental Magic, covering fire, water, air, and earth attack spells. For clarity, the chant I used against the giant spider wasn’t technically an attack spell. It was on par with Flicker, just slightly more advanced.

The book also delved deeper into mana reserves. Like the other books I’d read, it explained that mana reserves vary greatly among individuals. For example, a child born into a lineage of great magicians or mages is more likely to inherit greater reserves, enabling them to cast powerful or rare spells—or even create their own. On the other hand, those born to non-magical families often have lower reserves, limiting their abilities.

I wasn’t sure about Eleanor and Victor’s history with magic, but seeing Clarisse already manifesting her abilities suggested she had some potential. However, it was also possible her mana reserves were limited, which could restrict her in the long run.

As for me, I didn’t know my limits yet. The book mentioned that high-quality mana is difficult to acquire, even in open spaces. To grow reserves, prolonged meditation and consistent practice are necessary.

I also learned that mana limits can be measured using a magical crystal. The book included a detailed illustration: a glowing, orb-like crystal small ball that tests an individual’s mana reserve by emitting specific colors when touched.

Here’s what the colors represent:

Red: Very low reserves (common among non-mages or weak individuals).

Orange: Low reserves, enough for basic magic but not for sustained use.

Yellow: Moderate reserves, suitable for average magic users.

Green: Normal reserves, balanced between power and longevity (most adept mages).

Blue: High reserves, indicating advanced magical potential.

Gold: Exceptionally high reserves, rare and highly valuable.

White/Silver: Mystical reserves, typically tied to unique talents or blessings.

Black: Corrupted or unstable mana, a dangerous anomaly.

Knowing about the crystal ball made me eager to find one and try it out. The book mentioned that most mages keep one among their possessions to monitor their mana reserves. Unfortunately, I had no idea where to find one.

For now, my trips to the forest had a clear purpose: meditation. I wasn’t heading there to fight monsters or wander aimlessly—though, to be fair, experimenting came a close second. After meditating, I would test out a combination of swordplay and magic. Specifically, I was trying to replicate the glow I’d seen during my sparring match with Brandt—the magical energy that had manifested on the wooden sword.

It would be amazing to have a book on magic swordsmen to guide me, but no such book seemed to exist in our small collection. Teaching myself was far more challenging than having someone explain it step-by-step, but let’s be honest: that’s where we all start. No one hands us all the answers. You teach yourself, make mistakes, and eventually, you grow.

Right now, experimenting felt like the best way forward.

I let out a long sigh, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. I knew manifesting a glowing sword would be hard, but not this hard. Still, I refused to believe it was impossible.

What I’d been doing was simple: thinking. Just thinking about the glow, willing it to appear on the sword. That’s all I’d done when it happened during the spar with Brandt. No spell, no special move—just raised the sword, and it glowed. But now, no matter how much I focused or experimented, nothing worked.

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“This is tough,” I muttered, sitting down on a log to rest. I’d have to head back to the house soon anyway.

Oh, right—I almost forgot to mention: I’ve started working out. Yes, as a five-year-old. I don't know if this is a good idea, but then I’m not going overboard. I’m fully aware my body has limits. I’m not about to start lifting boulders or doing insane strength training. That’d probably stunt my growth, and who wants that?

For now, it’s all about building stamina. If I want to grow as a swordsman—and survive whatever this world throws at me—I need every bit of it.

"I better head back."

I’d been training here for almost an hour, and it was probably time to call it a day. This was always how it went—I’d rush through everything, feeling like I didn’t have enough time to do things properly. I needed to grow up faster, if only to visit the forest without all the sneaking around.

As you’d expect, parents forbade their children from venturing into the forest. It made sense—it was vast, and a kid could easily get lost. That said, I’d never encountered any serious threats here over the years. The warnings felt more like scare tactics than real danger.

At least, that’s what I thought.

But then I saw something.

From where I stood, it was just… there. How hadn’t I noticed it earlier? My right eye caught it—a distinct set of claw marks etched into a tree.

Claw marks.

I froze, staring at them. They were large, with five deep grooves that screamed danger.

I tried to process what I was seeing. For years, I’d believed this forest was relatively safe. Apart from the giant spider I’d faced, there had been no real threats. But this? This was something new.

I wracked my brain, trying to recall any monster from the encyclopedias I’d read—anything with claws like this. Huge bears? No. Creatures I’d studied? None of them matched.

Damn. I couldn’t think of anything.

And that made it worse. A monster freely roaming a forest right next to a town wasn’t just unsettling—it was outright dangerous. For a moment, I considered investigating further, finding out what had left those marks. But that would’ve been reckless—and probably useless.

I decided to head back. To be honest, I was more afraid of Mother getting suspicious than the claw marks themselves. Still, I kept the marks in mind. Could this have something to do with what Clarisse had mentioned about the rise in predators and monsters?

As I hurried home, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Standing in front of our house was none other than the landowner himself. Harlan.

I didn’t know why he was there, but I had a feeling it was about the painting he’d commissioned last week. Yeah, an old man in his seventies had hired me for a painting.

Apparently, word of my “talent” in painting had spread across town, and somehow it reached Harlan. The landowner wasn’t a noble but someone chosen to manage the town on behalf of the nobility. I’d recently learned that landowners aren’t part of some hereditary system, as I’d originally thought. Nobles appoint them, meaning the position isn’t passed down like an inheritance.

Back to the painting—Harlan had surprised me by showing up personally to ask if I’d paint something for him. At first, I was confused. Why would someone of his status come to me? But with Mother and Father nodding their approval, I agreed.

Oddly enough, he didn’t want a portrait. He told me to paint whatever I wanted, in whatever style I preferred. And the thing was, he had wanted to watch me paint. On Earth, it had felt almost like live painting. His tone was almost… carefree. It didn’t make sense, but I wasn’t going to question it.

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Harlan

A week ago.

Watching Vonn paint was like witnessing a genius at work, though he’d never admit it himself. His process was deliberate, almost surgical. He started with the foundation—soft, muted tones spread across the canvas as if he were whispering the town’s story instead of shouting it. Every stroke felt precise, each line carrying the weight of an idea only he could see.

It wasn’t just his skill that amazed me; it was how he saw. While anyone else might have painted a peaceful town filled with the usual idyllic details, Vonn caught the moments others overlooked. The sway of a crooked sign in the breeze. The shadow of a bird gliding over the cobblestone streets. He painted a town that didn’t just sit on a canvas—it lived, it breathed.

And then came the part that made it undeniably his. He added subtle dissonance—colors that clashed just enough to catch the eye, lines slightly off-center but still intentional. It wasn’t chaos, though. It was balance in imperfection, a kind of beauty that felt real, but not quite of this world.

When he finally stepped back, wiping his hands on a cloth, I couldn’t look away. The painting didn’t just show the town—it captured its soul, its heartbeat. In that moment, I realized no one else could’ve done what he did. Genius, plain and simple.

"You... are truly talented," I said, the words heavier with admiration than I intended. I had never admitted it aloud, but I’d always had a quiet fondness for paintings. When I overheard the neighbors talking about a child who could paint, my curiosity was piqued. Before I knew it, I had sought him out—and what he delivered wasn’t just a painting. It was something far more.

I offered to pay him for his work, but he refused. He simply said the painting was a gift, a gesture of gratitude for keeping the land peaceful. It was humbling.

He was only five years old, yet as I watched him, it felt as though I were observing an old soul—someone who had lived through lifetimes. The way he acted, the way he moved... it was nothing like a child.

This town, I thought, held more talent than I had ever imagined. And this boy—he had already surpassed it all.

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As I approached, I could hear Mother, Father, and Harlan exchanging pleasantries. A few neighbors had gathered, curious to hear what the landowner had to say.

They were discussing a certain noble when I decided to step in.

“Good day, Landowner,” I said, bowing my head respectfully.

Harlan turned to me and gave me a pat on the head.

“Well, how are you doing, Vonn?” he asked with a smile, though his cough sounded harsher than before.

“I’m doing fine, sir. Did your house find a good spot for the painting?” I asked.

He smiled again and glanced at my parents, who were beaming.

“It did! It complements my wall perfectly. Every time I wake up, I feel—aghh—ohhh, excuse me,” he said, breaking into a fit of coughing. “Your painting is remarkable, young boy,” he added, his voice still warm despite the strain.

I listened closely, noting the deep rasp in his voice. His cough sounded worse than before, each one sharp and painful.

“I even mentioned to the noble family that there’s a child in Farnham with a talent for painting,” he said with a grin.

I froze, startled by his words. My parents and the neighbors exchanged looks, their expressions a mix of surprise and awe.

“That’s… you don’t—” I started, but he cut me off with another pat on my head.

“Hold onto your kindness, child. It’ll make you stronger than any weapon ever could,” he said firmly.

I stood there, caught off guard by his words. Somehow, they felt heavier than they seemed, as though he’d just passed on an important lesson I didn’t yet fully understand.

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A week later, Harlan fell seriously ill and passed away. I didn’t expect it, but given his worsening health and age, it wasn’t a surprise.

Even though we’d only interacted a few times, his passing left a mark on me. I’d learned something during those brief moments.

The men who carried his body told us he’d spent his final days looking at my painting, smiling. Knowing that brought a strange feeling to my chest—like warmth mixed with a bittersweet ache.

I realized then how powerful small gestures could be. A hug, a smile, a simple act of kindness—things we might take for granted—can bring someone joy, even in their darkest moments.