A month had passed. In that time, Piers had learned much about his strange new life.
Their home stood deep within the embrace of a vast, verdant forest. It looked like something out of a storybook — cozy, built entirely from honey-colored wood, always bathed in golden sunlight. There were no shadowed corners here, only soft light streaming through wide windows, filling the house with warmth.
Outside, towering trees loomed like silent guardians, their leaves whispering secrets in the wind. From the window of his mother's room, Piers often glimpsed a silver ribbon threading through the woods — a river, calm and steady, its rhythm a quiet heartbeat to the world. For the first time in… well, two lives, he felt safe. As if he'd finally been given the home he once wished for.
It was just the four of them here — Rigas, Xylia, Styx, and him. No visitors. No neighbors. Only birdsong, wind, and the occasional rustle in the underbrush. A family sealed away in their own hidden pocket of the world.
And sealing them tighter still was the barrier.
At first glance it was nothing — only the faintest shimmer in the air when light struck just right. But Piers felt its presence constantly, encircling their home like a vast protective shell. Spellwork, certainly. Was it Father's? Mother's? He hadn't figured that out yet. What mattered was simple: nothing dangerous got through.
For now, that was enough.
Father was… complicated. At a glance, he looked like a warrior out of legend — broad-shouldered, jaw carved from stone, hair a blazing mane of golden fire. Yet he was a farmer. A farmer. The thought never failed to make Piers squint in disbelief.
But then he saw it: Rigas hauling timber with one arm while humming off-key. Forgetting where he'd set the firewood while still holding it. Accepting the day's work with the same steady ease he swung a sword. A doer, not a thinker. Quick to laugh, quicker to act. And when danger came, his blade moved faster than thought.
Mother, by contrast, was a paradox wrapped in silk. Shy, gentle, and almost withdrawn in quiet moments, yet sharp and merciless when focus demanded it. Her mind cut through problems like a blade through paper. And though she tried to hide it, her strength was… monstrous. Piers had already seen it: her grip breaking furniture, her playful taps sending Father sprawling, her scoldings carrying an undertone of lethal force she herself didn't realize.
Magic, though? That was Father's domain. Mother never cast a single spell. Yet the way she watched, the way she moved… Piers suspected there was far more to her than she revealed.
What mattered most? Love. For Piers, for Styx, for her family. It shimmered in every glance, every touch, every whisper—though her fury could still shake the heavens and humble even Father.
Mana thrummed in Piers' veins like a second heartbeat. By now, he had grown familiar with it — an infinite ocean at his command, shaping even his clumsy limbs. With focus, crawling became possible. With more, even walking. Feats no ordinary two-month-old could dream of.
Not that he could exactly show off. If Mother caught him? She'd faint. If Father caught him? he'd probably start training arcs early and call it "bonding."
So Piers practiced in secret.
Alright. Let's do this, he muttered inwardly.
Carefully—painstakingly—he propelled himself toward the window of his Mother's room, each movement slow, calculated. From the sill, he peered out at the shimmering barrier. It pulsed faintly with ethereal light — like living inside a giant, sparkling snow globe.
He steadied his breath, extended his senses beyond the barrier—
And the world opened before him.
Forests sprawling to the horizon. Villages tucked between fields. Rolling landscapes stitched together like an endless tapestry. For a moment, he forgot he was small. Forgotten, he was only two months old.
Then he felt it.
Father. Beyond the tree line, his presence burned in Piers' mana sense like a beacon. And he wasn't alone.
Monsters. Hulking, snarling things, all teeth and claws. They surrounded him.
And Rigas tore through them like wet paper. His blade carved arcs of silver light, movements fluid and flawless, each strike the culmination of instinct honed to perfection. It wasn't a fight. It was artistry — ruthless. A one-man army.
Villagers gathered, drawn by the noise. Fear shifted to awe. They offered him bread, baskets, and bundles wrapped in cloth. Rigas scratched the back of his head, sheepish, as though he hadn't just dismantled a monster horde with casual ease.
Piers almost smiled. Yeah, that fits him.
Then his mana sense snagged on something else.
Styx.
Wait—what is she doing?
Off the side little chaos-goblin crouched near a carcass, laughing as she tugged bones and claws free, piecing them together into some grotesque little fort.
Piers' newborn face scrunched in horror.
If mom sees this… the fort won't be the only thing destroyed.
...…..
As the warm, milk-scented haze of the afternoon faded and the sun began its ominous descent, casting long, dramatic shadows across the living room,
Piers had a bad feeling about this. The familiar space turned strangely unfamiliar in the golden-orange glow.
And Xylia… she had changed.
The soft, elegant woman who cradled piers just hours ago was still there, but now there was something else beneath the surface. Something sharper. Her violet-obsidian eyes glinted with a quiet intensity, and when she spoke, her voice had a low, resonant edge that made a chill crawl down my very tiny spine.
This was it.
The "devilish side."
And all of it—every ounce of that suppressed wrath—was aimed at Rigas.
Rigas, the walking slab of muscle who cleaved through monsters like weeds, was now kneeling.
Kneeling.
His hands rested neatly on his thighs, posture perfectly submissive, like a warrior awaiting judgment.
Piers was propped on the living room sofa, snug in a nest of blankets. Beside him, Styx sat cross-legged, golden curls bouncing as she leaned in close.
"Shh, it's starting," she whispered with gleeful anticipation.
Xylia stood across the room, arms folded, eyes sharp and glowing faintly. Her tone was calm—too calm.
"Rigas," she said, her voice a low purr, "do you have any idea what our daughter was doing this afternoon?"
Rigas offered a small, uneasy smile. "Uh... playing nicely?" he ventured.
Xylia's expression didn't change. "Nicely? She was playing with bloody monster bits, the kind that still have teeth."
Rigas blinked. "Oh… that."
"I made a crown! Wanna see?" Styx whispered into Piers's ear, her breath tickling his cheek.
"It had fangs."
Rigas chuckled awkwardly. "She seemed to be having so much fun! And she made such a cute little crown out of the… the less pointy bits."
"Cute?" Xylia repeated, her voice rising slightly.
"She's four."
Another step.
"She could've been hurt."
Another.
"She could've eaten something."
"I did eat a bug once!" Styx piped up, her eyes wide with innocent curiosity, kicking her legs like she'd just remembered the best joke in the world. "Remember, Papa? It tickled!"
Xylia's eyes widened, her face turning a dangerous shade of purple. A dark aura flared around her, making the shadows in the room deepen.
Her voice dropped to a chilling growl.
"You ATE a BUG?!"
Rigas raised both hands defensively.
"She's fine! Look at her—healthy, energetic, great immune system!"
Xylia closed her eyes, breathed in deep, and exhaled slowly through her nose.
"I swear, sometimes I feel like I'm raising three children."
Rigas gave a sheepish grin and scratched the back of his neck.
Styx leaned into Piers again, giggling.
"Mama's mad. Papa's in trouble."
Piers just watched the scene unfold like a live drama. Compared to soul-binding curses and reincarnation confusion, this was… actually kind of fun.
* * *