To an outsider, it would look like two children playing with wooden weapons. But the physics told a different story:
Each impact cracked reinforced training ground stone. Each missed strike left cuts in the air itself—not from sharpness, but from pure velocity. When their weapons met, the sound was wrong—too sharp, too forceful, echoing across the backyard like miniature thunderclaps.
After fifteen minutes of continuous combat, both children were breathing hard.
Celestia's spear work had evolved dramatically. She'd incorporated at least seven new techniques, adapted her footwork ten times, and developed two entirely original combination attacks.
Runar had maintained his one-level advantage, but only by continuously adapting his own approach. Staying exactly one step ahead of someone who was learning this fast required active effort, even for him.
"Time!" Seraphina called out, her voice strained. "Both of you, stop! Right now!"
Both children froze, weapons still raised.
"But we were just getting started!" Celestia protested. "I almost had him that time!"
She really hadn't, Runar thought. But the fact that she thinks she was close shows excellent battle instinct.
Parents' Perspective
Jake set down his teacup with a hand that trembled slightly.
Lirien's face was pale, her eyes wide with shock and something approaching fear.
Seraphina had abandoned her chair entirely, standing at the edge of the porch with her cultivation base flickering protectively.
"What," Jake said slowly, each word careful and measured, "was that?"
The three adults stared at the training ground—now covered in small craters, frost patterns, scorch marks from qi impact, and cracks radiating from dozens of impact points.
"They're seven and five years old," Seraphina whispered. "Seven. And five."
"That spear technique Celestia was using," Jake continued, his cultivator's eye analyzing what he'd witnessed. "That was Peak Heaven-grade. Minimum. The combination attacks toward the end were touching Divine-grade territory."
"Impossible," Seraphina said automatically. "Heaven-grade martial arts take decades to master. She's five."
"And Runar," Lirien added, her voice barely audible. "His sword work was..."
"I couldn't classify it," Jake finished. "Every movement was perfect. Not just good—perfect. Economy of motion that surpasses our instructors at the academy. And he was holding back the entire time."
"Holding back?" Seraphina turned to him. "How can you tell?"
"Because he never once used his full speed or power," Jake explained. "Watch Celestia—she's breathing hard, sweating, clearly pushed to her limit. Runar looks like he could keep going for hours. And every single one of his counters stopped exactly one level above Celestia's ability. Not overwhelming. Not flashy. Just... precisely better."
"He was teaching her," Lirien realized. "The entire fight. He was measuring his skill to stay exactly one step ahead so she'd learn faster."
The three adults looked at each other, sharing the same unspoken thought:
What kind of monsters are our children becoming?
"Those movements," Seraphina said finally. "The power in those impacts. If they weren't on this reinforced training ground, if they weren't on Telstra with its dense atmosphere and heightened gravity..."
"They'd be causing catastrophic damage," Jake finished grimly.
Runar, listening with his enhanced senses, confirmed their assessment. They're not wrong. If Celestia and I fought like this on Earth—even with this much suppression—each of our strikes would be like small explosions. The craters we're leaving would be measured in city blocks instead of feet.
But here on Telstra, with gravity hundreds of times Earth's normal, with atmosphere dense enough to slow even supersonic objects, with space itself reinforced by the planet's sheer mass—our "destructive" sparring barely registers as unusual.
The humans born here are evolved for this environment. Even without cultivation, a normal Telstra human could probably lift a car on Earth. With cultivation, the disparity becomes even more extreme.
This world operates on a completely different scale.
"Again!" Celestia called out, having caught her breath. "I figured out how to counter that last move! Let me try!"
"NO!" all three parents shouted simultaneously.
Celestia deflated. "But I was just getting warmed up..."
"You've already created seven new techniques in fifteen minutes," Seraphina said, descending from the porch with a mixture of pride and exasperation. "Any more and your foundation might become unstable. You need to consolidate what you've learned."
"And Runar," Lirien added, approaching her son. "We need to talk about where you learned those sword techniques."
"I didn't learn them?" Runar offered. "I just... knew them? The moment I picked up the katana, it felt natural."
Which was absolutely true. His Void Severance Katana Soul had provided instinctive mastery.
Jake exchanged a long look with Seraphina. Finally, he sighed.
"Both of you, sit," he commanded, pointing to meditation mats. "We're going to have a serious discussion about combat safety, power control, and why you absolutely cannot demonstrate these abilities at the academy entrance examination."
As both children obediently sat—Celestia looking disappointed, Runar looking appropriately chastised—the adults gathered together for an urgent conference.
"This changes everything," Seraphina muttered. "If other families see them fight like that—"
"They'd be recruited by force," Jake agreed. "Or worse, seen as threats to be eliminated."
"So we hide it," Lirien said firmly. "Completely. They show Meteor Forging and Stardust Awakening level skills respectively. Nothing more. Nothing less. Agreed?"
"Agreed," both other adults said.
They turned back to the children, who were sitting quietly with their wooden weapons laid respectfully beside them.
And tried very hard not to think about the fact that their supposedly innocent training session had just revealed that two children—seven and five years old—possessed martial abilities that could potentially threaten experienced cultivators.
Just another day in the Cross household, Jake thought with dark humor.
Just another day raising monster geniuses who could accidentally reshape the cultivation world.
Normal parenting problems.
That Night - Runar's Room
Runar sat on his bed, examining the wooden katana he'd brought back to his room. In the moonlight filtering through his window, the simple training weapon looked entirely ordinary.
But when he gripped it, when he let just a fraction of his Void Severance Katana Soul's resonance flow through—
The weapon thrummed with potential. Not ready. Not awakened. But waiting.
When I reach Planetary Core realm, this soul will fully awaken, Runar thought. And when it does...
He remembered the instinctive knowledge that had flooded him during the spar. Techniques that could cut through space itself. Movements that existed in the gaps between moments. Strike patterns that could sever not just bodies, but Intent, Laws, and eventually Rules themselves.
The Void Severance Katana Soul. A Chaos-grade weapon souls from ancient times.
And it's mine.
Outside his window, Celestia's house was probably dark except for her training room, where she was probably already practicing the new techniques she'd developed during their spar.
Runar smiled. She'll come back tomorrow demanding another match. And the day after. And every day until the academy.
Good. She should push herself. She has the talent to become truly extraordinary.
And I'll be there every step of the way, staying exactly one level ahead, pushing her to greater and greater heights.
Because what good is ultimate power if you can't help the people who matter reach their own potential?
He set the wooden katana aside and lay back on his bed.
Twenty-four days until the academy entrance examination.
Twenty-four days of training, of careful suppression, of maintaining the illusion of being merely "very talented" instead of transcendently powerful.
And then—finally—the academy itself.
Real challenges, Runar thought as sleep began to claim him. Real danger. Real stimulus to break through my limits.
I'm ready.