The dust clung to Lonan's clothes, and the slight ache in his arms reminded him that today had actually required a little effort.
Not much—barely enough—but it had been… fun.
Most days were too predictable; most opponents moved like clocks, slow and careful.
Today had been different. Today had been interesting.
He crouched down by a random wooden sword, tracing the faint carvings with a fingertip as the sunlight caught them in a shimmer.
No one else noticed what he was doing. They were too busy cheering or talking nonsense about whoever it was he had defeated.
Lonan didn't care about their praise. It was just background noise.
What mattered was the feeling—the quiet thrill of moving exactly as he wanted, the feeling of the ground beneath him caving as he stepped, the world folding neatly around him for those few perfect seconds.
"You really are something," he muttered softly, mostly to himself.
It wasn't boastful—it was curious, the kind of curiosity that came when you just realized how small and strange the world could be when you paid close attention.
The air around him felt fresh, calming like the limits of the sky had lowered itself just into his reach
He stretched, feeling his muscles loosen with satisfaction. The other kids had wandered off, their chatter fading behind him. Good. Lonan liked quiet when thinking, when planning.
Quiet helped him notice the little things—the weight of a sword, the rhythm of a step, the tiny tells people gave off without realizing.
He rose, brushing dirt from his knees, and looked toward the horizon. Sevran Academy. What had effectively clawed itself into the position of the greatest academy on the continent.
If not on the planet.
The youngest ever admitted to the school after passing the entrance exam was...
Was it 15? No it was 16.
Alright then. 14 it was.
Lonan declared to himself that he would enter the academy at age 14, and force everyone to believe in his talent.
Seven years. Seven long, slow years until Sevran Academy. That seemed far away—but Lonan didn't mind. Time was just something to move through, a path to walk at his own pace.
Although he wasn't sure what the path was, or even where it was, he would figure that out as he walked in pursuit of it.
A plan began to form. Small steps first: practice. Watch. Learn. Keep moving. Every day, every duel, every moment would make him better, sharper, quicker. And if it wasn't fun along the way? Well, that was the only real failure he could experience.
For now, the world felt simple. The streets were empty, the air still, and every shadow a tiny glimmering reminder. By the time Sevran Academy came, he wouldn't just be ready—he'd be ready for the fun of it. For the podium at the highest level.
And he wasn't going to accept first or second.
***
My chest burned like fire, each breath tasting of dirt and sweat. The wooden sword lay abandoned, gleaming faintly in the sun, and somehow, I had still lost. How could a child—no, a mere infant in comparison—move like that? Like he accounted for every possibility, and still decided to bulldoze it anyway.
And even worse than how he moved.
It was where he moved to. He was ridiculously fast for a seven-year-old, and even faster when you consider his obvious lack of training. He couldn't even just be called fast for his age anymore.
He was fast in general.
That was a speed comparable to the higher knights, in probably the Fourth or Fifth Orders.
The rest of his physical abilities were mediocre. Definitely above average for anybody. But nothing that could make me take a double take.
He was the best definition of raw speed. His speed overshadowed everything else to the point it looked like he was untouchable. Both literally and figuratively.
My hands trembled around the hilt, fingers itching to strike, to correct some impossible mistake. But there was nothing. He had been simply out of my reach. Every flash of speed, every feint, every blink of a movement had left me guessing—and I had guessed wrong.
The murmurs of the other kids rose behind me, a flood of awe and praise, and it stung more than any blow. I'd faced seasoned fighters before, adults who had walked battlefields and bled for their victories. None had left me this hollow, this unsettled, like I had just glimpsed a truth I couldn't yet grasp.
He had vanished across the horizon, and all I could do was lie there, chest heaving, mind racing. And yet… I would understand. No, I had to understand. Next time, it would not be like this.
I had been slacking on my training, deluding myself that since there was no imminent existential threat, I had no reason to overexert myself. Days had slipped past in routines, in half-hearted drills, in sparring matches that barely scratched my limits. I had told myself it was enough to maintain some semblance of strength, that the world had calmed, that threats were distant shadows.
But the truth gnawed at me, sharp and insistent. Strength wasn't something you borrowed from yesterday, or assumed would be enough tomorrow. It had to be built, honed, forced into existence every single day.
And now, staring at the empty arena, the dust settling in soft clouds around me, I realized I had to be strong. Strong enough to thwart any potential danger, or at least surpass the power I'd wielded in my previous life. It didn't matter how long it took. Every wasted hour, every moment spent coasting, was a betrayal of what I'd been given.
It was the only way I could value the second chance at life I'd been give—
Wait.
The second chance.
If I returned through the light… then the Demon King must have too.
Was that bastard already rebuilding his forces?
Why wouldn't he have returned?
It's not like the universe favoured me in some kind of manner to grant me reincarnation but not him.
Oh god.
Why hadn't I thought of this sooner? Eight years spent thinking, planning, surviving—and only now did the possibility occur to me.
I didn't have time to burn anymore.
Not now.
Not ever.
I picked up the wooden sword that had been left by Lonan, a stark reminder of my pathetic inability to win where it mattered.
I wouldn't let myself lose like that again.
Not to Lonan.
Not to the supposed Demon King.
Not to anybody.
I would stand at the pinnacle of humanity as I once did.
And woe betide anyone who thought otherwise.
***
My stubby legs waddled through the door to the house, the cold wooden floor immediately cooling down my feet through my shoes. It had been a ward casted by Elena the moment I turned 4, and was able to finally walk properly. I wasn't sure if she had been waiting to cast it then, or if she just thought that was the right time.
It wasn't so cold it was painful, but wasn't so warm it was uncomfortable. It was a moderate lukewarm that almost made my struggles outside worth it.
The smell of food baking in the kitchen, almost definitely the work of Elena for the sole reason that Elias couldn't bake to save his life. Or cook. Or do any of the simple household necessities.
It was disappointing, frankly, but it seems to just be how my father was constructed.
The kitchen smelled like warm bread and herbs, the aroma curling around me like it belonged to some other world, softer and gentler than the chaos outside.
I paused just inside the doorway, letting my eyes adjust to the dimmer light, the familiar hum of the household settling around me.
There was something comforting in it, a reminder that life could exist without constant struggle, without constant motion—but it was a brief comfort, a fragile thing I could not linger on.
Elena moved at the counter, her hands steady, rolling dough with a precision that belied her relaxed posture.
She didn't look up when I entered.
She didn't need to.
She knew I was there. Some part of her always knew.
It was a comforting, grounding certainty, and yet, it made my chest tighten.
I had been drifting for so long in the haze of training, of plans and calculations, of endless "what-ifs" and the distant horizon.
It was easy to forget that there was life beyond the edge of my blade.
Elias, predictably, was nowhere near as composed.
The man had the posture of someone who feared the oven would explode at any moment, and the sound of a spoon clanging against a pan made him jump half a foot in the air.
He muttered curses under his breath in the language of frustrated bakers everywhere, swiping at flour that had escaped the counter like it had a mind of its own. I almost laughed. Almost.
I set the wooden sword carefully against the wall.
Its presence was like a brand, a reminder of what I lacked today, of the gap between me and what needed to be.
The dust clung to it in tiny clouds as I brushed my hands on my pants.
I didn't touch it again immediately. I didn't need to.
The memory of its weight, and the impossibility of matching what had been done with it, was burned into my muscles, into my nerve endings.
"You're home earlier than I expected." Elena said finally, her voice calm, steady. There was no accusation in it, only observation.
"I… had to rest," I muttered, knowing the words sounded feeble even to my own ears.
They would never capture the fire that had been burning me outside, the ache in my chest, the humiliation and awe all wrapped into one tight knot.
"Rest, or sulk?" she asked lightly, and for a moment, the tension in the room shifted slightly. She didn't need to see me to know.
She had always known. And I knew she was right.
Sulking, hiding, pretending it was just fatigue—it wouldn't bring strength. It wouldn't bring me closer to what I needed.
I took a breath, long and deliberate, forcing myself to centre.
My body still ached from exertion, and my mind still ran with calculations, possibilities, threats and contingencies, but I focused on the simple reality of the moment: I was here, alive, with another chance.
"Where's the sword from?" Elena probed, the first hint of curiosity I had heard from her for the last... while.
I wasn't going to answer because an explanation is longer than ignoring my issues.
So I changed the topic.
"Food smells good," I said finally, the words more a lifeline than a comment.
Elias's hands froze, mid-air, the tray in his hand angled dangerously close to collapsing onto the floor, as if he had not heard correctly. "You… you can smell that?" he asked, incredulous. "I—what—why?"
I ignored him, walking closer to the table.
The bread was golden, the crust perfect, the steam curling in the early afternoon light through the window.
My stomach growled despite itself. Causing an accusatory grin from Elias, one that very nearly spurred me into an unreasonable act of violence.
Hunger was secondary to thought, but it was there nonetheless. A reminder of the fact that, regardless of the amount I wanted to pretend I was some deity that existed only for strength, I existed. As much as I didn't think I should, or I didn't want to. Fate has it that I do. And I'm just gonna have to suck it up.
Elena smiled and slid a small plate toward me, on it a slice of bread and a thin smear of preserves.
The simplicity of it almost made me laugh, almost made me forget the impossible speed of a seven-year-old monstrosity.
"Eat," she said, not waiting for me to argue. "You'll need your strength for… whatever you're planning." Her words were careful, overly so, but she didn't look at me while she spoke. It was a subtle warning, a gentle nudge toward responsibility.
She didn't quite understand me, but she was supportive nonetheless. The kind of mother I wish I had had.
I picked up the bread, letting my fingers graze the soft texture, letting the warmth settle into my hands.
I chewed slowly, methodically, thinking as I ate.
Every bite was measured, every swallow deliberate. Not out of necessity, but because this was part of the habit I was forming—control, precision, awareness. Even in the simplest things.
The slightest lack of understanding was once a death sentence, so it had become second nature.
Elias finally exhaled, shaking his head. "What are you doing. No, like really, you're impossible. Why do you make everything about… about something?" He gestured sporadically, vaguely at me, vaguely at the house, and less vaguely at the universe.
"Can't you just—just eat without plotting world domination?" He continued, his voice teasing me slightly. I could tell he didn't mean it to offend, but he really didn't know what to say.
I smiled faintly. Not at him. At the heaviness. He didn't get it. He never could, not really. And that was fine. He wasn't meant to. And he didn't need to.
I finished the slice and placed the plate down carefully. Dust and sweat still clung to my shoulders, evidence of my failures, my shortcomings, my progress. And yet, even as I sat there, I felt it: the spark of something more. The pull toward mastery.
The drive to bridge the gap between this world and the nigh-impossible feats I had glimpsed outside.
Outside, Lonan's image lingered. The speed, the instinct, the overwhelming confidence—it wasn't a challenge to me, it was a symbol. A reminder that there were always thresholds, and that some thresholds weren't about strength alone.
They were about timing, perception, intuition—the kind of things that couldn't always be measured, but could always be prepared for.
I stood abruptly, flinging my chair backwards with a loud scraping sound, startling both Elena and Elias. Bread fell from the table, crumbs scattering across the floor like tiny stars. I ignored it. I had already made the decision.
No more half-measures. No more waiting for the 'right moment.' Every day from now, every waking hour, would be deliberate. Each motion, each step, each breath would be a training ground. Every misstep outside, every moment of hesitation, every fleeting weakness I had noticed in this version of myself would be corrected, honed into something unassailable.
I moved to the small training space at the edge of the house, where shadows from the roof stretched long across the floor. Wooden swords, spare shields, makeshift targets—all waited like silent mentors. Dust motes danced lazily in the sunlight that streamed through the windows.
I picked up one of the swords, feeling its familiar weight, the balance, the subtle imperfections in the grain of the wood. Each swing, each block, each feint would now carry the memory of today with it. Every motion would be a reminder that speed alone was not enough, that instinct without preparation was meaningless, and that the world would continue to throw challenges at me, whether I was ready or not.
And somewhere far beyond these walls, the shadow of a threat I had once defeated, the presence of a Demon King, lingered. I didn't know his exact position, or the full extent of his power, or the strategy he might employ. But I did know this: I could not be caught unaware again.
The first swings were awkward, sloppy even. My muscles screamed with remembered effort, my arms protested against the rhythm of repetition. But I did not stop. I could not. Each strike was a beat in a song I was only beginning to compose, a melody of accuracy, strength, and calculation.
Outside, the wind whispered past the eaves. Inside, the sound of wooden swords clashing echoed, a quiet symphony of preparation. And in the midst of it all, I felt the fire settle back into my chest—not the reckless fire of fear or frustration, but the controlled, deliberate heat of purpose.
Time would pass. Seasons would turn. Years would stretch like the horizon itself. But I had begun. And nothing—not anyone, not anything—would take this second chance from me.
Because I would claim it.
And I would make it matter.