Wishe Forest
I sat surrounded by books, their ancient spines forming walls of leather and parchment that stretched higher than my small frame could reach. The scent of aged paper and lingering magic filled my lungs with every breath—a perfume more intoxicating than any flower in the Wishe Forest.
Five years.
Five years since I drew my first breath in this world, trapped in an infant's body with the mind of a man who had already lived—and died—once before.
Five years of waiting, watching, and learning.
My fingers traced the delicate script of the elven tome before me, the language flowing like water across the page. It had taken me an entire year to master it, my tongue tripping over sounds that didn't exist in my previous life. But I had persisted. I had conquered.
Never again will I be helpless.
The thought surfaced unbidden, sharp and bitter, like the memory of that final moment—the screech of tires, the flash of headlights, the jarring impact that had torn me from my old existence. I pushed it down. The past was a ghost, and I had no use for ghosts.
My body hummed with barely contained power. Even now, I could feel it—an ocean of mana pulsing beneath my skin, begging to be released. But I held it back, wrapped it in layers of concealment that the dragon tribe would have admired. A technique I had discovered in a forgotten corner of my family's vast library, written in blood on scales that had long since turned to dust.
Let them see only a child. Let them underestimate me.
The thought brought a small smile to my lips as I turned the page.
Beyond my sanctuary, the Wishe Forest sprawled across the southern reaches of the elven kingdom—a kingdom of staggering size, a domain of ancient trees whose roots drank from the very heart of the world. The Alf Mountain rose at its center, a spire of white stone crowned with sacred trees that pulsed with nature's raw energy.
I could feel it from here. The faint heartbeat of the land.
Even through my carefully woven concealment, the connection remained. A thread tied to something greater than myself.
The door creaked, and I felt the shift in the air before I heard the voice.
"Young Master..."
I looked up from my book to find Laffey standing in the doorway, a tray balanced in her hands. Steam rose from a bowl, carrying the scent of wild herbs and roasted meat that made my stomach growl in betrayal.
She was a woman of middle years, her blonde hair streaked with silver, her blue eyes carrying the warmth of a thousand sunrises. She had been there from the beginning—the first face I had seen in this world, the hands that had held me when I was too weak to hold myself.
"Breakfast," she announced, her voice carrying that familiar note of reproach. "But I wonder, Young Master... is it wise to lock yourself away among these books when the forest calls you outside?"
I gestured at the scroll spread before me—a map of the known world, its edges blurred with speculation and faded ink. "The world is vast, Laffey. I'm merely exploring it from here."
She sighed, the sound carrying the weight of someone who had long since accepted her young master's peculiarities. Setting the tray before me, she remained standing, her smile patient and unwavering.
Like Lilia, I thought, the memory of my previous life's caretaker surfacing unbidden. My second mother in both worlds.
"Please eat first, Young Master."
"Of course."
The elven cuisine was a revelation. The rice was long-grained and pearlescent, each kernel separate and distinct, carrying a hint of something sweet that I had never tasted before. The white broth swirled with vegetables and tender strips of venison, and the milk—fresh and creamy—washed it all down in a way that brought tears to my eyes.
After years of surviving on scraps and scavenged food... this always reminds me of what I have now.
I ate quickly, my hunger surprising even me. Laffey watched with that patient smile, her approval warming the room more than the fire that crackled in the hearth.
"Delicious," I breathed, setting down my spoon. "Thank you, Laffey."
Her smile deepened. "You are welcome, Young Master."
BAM!
The door crashed against the wall, and I felt the vibrations through the very roots of the tree. My heart leaped into my throat, the book nearly slipping from my fingers.
"Oberon! Mother's home!"
That voice.
That voice carried the warmth of summer sunlight and the chaos of a spring storm. It was a voice that filled rooms before the body could enter, a voice that demanded attention and received it without question.
Oh no. Not again.
I barely had time to brace myself.
Footsteps thundered up the spiral staircase—rapid, purposeful, completely undignified for a lady of her station. I heard Laffey's startled squeak as she was nearly bowled over, and then—
BANG!
The library doors burst open, slamming against the walls with enough force to rattle the nearest shelves. Dust motes danced in the sudden light as a whirlwind of silk and blonde hair swept through the entrance.
She was beautiful in the way that storms were beautiful—impossible to ignore, impossible to contain, and utterly beyond the control of mere mortals.
"Madam—" Laffey began, but she was already moving.
My mother crossed the room in three rapid strides, her golden eyes locked on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. And then—
"Mmm! I missed you so much!"
She swept me from my chair, crushing me against her chest in an embrace that smelled of summer flowers and distant lands. I felt my face press against the soft fabric of her dress, the scent of her perfume flooding my senses.
"Mother," I grumbled, my voice muffled. "I'm five now. Aren't you spoiling me too much?"
"Never." She pulled back just enough to look at me, her golden eyes dancing with that mischievous gleam I had grown to dread and love in equal measure. "Not until you're at least a hundred years old!"
I sighed—the long, suffering sigh of a child who carried an old soul within his breast.
Hopeless. Completely hopeless.
But even as I pretended to resist, I felt something warm bloom in my chest. Something that had nothing to do with the summer sun filtering through the window.
She had been gone for three weeks—diplomatic duties at the border, negotiations with the merchant clans that flowed through our territory like rivers of gold. In that time, I had read every book in the library twice over, mapped the forest's boundaries in my mind, and studied the spirits that watched over our home.
But none of it compared to this moment.
Her gaze flicked to the tome in my lap, and her smile widened into something truly wicked.
"Already studying magic, my little magus?" Her voice dipped into a teasing lilt.
"I'm just curious about magic, Mother."
She laughed—bright and musical, like wind chimes in a spring breeze. "Fufu~ Perfect timing! Mother can stay longer this time. I'll teach you everything our family knows."
My heart leaped.
Finally.
But then—hesitation. A shadow at the edge of my thoughts.
"And Father?" I asked carefully. "When will he return?"
The man I called father in this life—stoic, disciplined, a warrior of legendary skill—had been gone for six months. Six months of silence, of letters that arrived too slowly, of worry that festered like an unhealed wound.
My mother's smile dimmed. The light in her eyes flickered, just for a moment, before she mastered herself.
"I'm sorry, Oberon." Her voice softened, losing its playful edge. "The Fultone Kingdom has been raiding our borders again. He won't be back... for a while."
'Fultone.'
The name twisted in my chest like a bitter root. Our most hostile neighbor—always testing our defenses, always probing for weakness. They used proxies, of course. Bandits and mercenaries who could be disavowed. But we all knew who was behind the raids, behind the attempts to kidnap our people.
Elven slaves fetched high prices on the black market. And the Fultone nobles had grown rich on that ugly trade.
"I understand," I said quietly.
My mother's hand found my hair, ruffling it gently. "We start tomorrow. But first—" Her eyes gleamed with that familiar mischief, and a chill ran down my spine. "A bath together!"
"W-wait! I already bathed today!"
"Fufu~ No, you didn't."
I shot a desperate look at Laffey, who was doing an admirable impression of a decorative statue by the door. The maid's expression was apologetic, but she kept her silence.
Traitor.
Mother's laughter echoed through the library as she scooped me up, carrying me toward the bath despite my protests.
====x====
The afternoon sun bathed the open green field behind our home in golden light, the breeze carrying the scent of wildflowers and fresh earth. I sat cross-legged in the grass; eyes locked on my mother as she moved with effortless grace.
"I want you to make your own conclusion, Oberon," she said, her voice calm but firm. "So, observe closely."
I gave a firm nod, my fingers digging into the grass in anticipation.
"Then, Mother will start with normal magic..."
She stretched her right hand forward, palm open toward a massive boulder half-buried in the field. No hesitation. No wasted motion.
"Firebolt!"
A searing ball of flame erupted from her palm, streaking through the air like a shooting star before—
BOOM!
The explosion shook the ground beneath me, a shockwave rippling outward, strong enough to make my hair whip back. The boulder was now a smoking crater; fragments of stone scattered like broken teeth.
"T-that's amazing, Mother!" I gasped.
And it is amazing. A spell of that power, summoned in less than a second with just one words?
A satisfied smirk curled her lips as she watched my stunned expression. "That was 'Firebolt'—basic combat magic. But if you're proficient enough..."
She raised her hand again—no chant this time.
Another firebolt blasted forth, just as devastating as the first.
"No chant?!" I nearly leapt to my feet.
'So it not so special in this world!'
"Once you master a spell, you don't even need words," she said, pride lacing her voice.
"Can I try?" The question burst out of me before I could stop it.
Her smile faltered. "No. Theory first, then practice. An unstable cast could make the fire explode in your face—and mother won't ever risk that."
I bit back my protests at the steel in her voice.
"Next," she said, turning toward Laffey, our family's attendant. The woman nodded and stepped forward, weaving a shimmering barrier around us.
"This is spirit magic," Mother announced. "Similar in nature to fire magic, but..."
She inhaled deeply, and the air itself seemed to grow heavy.
"Hear me, O spirits of ash and pyre!"
A crimson magic circle flared to life before her, its intricate runes burning with otherworldly light.
"Lend me your teeth of scorching ire! I carve the runes of the old world's end! Feed my hands with wrath unspent!"
A swirling orb of fire gathered before her—twice the size of a football, pulsing like a living thing. The heat washed over me, even behind Laffey's barrier.
"By the pact of the first wildfire's tongue—IGNIS ULTIMA!"
The fireball shot forward, faster than Firebolt, and when it struck—
KABOOM!
The earth trembled. The shockwave knocked me back, my ears ringing as dirt and debris rained down around us. When the smoke cleared, half the boulder was simply… gone.
"Three stages," Mother said, her voice cutting through my awe. "Call the spirit, shape and control the mana, then designate your target and release."
My mind raced, comparing the two spells.
Firebolt is instant, efficient—perfect for battle. But spirit magic… that raw power is on another level.
"So," Mother's voice pulled me back. "Do you understand now, Oberon?"
I nodded. "Spirit magic is stronger, but the casting time is a weakness. Unless…" I hesitated. "Can you cast it without chanting mother?"
"Impossible," she said. "The spirits must hear your words to answer. Unless..."
My pulse spiked. "Unless what?"
"You form a contract with a spirit aligned to your magic."
My excitement dimmed. Spirit contracts hadn't been made in centuries—most spirits had withdrawn from mortals long ago.
"Now," Mother clapped her hands together, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Before you dream of spirits, we focus on the basics—control and sensing mana."
A sudden idea struck me. "Mother, why not use a Grimoire? Wouldn't that speed things up?"
Grimoires were rare, priceless spellbooks that could implant knowledge directly into the mind. No theory, no practice—just instant mastery.
She chuckled. "An interesting thought. But shortcuts make for weak foundations. Spirit magic requires understanding, not just memorization."
I clenched my fists, determination flaring in my chest.
"Then I'll learn it the right way!"
Mother's smile was all the approval I needed.
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