Dawn came thin and gray, sliding across the Valeheart banners like a promise that had not yet learned to be loud. Arion woke before the bell, muscles still humming with the memory of yesterday's sparring. The quiet of the household felt fragile; every creak and distant footstep was a reminder that this life could change in the blink of a blade.
He dressed slowly, hands methodical. In the small mirror above the wash basin his face looked younger than it had any right to be. That boyish face carried a man's memory now — names, betrayals, numbers of enemies, the weight of decisions that had felled an entire clan. He ran a hand through his hair and let his eyes drift out the window to the training yard below, where apprentices already moved like a tide of small, earnest determination.
If I had started training at ten… the thought arrived like a blade he'd used before: mindful and precise. In the life he'd lost, Arion had pushed himself hard and late; he'd broken through to the Elemental Sovereign only after decades of brutal work. If he'd begun at ten, perhaps he would have climbed faster, learned some tricks earlier. But the past was ash. This was the ember he still held.
"No problem," he said aloud, and the words felt less like denial and more like choice. He would not mourn what he could not change. He had one unshakable truth now: knowledge without strength was cruelty to those you loved. He would gain that strength, step by step, grinding patience into power.
He descended to the yard and joined the line. The morning air bit at his lungs, and every strike, every parry reminded him that his body belonged to this timeline. Memory only shortened the learning curve; it did not rewrite the rules. He could not rely on miracles. He could, however, use foresight.
Rowan paired with him again. The brother's grin and effortless strikes were balm and test all at once. Arion met him with a rhythm tuned by memory — not perfect, but smart. He blocked where he would have once been cut; he feinted where he would have once been obvious. Sweat and the sting of impact were honest teachers.
During a lull, as they rested under the eaves, Arion spoke quietly. "Do you ever think about leaving, Row? About going farther than the Dominion?"
Rowan shrugged, drying his blade. "Sometimes. But why run when home needs defending? Besides, you'd miss me."
Arion smiled, but his mouth was tight. He thought of Darius Drakar's smile in that other life — not a grin of jest, but a map of ambition. He thought of Rowan's hand at Darius's throat in a hall of fire. He thought of how slowly rot spreads when left unseen.
That night, after family supper and a careful conversation with Serenya about some small remedy she needed, Arion sat alone in his little study. Candlelight painted the room the color of old armor. He opened a worn journal — a new one for this life — and wrote three lines, slow and furious:
1. Protect Elandra and my parents.
2. Reforge the Broken Sword, shard by shard.
3. Ascend, step by step, to the powers needed—no shortcuts.
He closed the book and read his own handwriting until the letters steadied his heartbeat. He remembered, painfully clear, how high he had reached in his first life: Elemental Sovereign. He had tasted elemental mastery — the bending of flame, the shaping of wind, the command of stone — and it had felt like standing on a cliff looking down at a war of ants. Beyond that, myths whispered of greater realms, lands where gods threw their weight like storms. He had never wanted gods then; he had only wanted to save what he loved. Yet to defend those things, he had to be prepared for any force: human, demonic, or divine.
He plotted the ladder in his mind once more, each rung a distance to be earned:
Mortal Realm: Apprentice → Adept → Master
Spirit Realm: Spirit Initiate → Spirit Knight → Spirit Lord
Elemental Realm: Elemental Disciple → Elemental Champion → Elemental Sovereign
Mythic Realm: Mythic Ascendant → Mythic Warlord → Mythic King
Divine Realm: Demigod → True God → Eternal Sovereign
He had reached Elemental Sovereign once; he knew what it required. He also knew it had nearly killed him in other ways: arrogance, isolation, the slow corrosion of compassion. This time, the climb would be disciplined and careful. He could never again let power become an excuse for cruelty.
The next morning he sought training beyond the usual drills. He made two choices: one public, one quiet.
Publicly, he asked Master Loren to teach him more intensive forms — longer sparring, endurance work, and the old sword kata that forged balance between footwork and will. Loren was a stoic man whose patience had the feel of stone; he gave Arion rough approval and a longer regimen. The work was humbling. Arion fell more than he struck at first. His muscles forgot faster than his mind, and his lungs bit like cold iron. Each bruise was a ledger entry owed to the future.
Quietly, Arion visited the library. He read old reports and clan records, learning not only techniques but histories — how Drakar rose, where Thornshade bought poison, when the Celestine Order shifted alliances. Knowledge, he had learned, was as vital as muscle. He found maps that marked the Valeheart vault, the place where the ancestral blade rested in his youth. The sword existed in this timeline, whole and guarded—at least for now. That knowledge turned his plan into something tangible: recover the sword when the time was right and, if necessary, hide a shard or two where only he could find them.
He also made mental notes of the major powers on the continent. If he was to set a path without surprises, he must understand who held the land:
Continent: Azerion — Major Clans & Factions
Valeheart Clan (Arion's): Swordsmen, honor, ancestral heirloom (Broken Sword).
Drakar Clan (Main antagonist): Dragon-themed warriors, the most powerful military force in Valdrake Dominion and a looming threat.
Thornshade Sect: Assassins and mercenaries; practitioners of forbidden arts.
Celestine Order: Religious knights and paladins; politically influential and sometimes hypocritical.
Ironfang Tribe: Nomads, beast-tamers; wild, brutal, and unpredictable.
Smaller Houses & Mercenary Bands: Local lords, traders, and hired forces who tip the balance of small wars.
He circled the Drakar Clan in his mind. In the old life they had carved the Dominion into lines of smoke; their reach had been vast. If any group could be called the most powerful it was them — a behemoth of arms, gold, and appetite. To defeat them would require more than skill; it would require alliances, secrets, and timing.
When word reached him that a small Drakar scouting party had been spotted near the northern ridge, Arion didn't call for an immediate confrontation. He noted it. He watched. He would not waste strength on a firefly when the pyre of war still smoldered. His revenge, he promised himself, would be measured and absolute. He would slash every enemy if necessary — men, demons, or gods — but only when the cut would count.
On a moonless night, lying awake and listening to the farm dogs bark in the distance, Arion let his ambition find its shape. He would start with the body: relentless training, endurance, mastery of primary sword techniques, and the cultivation steps that would open the Spirit Realm. Then he would seek teachers for elemental control and friends who could be trusted with parts of the plan. He would not rush to remould himself into a god. He would climb.
The vow did not sound like the roar of a god. It sounded like a steady footstep in an empty hall.
"Step by step," he whispered. "One rung at a time."
Outside the walls, the Drakar banners watched like dark eyes. Inside, Arion folded his will into the small, steady rituals of a man rebuilding a life: early rising, measured food, relentless practice, and study. He had the map of the ladder. He had a family to protect. He had the shardless memory of a sword that had once broken and the knowledge that he could, with care and patience, forge it whole again — not for glory, but for those he loved.
That promise, small and human, hardened like steel in the quiet. It was the beginning of the climb.
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