The first five years of my new life passed in a blur of warmth and safety I'd never known.
My mother, Marianne, was a constant presence. She read to me, sang to me, held me when nightmares of falling jolted me awake. She taught me my letters, my numbers, the history of this world called Aeternum. Her patience seemed endless, her love unconditional.
It was everything Kenji Yamamoto had never had.
And I treasured every moment, even as guilt gnawed at me. Did I deserve this? Did a bully who'd died unloved and unmourned deserve a mother who looked at him like he hung the moon?
I tried not to think about it too much.
My father, Duke Heinrich Ashford, was away more often than not—managing territories, attending the royal court, handling whatever political machinations kept the nobility occupied. But when he was home, he made time for us.
He'd sit in my mother's solar while she embroidered or read, discussing estate matters in that deep, commanding voice. Sometimes he'd pick me up, hold me at eye level with those piercing ice-blue eyes, and study me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve.
"He's bright," he'd say to my mother. "Unusually so. Most children his age can barely string together sentences. Aldric speaks like a boy twice his age."
"He's special," my mother would reply, smiling at me. "I've always known it."
I tried to act more childish after that. Stumbled over words intentionally. Asked obvious questions. Played with wooden toys like they fascinated me.
But it was hard. My adult mind chafed at pretending to be five years old.
My siblings remained distant, which was fine by me. Wilhelm, now twenty-three, had moved to manage one of Father's subsidiary estates. Katerina, twenty-one, was being courted by various nobles. I'd overheard servants gossiping about a potential marriage and stuff like that.
The others I saw occasionally at formal dinners. Friedrich, now nineteen, studied military strategy and barely acknowledged my existence. Celestia, eighteen, had developed a talent for music and spent most of her time in the conservatory. Elise, twelve, sometimes watched me with curious brown eyes but never approached. Lucian, ten, was the only one who seemed genuinely friendly, though Wilhelm's influence kept him cautious around me.
It should have been perfect.
But something was wrong.
With me.
I noticed it gradually. The way my thoughts drifted during my mother's lessons. The way I evaluated other children when we visited noble families—sizing them up, determining who was weak, who was strong, who would be a threat.
The way I watched my half-siblings and automatically calculated how I could hurt them if I needed to.
Old habits. Old instincts.
The mindset of someone who'd spent years learning that strength was the only thing that mattered. That the strong stood on top and the weak got crushed beneath them.
I'd promised myself I'd be different this time. Be better.
But the thoughts came anyway, unbidden and familiar.
It terrified me.
I was five years old when everything changed.
It was a late summer afternoon. My mother was meeting with Lady Helena—some political necessity that required the Duke's wives to occasionally pretend they didn't hate each other. She'd left me in the care of my personal maid, Clara, a kind woman in her thirties with graying hair and a patient smile.
"Stay in the gardens, young master," Clara said as I wandered outside. "Don't go too far."
I nodded, already planning to ignore her.
The Ashford manor was massive, a sprawling estate with multiple wings, courtyards, and gardens. The training yard was on the eastern side, where knights and guards practiced combat.
I'd watched them before from my window. Watched them spar with swords, practice formations, go through drills that looked simultaneously brutal and elegant.
Magic existed in this world, but so did physical combat. Warriors who enhanced their bodies with mana, moving faster and hitting harder than should be possible. Knights who could cut through stone with mana-infused blades.
I wanted that.
No—I needed that.
Because even at five years old, even in a body that should have felt safe, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was vulnerable. Weak. One push away from losing everything again.
The training yard was mostly empty in the afternoon heat. A few guards sat in the shade, playing dice. Training dummies lined one side—wooden posts wrapped in leather and straw, used for practicing strikes.
I walked up to one, tilted my head back to look at it. It was nearly twice my height.
In my previous life, I'd been a fighter. Not trained, not disciplined, but effective. I'd learned on the streets that some people were naturally better at certain things. Some guys could punch hard. Some could take hits.
Me? I'd been good at kicking.
Something about my build, my flexibility, the way my body moved—I could generate power with my legs that my fists never matched. And once I got someone down, I was good at keeping them there. Grappling, controlling, making sure they stayed beaten.
It had been six years since I'd had working legs.
Six years plus five years in this new body.
Eleven years since I'd thrown a kick.
I looked at the training dummy. Looked at my small five-year-old legs.
Then I kicked it.
The strike was clumsy, unbalanced. My technique was terrible, too much wind-up, wrong angle, no hip rotation. My tiny body didn't have the mass or strength to do anything.
The dummy didn't even shake.
Frustration flared in my chest. Hot and familiar.
I kicked it again. And again.
Each strike was pathetic. Weak. Useless.
The feeling was too familiar. Too much like those months in the wheelchair when my body wouldn't do what my mind commanded.
"No," I muttered, kicking harder. "Not again. I'm not weak. I'm not—"
The dummy still didn't move.
Something snapped inside me. That old rage, that old desperate need to prove I wasn't powerless.
I kicked with everything I had. Put my whole body into it, screaming with effort.
The dummy rocked slightly.
I kicked again. And again. My legs were burning, my breathing ragged, but I didn't stop.
Because stopping meant accepting weakness.
And I couldn't be weak again.
I couldn't.
"Young master?" Clara's voice, distant and worried. "Young master Aldric!"
I ignored her. Kicked harder.
My vision was blurring. Tears? Sweat? I didn't know.
All I knew was that I had to prove something. To myself. To the universe. To the ghost of Kenji Yamamoto who'd died powerless.
I had to—
Something changed.
Between one kick and the next, the world shifted.
Suddenly I could see... something. Tiny particles in the air, drifting like dust motes but glowing faintly. They were everywhere, in the air, in the ground, in the dummy, in my own body.
Mana.
I was seeing mana.
The realization should have shocked me, should have made me stop.
But I was too far gone, too deep in that old mindset where only strength mattered.
I kicked again, and this time I felt the mana in my body respond. Felt it move with my breath—in through my nose as I prepared, out through my mouth as I struck.
The particles in my body—transparent, almost invisible compared to the ambient mana around me—flowed down my leg as I kicked.
The impact felt different. Stronger.
The dummy rocked back harder.
"Yes," I hissed, breathing hard. "Yes."
I kicked again, focusing on that feeling. Breathing in, drawing something from the air. Breathing out, pushing it through my body into the strike.
The dummy shook violently.
Again. Breathe in. Breathe out. Kick.
The leather wrapping started to tear.
The guards had stopped their dice game. Were standing, staring.
"Is that..."
"The young master is manifesting mana?"
I didn't hear them. Didn't care.
One more kick. The biggest one. Drawing in as much as I could with one breath, feeling my tiny body fill with that transparent energy, then releasing it all in one explosive strike.
My leg hit the dummy.
The world seemed to pause.
Then the dummy exploded.
Wood splintered. The leather tore. Straw burst out in a cloud. The post snapped in half, the top section flying back twenty feet before crashing to the ground.
I stood there, leg still extended, breathing hard.
Then my legs gave out.
I collapsed to the ground, utterly exhausted. My limbs felt like lead. My lungs burned. My vision swam.
But I was smiling.
Because I'd done it.
I wasn't weak anymore.
I woke up in my bed.
My mother sat beside me, her face pale with worry. She was holding my hand, and I could see tear tracks on her cheeks.
"Aldric," she breathed when my eyes opened. "Oh, thank the gods. You've been unconscious for three hours."
My body felt like it had been hit by a truck. Every muscle ached. My head pounded.
"What..." My voice came out hoarse. "What happened?"
"You destroyed a training dummy," a deep voice said.
My father stood in the doorway, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable.
"At five years old, with no training, you somehow manifested mana and completely destroyed a combat dummy designed to withstand strikes from grown men."
He walked closer, those ice-blue eyes studying me with new intensity.
"The guards said you were crying while you did it. Screaming. Like you were fighting for your life against an enemy only you could see."
My mother's hand tightened on mine. "Heinrich...."
"It's fine, Marianne." He sat on the other side of the bed, still watching me. "I'm not angry. I'm... intrigued."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Tell me, Aldric. What were you thinking about when you destroyed that dummy?"
I couldn't tell him the truth. Couldn't explain that I'd been five-year-old Aldric on the outside but eighteen-year-old Kenji on the inside, having a breakdown because being weak again terrified me more than anything.
"I wanted to be strong," I said quietly. "Like you. Like the knights. I don't want to be... helpless."
Something flickered in his eyes. Understanding, maybe.
"Helpless," he repeated. "You're five years old, the son of a Duke, protected by guards and walls and your family's power. What could you possibly have to fear?"
Everything. I wanted to say. I could lose everything again. Everyone I care about could leave. I could fall and never get back up.
But I just looked away.
My father was quiet for a long moment. Then he stood.
"Marianne, our son has an aptitude for combat. A significant one." He looked at me again. "Most children don't manifest mana until they're seven or eight, and even then, it takes months of training to use it consciously. Aldric did it instinctively in a moment of... desperation, apparently."
He walked to the door, paused.
"I'll arrange for an instructor. Someone to teach him proper technique before he hurts himself. Swordsmanship, to start, kicking is effective but limited, and a noble should be proficient with a blade."
"Heinrich," my mother said softly. "He's still so young...."
"He manifested mana at five, destroyed a training dummy with a kick, and then collapsed from mana exhaustion. Young or not, he needs guidance before he kills himself experimenting."
He looked at me one more time.
"You wanted to be strong, Aldric? Fine. I'll make sure you learn how. But strength without discipline is just violence. Without control, just destruction. Do you understand?"
I nodded, throat tight.
"Good. Rest. Your instructor will arrive in three days."
He left.
My mother stayed, holding my hand, smoothing my hair back from my forehead.
"My brave, foolish boy," she whispered. "What am I going to do with you?"
I didn't have an answer.
Because I didn't know what I was going to do with myself either.
I'd promised to be better. To be different.
But the first time I'd really acted on instinct, I'd fallen back into that old mindset. That desperate need to be strong, to never be weak again, to stand on top so I couldn't be pushed down.
The mindset that had made Kenji Yamamoto a bully.
I'd destroyed a training dummy.
What happened when I faced actual people?
Would I be able to control it? To be strong without being cruel?
Or would I just repeat the same mistakes in a new world?
The next three days were strange.
Word had spread through the manor about what I'd done. Servants whispered when they thought I couldn't hear. My siblings' reactions were mixed.
Wilhelm sent a curt letter from his estate: Impressive, if true.
Katerina didn't acknowledge it at all.
Friedrich apparently complained to Father that I was getting special treatment. Father's response, according to servants' gossip, was: "Then perhaps you should manifest mana and destroy training equipment. I'll be happy to arrange instruction for you as well."
Friedrich shut up after that.
Celestia watched me at dinner that night with calculating eyes. I pretended not to notice.
Elise, surprisingly, approached me in the garden the next day.
"Is it true?" she asked. She was twelve now, at that awkward age between child and teenager. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a practical braid, and her brown eyes were genuinely curious rather than hostile. "You really broke the dummy?"
"Yes," I said simply.
"How?"
"I... don't really know. I just wanted to hit it really hard, and then I could see these glowing things, and..."
"Mana particles," she said, nodding like this made perfect sense. "I'm learning about them from my tutor. Most people can't see them until they're older, though. And you're only five."
She studied me for a moment.
"Mother says you're unnatural. That something's wrong with you." She paused. "But I think you're just different. That's not the same as wrong."
Before I could respond, she left, hurrying back to the manor when a servant called for her.
I stood there, surprised.
Maybe I'd misjudged Elise. Maybe not everyone in this family hated me.
Or maybe she was just gathering information to use later.
I didn't know which possibility was worse.
The instructor arrived on the third day.
I was in the garden with my mother when a servant announced him.
"Master Cedric Blackthorne to see the Duke, Your Grace. Regarding the young master's instruction."
My father appeared from his study, and I got my first look at the man who would teach me swordsmanship.
Cedric Blackthorne was not what I expected.
He was tall, easily six and a half feet, with a build that suggested he could break most people in half. But it was controlled strength, not bulky. Lean muscle under the simple training clothes he wore.
His face was weathered, scarred. A thin line ran from his left temple to his jaw. Another crossed his right eyebrow. His nose had been broken at least twice. His hair was dark brown, cut military short, shot through with silver despite him looking only in his thirties.
But it was his eyes that caught my attention. Dark grey, almost black. And completely empty of emotion.
This was a man who'd killed people. Many people.
I knew because I'd seen that look before. On yakuza associates who'd come to our apartment sometimes when I was young. On men who'd done things that changed them fundamentally.
"Your Grace," Cedric said, bowing to my father. His voice was rough, like gravel. "I received your summons."
"Cedric." My father's tone was respectful, which surprised me. "Thank you for coming. I know you prefer your solitude these days."
"You pay well. And you said this would be interesting." His eyes found me. Studied me with that same empty calculation. "This is the boy?"
"My son, Aldric. Aldric, this is Cedric Blackthorne. Former Captain of the Royal Knights. Now retired."
Former Captain. That meant something significant, apparently, based on the weight my father put on the words.
Cedric walked closer, crouched down to my level. Up close, I could see more scars. Some from blades. Some from burns. One on his neck that looked like something had tried to tear out his throat.
"Heinrich says you destroyed a training dummy with a kick. At five years old. No training. Just instinct and mana, you shouldn't be able to consciously use yet."
I nodded.
"Why?"
The question was simple. Direct. Demanding truth.
"I wanted to be strong," I said.
"Why?"
"Because..." I hesitated. "Because I don't want to be weak."
"Everyone's weak sometimes. That's not an answer." He leaned closer. "Why don't you want to be weak?"
Because I'd been weak before, and it destroyed me. Because weakness meant losing everything. Because the strong stand on top and the weak get crushed.
But I couldn't say any of that.
"Because weak people get hurt," I said quietly. "And I don't want to get hurt again."
Again. The word slipped out before I could stop it.
Cedric's eyes narrowed slightly. "Again? You're five. When were you hurt before?"
My mother stepped forward. "Master Cedric."
He held up a hand, still watching me. Waiting.
"In dreams," I lied. "I have bad dreams sometimes. About falling. About being hurt. I don't want them to be real."
It wasn't entirely a lie.
Cedric studied me for another long moment. Then he stood.
"The boy's got trauma from something," he said to my father. "Don't know what. Don't really care. But he's motivated by fear, not ambition. That's going to be a problem."
"Can you train him?" Father asked.
"Maybe." Cedric looked at me again. "Depends if he's got the discipline to match the desperation. Desperation makes you sloppy. Gets you killed."
He extended his hand to me. It was calloused, scarred, huge compared to mine.
"I'll teach you swordsmanship because your father's paying me to. But know this, boy: strength without purpose is just violence. If all you want is to never feel weak, you'll become the thing that makes others feel that way instead. Is that what you want?"
The question hit like a punch.
Because yes. That's exactly what Kenji Yamamoto had done.
Hurt others so he never felt weak himself.
"No," I whispered. "That's not what I want."
"Then why do you want strength?"
"To... to protect people." The words felt right as I said them. "To protect the people I care about."
My mother's hand found my shoulder, squeezed gently.
Cedric watched me for another moment. Then something that might have been approval flickered in those dead eyes.
"Better answer." He turned to my father. "I'll train him. Three times a week to start. More when he's older. But I do this my way, Heinrich. No interference."
"Agreed."
"And if I determine he's not fit for combat training, if he's going to become a danger to himself or others, I stop. No arguments."
Father hesitated, then nodded. "Agreed."
Cedric looked at me one more time. "First lesson is tomorrow morning. One hour after dawn. Don't be late, don't complain, and don't expect me to go easy on you because you're five."
He started to leave, then paused.
"And boy? That mana you manifested? Don't try to use it again until I teach you how. You nearly killed yourself with mana exhaustion. Next time, you might succeed."
Then he was gone, leaving me standing in the garden with my parents.
My father put a hand on my head, surprisingly gentle.
"You wanted to be strong, Aldric. Now you'll learn what that actually means." He paused. "I hope you're ready."
So did I.
Because I'd just committed to learning combat from a man who looked like he'd fought through hell and barely made it back.
And I had no idea if I could handle what came next.
But I had to try.
Because being weak wasn't an option.
Not anymore.
Not ever again.
That night, I lay in bed unable to sleep.
Tomorrow I will start training. Would start learning to fight for real, not just street brawling and desperate kicks.
Would start walking the path to becoming strong.
But Cedric's question haunted me.
Strength without purpose is just violence.
In my previous life, I'd been strong. Strong enough to terrorize an entire school. Strong enough that people feared saying my name.
And I'd died alone, hated, broken.
Was I really going to do better this time?
Or was I just a bully in a new body, learning new ways to hurt people?
I rolled over, stared at the wall.
"I'll be different," I whispered to the darkness. "I have to be."
But in the silence of my room, with only my thoughts for company, doubt crept in.
Because I'd already felt it. That old mindset. That instinct to evaluate people as threats or tools. To see strength as the only thing that mattered.
The mindset of someone who'd learned the wrong lessons from a hard life.
Tomorrow would be the start of something.
I just had to make sure it was the right something.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
Dreamed of training dummies that bled.
Woke up before dawn, heart pounding.
It was time to begin.