Dawn came cold and grey.
I dressed in the simple training clothes Clara had laid out the night before, loose cotton pants and a tunic that allowed for movement. They felt strange after the fine, noble garments I'd grown accustomed to. More like the cheap clothes Kenji had worn.
I pushed the thought away.
My mother was waiting outside my room, despite the early hour. Her amber eyes were worried, but she smiled when she saw me.
"Are you sure about this?" she asked softly, kneeling to adjust my collar. "You don't have to train. You're only five, Aldric. You could wait a few more years..."
"I want to," I said. And I did. The fear of being weak again was too visceral, too real.
She studied my face for a long moment, then sighed. "You're so much like your father sometimes. Stubborn." She kissed my forehead. "Be careful. And remember, you can always stop if it becomes too much."
I nodded, though we both knew I wouldn't.
The training yard was empty except for Cedric. He stood in the center, arms crossed, looking exactly as he had yesterday. The scars on his face seemed more prominent in the dawn light, stories written in old pain.
"You're early," he said as I approached. "Good. Punctuality is the first lesson. Everything else builds on respecting time, yours and others'."
He gestured to the space in front of him. "Stand there. Feet shoulder-width apart. Hands at your sides. Back straight."
I did as instructed.
"Before we touch a sword, before we talk about fighting, you need to understand what you did three days ago." He began walking around me, circling like a predator. "You manifested mana. Do you know what that means?"
"It's... the energy that makes magic work?" I'd read about it in my mother's books, but the texts were vague, written for adults who already understood the basics.
"Close enough." He stopped in front of me. "Mana is life energy. It exists in everything—the air, the ground, living things, and even inanimate objects to a lesser degree. Normally, it's invisible. But people with the ability to sense and manipulate it can see it as particles, usually glowing with different colors."
He held out his hand, and suddenly I could see them. Bright blue particles gathering in his palm, swirling like a tiny galaxy.
"This is my mana," Cedric said. "Blue. Water affinity. It manifested this way because of my personality, my nature, the state of my mind when I first awakened it. Calm. Flowing. Adaptable."
The blue mana dispersed.
"There are primary affinities that most people develop: Fire, Water, Earth, Wind. Each one reflects something about the person who manifests it. Fire users tend to be passionate, aggressive, and quick to action. Earth users are stubborn, grounded, and defensive. Wind users are free-spirited, adaptable, and constantly changing. Water users..." He paused. "We adapt, we endure, we find the path of least resistance."
He gestured for me to hold out my hand.
"Now you. Close your eyes. Breathe slowly—in through your nose, out through your mouth. Feel the energy inside you. Don't force it. Just... acknowledge it."
I did as he instructed. Breathed. Tried to feel what I'd felt when I destroyed the dummy.
There. That tingling sensation, like my blood was carbonated.
"Good," Cedric said quietly. "Now open your eyes and look at your hand. Don't try to control it yet. Just let it exist."
I opened my eyes.
My hand was surrounded by... something. Particles so faint they were almost invisible. Transparent, like glass, catching light. If I wasn't looking directly at them, I couldn't see them at all.
"Interesting," Cedric murmured, leaning closer. "I've never seen colorless mana before."
"Is that bad?"
"No. Just rare." He straightened. "Mana color usually indicates affinity, but transparent or colorless mana is different. It's... neutral. Unaligned. Some scholars call it 'pure' mana, though that's debatable."
He walked back to his position. "It means you don't have a natural affinity for any particular element. Which could be a weakness—you'll have to work harder to master any specific type of magic. Or it could be a strength; you're not limited by natural inclination. You can theoretically learn anything."
The mana around my hand faded as my concentration broke.
"Theoretically?" I asked.
"Theory and practice are different things. Just because you can learn any type of magic doesn't mean you'll be good at any of it." He crossed his arms again. "Most people spend their entire lives mastering one or two affinities. You'll have to choose where to focus, same as anyone else."
He began pacing again, falling into what I realized was a lecture cadence.
"There are four primary affinities: Fire, Water, Earth, Wind. These are the building blocks. From these, you get secondary affinities—Ice from Water, Lightning from Fire and Wind, Metal from Earth, and so on. The more complex the magic, the more difficult to master."
"And anyone can learn any type?" I asked.
"Anyone with mana sensitivity can attempt any type," he corrected. "But your natural affinity determines how much easier or harder it'll be. A Fire-aligned person trying to learn Water magic is fighting against their own nature. It's possible, but inefficient."
He stopped, looked at me directly.
"Then there's unique magic. Extremely rare. Magic that belongs only to one person, born from their individual nature, their experiences, their soul. No one else can use it. No one else even knows what it does unless the user shows them."
"Do you have unique magic?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Something flickered in those dead grey eyes. "Yes. But that's not your concern."
He changed the subject abruptly. "Your colorless mana is unusual, but it's not unique magic. It's just an atypical affinity. Or lack thereof. We'll test you with different elemental exercises over the next few months to see if anything comes naturally."
He gestured to the weapons rack at the edge of the training yard. "For now, we start with the basics. Swordsmanship isn't about magic. It's about discipline, form, and muscle memory. Magic comes later, once your body knows what it's doing."
He selected two wooden practice swords. One adult-sized, one clearly made for a child. He tossed the smaller one to me.
I caught it awkwardly. It was heavier than I expected.
"That's a training sword," Cedric said. "Weighted to build strength. By the time you're ten, it'll feel light as a feather. By the time you're fifteen, you'll wonder how you ever struggled with it."
He took a stance, sword held in both hands at a diagonal angle. "This is the basic guard position. Copy me."
I tried. My arms shook with the effort of holding the sword up.
"Feet wider," Cedric said, not moving from his own stance. "Lower your center of gravity. You're too high. A strong wind could knock you over."
I adjusted.
"Better. Now hold that position. Don't move. Don't lower the sword. Just hold it."
Thirty seconds in, my arms were burning.
A minute in, they were screaming.
Two minutes in, I was shaking so badly I could barely keep the sword level.
"You can lower it when your arms give out," Cedric said calmly. "Or when I tell you to. Whichever comes first."
Three minutes. Tears were leaking from my eyes. My entire body was on fire.
"Please," I gasped.
"Please, what?"
"Can I...can I put it down..."
"No."
Four minutes. My vision was blurring.
"Lower the sword," Cedric finally said.
I did, gasping. My arms hung at my sides, useless.
"Four minutes and twenty seconds," he said. "Not bad for your first day. Most noble children quit after two. By the end of the month, I want you at ten minutes minimum."
He walked to the weapons rack, returned his sword. "That's enough for today. Same time tomorrow. Don't be late."
"That's it?" I asked, confused. "We're done?"
"You're five years old and just held a weighted sword for over four minutes. Your muscles are going to be worthless for the rest of the day. Push harder than that and you'll injure yourself." He looked at me. "Training isn't about destroying your body. It's about building it correctly. Slow. Steady. Disciplined."
He started to walk away, then paused.
"And boy? You asked 'please' after three minutes. Begging doesn't make me merciful. It just tells me where your breaking point is. Tomorrow, I'll push you past four minutes. The day after, past five. Learn to suffer in silence if you want respect."
Then he left.
I stood there in the training yard, arms trembling, sweat soaking through my tunic despite the cool morning air.
Four minutes.
That's all I'd lasted.
And I was supposed to do this every day?
The next three weeks followed the same pattern.
Wake before dawn. Report to the training yard. Hold stances until my muscles gave out. Learn footwork. Practice basic cuts and parries with the wooden sword.
Cedric was relentless. Not cruel, he never struck me, never insulted me, but utterly uncompromising. If my form was wrong, we started over. If I complained, he added time. If I showed up even a minute late, the entire session was extended by fifteen minutes.
"Discipline," he said constantly. "Everything else is built on discipline."
On the fourth day, he started teaching me about mana control while I held stances.
"Breathe," he instructed as I stood in guard position, arms shaking. "In through your nose, feel the mana in the air entering your body. Out through your mouth, feel it cycling through your system. Don't try to use it yet. Just acknowledge it. Let it flow."
I tried. The breathing helped, actually. Made the burning in my muscles slightly more bearable.
"Mana enhances everything," Cedric explained. "Your strength, your speed, your durability. But it has to be trained like any muscle. Right now, your mana capacity is tiny, a puddle compared to an adult's lake. And your control is non-existent. You'd have better luck throwing rocks than casting spells."
"When can I try casting something?" I asked between breaths.
"When I say you can. Rushing leads to mana exhaustion, which leads to unconsciousness or worse. You already learned that lesson the hard way."
On the seventh day, he had me channel mana while practicing sword strikes.
"Breathe in, draw the mana into your core," he said, demonstrating with his own blue-glowing particles. "Breathe out, push it down your arms into the blade. Don't force it. Guide it. Let it flow naturally."
I tried. My transparent mana gathered sluggishly, like trying to move honey.
"Slower," Cedric corrected. "You're forcing it. Mana responds to intention, not desperation. Calm your mind."
But that was the problem.
My mind wasn't calm.
Every training session, I was fighting two battles. One against my body's physical limits. One against my mind's constant fear of being weak again.
Every dropped sword, every failed stance, every moment Cedric corrected me, it felt like proof that I wasn't good enough. That I'd never be strong enough.
That I was failing again.
On the tenth day, Cedric had me spar against him.
"You're going to lose," he said flatly, taking a ready stance with his wooden sword. "Badly. Probably immediately. The point isn't to win. It's to learn what real combat feels like."
He was right.
Three seconds in, he disarmed me. My wooden sword went flying, and his blade stopped an inch from my throat.
"Again," he said.
Again. Disarmed in five seconds this time.
"Again."
Seven seconds.
"Again."
Four seconds.
"Again."
Ten seconds, my best attempt. I'd actually managed to parry once before he swept my legs and put me on my back.
"Better," Cedric said, offering a hand to pull me up. "You're learning to watch my movements. But you're still thinking too much. Combat should become more of an instinct, not calculation."
"How do I stop thinking?" I asked, frustrated.
"Practice. Thousands of hours of practice until your body knows what to do without your mind interfering." He sheathed his practice sword. "That's enough for today."
By the fourteenth day, I could hold the guard stance for twelve minutes. My footwork was improving. I could channel mana while striking without losing my balance.
Cedric actually nodded in approval once. "Good form. You're learning faster than most."
The praise should have felt good.
It didn't.
Because every day, the training got harder. Every day, Cedric pushed me further. And every day, I felt that old familiar pressure building.
The pressure to be perfect. To never show weakness. To prove I was worth something.
On the seventeenth day, I failed a drill Cedric had been teaching me. A complex sequence of parries and counters that required precise timing.
I'd done it correctly twice. Then failed three times in a row.
"Again," Cedric said.
I tried. Failed again.
"Again."
Failed.
"Again."
Failed.
"Your footwork is wrong," Cedric said patiently. "Watch. Step here, pivot here, strike here. Now you try."
I tried. Failed.
Something hot and familiar built in my chest. Frustration. Anger. That old feeling of inadequacy that used to make me lash out.
"I can't do it," I said, throwing the practice sword down. "It's too complicated."
Cedric raised an eyebrow. "Pick up the sword."
"No."
"Pick. Up. The sword."
"I said no! It's too hard, I'm too small, I can't..."
"You can't, or you won't?"
The question stopped me cold.
"What?"
"You can't do it, or you won't put in the effort to learn?" Cedric's voice was still calm, but there was steel underneath. "Because those are different things. One is a limitation. One is a choice."
"I'm trying..."
"No, you're giving up. That's different." He picked up my discarded sword, held it out to me. "You've got potential, boy. More than most. But potential means nothing without discipline. And discipline means continuing when things get hard."
I didn't take the sword.
Cedric studied me for a long moment. Then he sighed, set the sword down.
"We're done for today. Go rest."
He walked away without another word.
I stood there in the training yard, chest heaving, that hot frustration still burning inside me.
This was too hard.
I'd thought learning to fight would make me feel strong. Make me feel safe.
But all it did was remind me how far I had to go. How weak I still was. How much I didn't know.
Every failed drill, every correction, every moment of struggle, it was like being in that wheelchair again. Helpless. Insufficient. Failing.
On the nineteenth day, I showed up late.
Not intentionally. I'd slept poorly, nightmares about falling keeping me awake until nearly dawn. When Clara came to wake me, I pretended to still be asleep.
I arrived at the training yard twenty minutes after dawn.
Cedric was waiting, arms crossed.
"You're late."
"I overslept."
"Try again. Without lying."
I looked away. "I didn't want to come."
"Why not?"
"Because..." I struggled to find words that wouldn't reveal too much. "Because I'm not getting better fast enough. I keep failing."
"You've been training for nineteen days," Cedric said. "Did you expect to become a master swordsman in three weeks?"
"I expected to not feel like this," I said quietly.
"Feel like what?"
"Like I'm not good enough. Like, no matter how hard I try, it's never enough."
Cedric was silent for a long moment. Then he sat down on one of the benches at the edge of the yard, gestured for me to join him.
I sat, confused.
"You know what I see when I look at you?" he asked. "A scared kid trying to run from something. I don't know what. Don't really care. But whatever it is, you think being strong will fix it."
He leaned back against the wall. "Here's the truth, Aldric: strength doesn't fix fear. It just gives you new things to be afraid of. Afraid of losing your strength. Afraid of meeting someone stronger. Afraid of what you might do with that strength."
"Then what's the point?" I asked. "Why train at all?"
"Because strength with purpose, real purpose, not just running from fear, is different. It's about knowing you can protect something, or stand for something, or accomplish something. The strength serves the purpose. Not the other way around."
He looked at me directly. "Why are you really training, Aldric? And don't give me that 'to protect people' answer. You barely know anyone. What are you actually afraid of?"
Being weak. Being helpless. Being that person in the wheelchair again. Being hated and alone.
But I couldn't say any of that.
"I don't know," I whispered.
"Then figure it out," Cedric said, standing. "Because I can teach you swordsmanship. I can teach you combat. I can even teach you how to use mana in battle. But I can't give you a reason to learn it. That has to come from you."
He started walking toward the manor.
"Wait," I called out. "Aren't we training today?"
"No. You're not here because you want to be. You're here because you're afraid not to be. That's not training. That's just torture." He glanced back at me. "Take the day off. Think about what you actually want. Come back when you have an answer."
Then he was gone.
I sat alone in the training yard as the sun rose higher.
He was right.
I didn't know why I was training. Not really.
I'd thought it was about being strong. About never being weak again.
But strength alone hadn't made Kenji Yamamoto happy. It had made him feared. It had made him powerful.
It had made him die alone.
Was I just repeating that pattern? Learning to hurt people more efficiently? Becoming a bully with a sword instead of fists?
The thought made me sick.
I didn't return to training the next day.
Or the day after.
Cedric didn't come looking for me. My father didn't force me. My mother just held me when I came to her room and cried without being able to explain why.
"You don't have to train if you don't want to," she whispered, stroking my hair. "You're allowed to be a child, Aldric. You're allowed to just... be."
But I couldn't just be.
Because being meant thinking. And thinking meant confronting uncomfortable truths.
I'd learned the basics of swordsmanship. Learned about mana types and affinities. Learned that I had colorless, neutral mana that could theoretically learn anything.
And then I'd quit.
Not because I couldn't do it. Cedric had said I had potential. Had said I was learning faster than most.
I'd quit because it was hard. Because it made me feel inadequate. Because it forced me to confront the fact that strength wasn't some magic solution that would make me feel safe.
I'd quit because I was a coward.
Just like I'd been a coward when I gave up in that room in my grandmother's house. When I'd stopped trying, stopped fighting, stopped existing.
The realization hit me like cold water.
I was doing it again.
Running away from difficulty. Giving up when things got hard. Choosing the easy path of avoiding challenge rather than pushing through it.
I'd promised myself I'd be different this time.
Be better.
But at the first real challenge, not physical danger, not bullies, not enemies, just the hard work of improving myself, I'd quit.
The shame was overwhelming.
On the fifth day of my absence, there was a knock on my door.
Not Clara. Not my mother.
"Aldric?" A young voice. "It's Elise. Can I come in?"
I wiped my face quickly. "Why?"
"Because I want to talk to you. May I come in?"
"...Fine."
The door opened. Elise stood there in a simple blue dress, her blonde hair in its practical braid. She looked at me with those curious brown eyes, taking in my rumpled state.
"You look terrible," she said bluntly.
"Thanks."
She came in, shut the door, and sat on the edge of my bed uninvited.
"Everyone's talking about how you quit training. Friedrich says you're weak. Celestia says you never had what it takes. Wilhelm sent another letter saying you're the only one in the family who has ever started training and quit mid way through."
"Is there a point to this?" I asked bitterly.
"Yes." She looked at me directly. "I think they're wrong. I think you're scared, not weak. And that's different."
I blinked. "What?"
"I'm twelve. I've been watching people my whole life because I have to. Because I'm the second daughter of the second wife, which means I'm basically invisible unless I make myself useful." She picked at a thread on her dress. "You know what I've learned? Weak people never start. They never try because they're afraid of failing."
"I failed."
"You didn't fail. You stopped trying. That's different." She looked at me with unexpected intensity. "Failure is when you give something everything you have and it's not enough. You gave it three weeks and got scared."
The words stung because they were true.
"Why do you care?" I asked.
"Because..." She hesitated. "Because you're my brother. Half-brother, technically, but still. And because I'm tired of everyone in this family either hating each other or pretending the others don't exist. Someone should actually try to help."
She stood up. "Master Cedric is still being paid. He comes to the training yard every morning at dawn and waits. He doesn't train anyone else. Just waits to see if you'll show up."
"He does?"
"For five days now. Rain or shine. Just waits." She walked to the door, paused. "Maybe you should stop feeling sorry for yourself and go talk to him. Or don't. It's your choice. But stop pretending you quit because you couldn't do it. You quit because you were afraid to keep trying."
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
I sat there in the silence of my room.
She was right.
They were all right.
I was scared. Scared of failing. Scared of not being good enough. Scared of becoming Kenji Yamamoto again, or never escaping him.
But Cedric had asked me a question I still couldn't answer: Why was I training?
And until I had an answer, a real answer, not just "to be strong" or "to not be weak, "what was the point?
I lay back on my bed, stared at the ceiling.
What did I actually want?
Not what I was afraid of. Not what I was running from.
What did I want?
The answer came slowly, like dawn breaking.
I wanted my mother to be safe. To never see her hurt or scared.
I wanted to deserve this second chance. To prove that reincarnation hadn't been wasted on me.
I wanted to look at myself in the mirror and see someone better than Kenji Yamamoto had ever been.
Those were reasons.
Real reasons.
Not perfect. Not complete. But honest.
I sat up, looked out the window at the training yard below.
Cedric was there. Just standing in the center, arms crossed, waiting.
Like he had been every morning.
Waiting for me to find my answer.
I took a deep breath.
Then I got up, got dressed, and looked down to the training yard.