Dawn came cold and grey, just like it had those first weeks of training.
I stood outside the training yard, watching Cedric through the fence. He was there, as he had been every morning. Arms crossed. Waiting.
Nine days he'd waited.
I took a breath, pushed open the gate, and walked toward him.
He didn't move. Didn't acknowledge me. Just stood there in the center of the yard, those dead grey eyes watching me approach.
I stopped a few feet away.
"I'm ready to answer your question," I said quietly.
"Go ahead."
"I'm training because..." I took another breath. "Because I don't think I deserve this life. This family. My mother's love. Any of it. And I thought if I got strong enough, if I proved I could be good at something, then maybe I would deserve it."
Cedric was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.
"That's an honest answer. Not a good answer, but an honest one."
"What do you mean?"
"Training to earn something you think you don't deserve is still fear-based motivation. It's just prettier fear." He uncrossed his arms. "But at least you're being honest about it. That's a start."
He walked to the weapons rack, selected two practice swords. Tossed me the smaller one.
"Here's what I think, boy. You're carrying something heavy. Some guilt or shame or trauma that makes you think you're not worth what you have. I don't know what it is, and I don't need to. But that weight is going to drag you down unless you find a way to set it aside."
He took his ready stance. "So while you're training with me, here's the rule: you don't train to prove you deserve things. You train because you choose to. Because you want to be capable. Because being skilled is better than being helpless. That's it. No deeper meaning required."
"But...."
"No." He cut me off. "Purpose comes later, once you've built the foundation. For now, you train because you've decided training is worth your time. Can you accept that?"
I thought about it. Thought about Sera's words about being happy between bad things. About my mother's words about starting with fear and finding purpose along the way.
Maybe Cedric was right. Maybe I was overthinking it.
"Yes," I said. "I can accept that."
"Good." He shifted his stance slightly. "Now, you've been gone nine days. We're going to find out how much you forgot. Ready position."
I took the stance he'd taught me weeks ago. Feet apart, sword held diagonally, weight balanced.
"Better than I expected," he admitted. "Muscle memory's still there. Let's see how long you last."
The first day back was brutal.
Every muscle I'd built during those initial three weeks had softened during my absence. Every technique I'd barely learned had become rusty. I could hold the ready stance for eight minutes instead of twelve. My footwork was sloppy. My strikes lacked precision.
But I didn't quit.
When my arms trembled, I held the position until Cedric told me to lower them. When my legs burned from practicing footwork, I pushed through. When I failed a drill six times in a row, I tried a seventh time.
Because I'd made a choice. Not to prove anything. Not to earn anything. Just because I'd decided this was worth doing.
"Good," Cedric said at the end of that first session. "You're slower, weaker, sloppier than you were. But you didn't quit. That's what matters."
"How long until I'm back where I was?"
"Two weeks if you work hard. One week if you work harder." He took my practice sword. "Same time tomorrow. Don't be late."
"I won't."
I wasn't.
The second week back, Cedric introduced actual techniques.
"Swordsmanship has three foundations," he explained, demonstrating as he spoke. "Offense, how you attack. Defense, how you protect yourself. And positioning, where you stand relative to your opponent."
He moved through the forms slowly so I could see each component. "Everything else is built on these three things. Fancy techniques, special moves, magical enhancements, they all come back to these basics."
He handed me the practice sword. "We'll start with the five basic strikes. Overhead vertical, diagonal right, diagonal left, horizontal, and thrust. Master these, and you can handle any sword in any situation."
The strikes seemed simple when he demonstrated. Clean, efficient, precise.
When I tried them, they were clumsy, awkward, wrong.
"Your grip is too tight," Cedric corrected. "The sword should be an extension of your arm, not something you're strangling. Loose grip, tight control."
I adjusted.
"Better. Again."
I practiced the overhead strike fifty times. Then fifty more.
"Diagonal right. Remember, the power comes from your hips, not your arms. Rotate as you strike."
Another hundred repetitions.
"Diagonal left. Same principle, opposite direction."
My arms were screaming by the time we finished the five basic strikes.
"That's enough for today," Cedric said. "Tomorrow we'll work on defensive positions."
"When do I get to actually fight?" I asked.
"When you can perform those five strikes with proper form while exhausted, in the dark, half-asleep. When your body knows them so well, you don't have to think." He looked at me seriously. "Flashy techniques get you killed, boy. Basics keep you alive."
The third week, we worked on defense.
"There are four defensive positions," Cedric explained. "High guard, mid guard, low guard, and back guard. Each one protects different areas and transitions into different attacks."
He showed me how to shift between positions fluidly, how to read an opponent's stance and know where they'd strike, how to deflect rather than block to conserve energy.
"Never meet force with force unless you have to," he said. "Redirect. Guide their blade away. Use their momentum against them."
We drilled for hours. Him attacking slowly at first, me trying to deflect. Then faster. Then from different angles.
I failed constantly. His practice blade would slip past my guard, tap my shoulder, my ribs, my leg.
"Dead," he'd say each time. "Dead. Dead. Dead."
But slowly, so slowly, I started to improve. Started to read his movements better. Started to deflect instead of getting hit.
"Good," he finally said after I successfully defended against five attacks in a row. "You're learning to see the attack before it lands. That's the key."
The fourth week, we started combining offense and defense.
"Real combat isn't taking turns," Cedric explained. "You don't attack, then wait for them to attack back. You flow. Strike, defend, reposition, strike again. It's a conversation in steel."
He came at me faster now, forcing me to defend and counter in the same motion. My practice sword would deflect his strike, and he'd expect me to immediately riposte with one of the basic attacks I'd learned.
I was terrible at it.
"You're thinking too much," he said after I froze for the dozenth time. "Stop planning your next move. Just react. Trust your training."
"How can I trust training I've only done for a month?"
"By doing it until it's instinct. Again."
We drilled. And drilled. And drilled.
By the end of the month, I could sometimes manage a three or four-move exchange before Cedric disarmed me or landed a "killing" blow.
"Better," he said. "You're starting to flow. But you're still too tense. Combat should feel natural, not forced."
"How long did it take you to make it feel natural?"
"Three years of daily training. Then five years of actual combat." He saw my face fall. "Don't get discouraged. You're five years old. You've got time."
The second month, Cedric introduced mana enhancement.
"You've been channeling mana while training," he said. "Now we make it intentional."
He demonstrated blue particles gathering around his practice sword. When he struck, the blade moved faster, hit harder. The training dummy he hit shook violently.
"Mana enhancement is simple in concept: you push your mana into your body or weapon to amplify what you're already doing. Harder hits, faster movement, better defense. But it requires control."
He gestured for me to try.
I called up my mana, those transparent, nearly invisible particles—and tried to push them into my arms as I struck.
The sword flew out of my hands and across the yard.
"Too much, too fast," Cedric said calmly. "Mana isn't something you shove. It's something you guide. Like water through a pipe, not a dam breaking. Again."
I tried again. And again. And again.
It took me two weeks to successfully enhance a single strike without losing control. The practice dummy barely shook, but Cedric nodded in approval.
"That's the foundation. Now you just need to do it ten thousand more times until it's automatic."
The third month, Cedric taught me breathing techniques.
"Mana control is about rhythm," he explained. "Your breath dictates your mana flow. In through the nose, gather mana. Hold, concentrate it. Out through the mouth—release it into your action."
He demonstrated, his breathing slow and deliberate. Blue mana gathered on his inhale, concentrated on his hold, then flowed into his strike on the exhale.
The training dummy split in half.
"That's decades of practice," he said before I could ask. "But the principle is the same at every level. Breathe, gather, release. Master that, and you master mana control."
I practiced the breathing separate from combat at first. Just sitting, breathing, watching my transparent mana respond.
In. Gather.
Hold. Concentrate.
Out. Release.
It was meditative, calming. For the first time since I'd started training, I felt something other than fear or determination.
I felt peace.
"Good," Cedric said, watching me. "You're starting to understand. Mana isn't about force. It's about harmony between your body, your breath, and your intention."
By the fourth month, I could combine everything I'd learned.
Basic strikes enhanced with mana. Defensive positions that transitioned smoothly into attacks. Breathing that kept my mana flowing consistently. Footwork that positioned me advantageously.
I still lost every single sparring match against Cedric. Usually in under a minute.
But I was improving. I could see it in the way he had to work slightly harder to disarm me. In the way he occasionally nodded in approval. In the way, our exchanges lasted longer before he ended them.
"You're developing an eye for combat," he said after one session. "You're starting to read intentions, not just react to movements. That's good."
"I still can't beat you."
"You're five. I'm thirty-seven and have been fighting for twenty years. If you could beat me, I'd be embarrassed." He set down his practice sword. "But you're progressing faster than most students your age. Keep at this pace, and by the time you're ten, you'll be a genuine threat."
By the time I'm ten, I thought. Five more years.
Five years seemed like forever.
By the sixth month, I'd grown comfortable with the routine.
Wake before dawn. Train with Cedric for an hour. Study with my mother in the mornings. Free time in the afternoons. Dinner with the family when Father was home. Sleep. Repeat.
My body had adapted. I was stronger now, faster, more coordinated than any five-year-old had a right to be. My mana control had improved to the point where I could consistently enhance my strikes without losing balance.
Cedric started teaching me intermediate techniques. Feints, parries that transitioned into disarms, how to fight multiple opponents, how to defend against different weapon types.
"You're ready to learn the Ashford family technique," my father announced one evening at dinner.
I looked up from my food. "Family technique?"
"Every major noble house has at least one unique combat technique passed down through generations. Ours is called 'Raven's Descent.'" He set down his wine. "I'll teach you the basics this weekend. Cedric has laid the groundwork well."
And he did. The Ashford technique was elegant and brutal, a three-strike combination that built momentum with each hit, culminating in a powerful overhead strike enhanced with mana. When performed correctly, it looked like a raven diving onto prey.
"It takes years to master," Father said, demonstrating the full technique. His movements were precise, powerful, devastating. The training dummy he struck exploded into splinters. "But even the basic form is effective in combat."
I practiced it obsessively. Added it to my training routine. Within two months, I could perform a crude version of Raven's Descent that occasionally worked in sparring.
Cedric was impressed. "You have genuine talent, Aldric. I wasn't sure at first, but you do. Keep training like this, and you'll be formidable."
His praise meant something. Cedric never gave empty compliments.
I felt... proud.
For the first time since reincarnating, I felt like I was actually good at something. Like I was building toward being someone worth being.
Six months became a year.
A year became two.
Time passed in a blur of training, studying, and slowly growing up.
I saw Sera three more times during various noble functions. Each time, she greeted me like we were old friends, talked about everything and nothing, and made me laugh despite myself. She was learning magic now, elemental magic, specifically wind and water. She demonstrated once, making flower petals dance on a breeze she'd created.
"See?" she said, grinning. "Magic is wonderful! Are you learning any?"
"Some," I admitted. "Mostly physical enhancement for combat. I don't have an affinity for any specific element."
"That's perfect! It means you can learn everything eventually." Her enthusiasm was infectious. "We should practice together sometime. I bet we'd make a great team."
"Maybe," I said, smiling despite myself.
Adelaide Hartbrook also appeared at some events. She was quieter than Sera, more reserved, but she always made a point to talk to me about books or current events. She was brilliant, sharp in a way that made me careful about what I said around her.
"You're getting taller," she observed when I was seven and she was ten. "And stronger. Still training with that Knight Captain?"
"Former Knight Captain. And yes."
"Good. Intelligent people should also be capable of defending themselves. Relying solely on guards is foolish." She said it matter-of-factly. "Though hopefully you'll never need to use those skills in actual combat."
"Hopefully," I agreed.
My siblings remained distant, which was fine. Wilhelm was managing his estate. Katerina had married some count and moved away, a political alliance that Father had arranged. Friedrich was away at the Royal Academy. Celestia had discovered a talent for enchanting and spent all her time in her workshop. Elise occasionally smiled at me in the hallways but never approached. Lucian was the only one who sometimes talked to me, asking about my training with genuine curiosity, though Wilhelm's influence kept him cautious.
My mother remained my anchor. She was always there with books, with songs, with gentle corrections when I got too serious or too focused on training.
"You're allowed to be a child," she'd remind me. "Not everything has to be about improvement or goals. Sometimes you can just exist and be happy."
But I struggled with that. My adult mind made childhood feel like wasted time. Every moment not spent training or studying felt inefficient.
Still, I tried. For her sake.
By age eight, I was skilled enough that Cedric started having me spar with the manor guards sometimes. I won about a quarter of the matches, which Cedric said was impressive given the age and experience gap.
By age nine, I was winning half the matches against the guards. Cedric had taught me everything he considered "foundational", all the basics, intermediate techniques, mana enhancement, the Ashford family technique, and various practical combat skills.
"You've got a good foundation," he said. "Now it's just refinement. Practice what you know until it's perfect. Add complexity gradually. Don't rush."
But somewhere around age nine and a half, something changed.
I got comfortable.
I'd been training for four and a half years straight. Wake up, train, study, repeat. Day after day after day.
And I was good now. Really good. The guards I sparred with treated me seriously. My father nodded in approval when he watched me train. Cedric's criticisms had become less frequent.
I was strong. Not adult strong, but strong for my age. Stronger than any ten-year-old I knew.
Strong enough, I started to think.
It started small.
I began sleeping in occasionally. Missing the dawn training session once a week, then twice.
"You're getting sloppy with your schedule," Cedric observed.
"I'm tired. I've been training for years without a break."
"Then take a proper break. A week off to rest. But don't pretend sleeping in is the same as intentional rest. That's just losing discipline."
But I didn't take a week off. I just... started skipping more.
Three times a week became four. Four became five.
By the time I was ten, I was only training with Cedric twice a week. Sometimes once.
"This is a mistake," Cedric warned. "Combat skills are like muscles. Stop using them, they atrophy."
"I'm still practicing on my own," I said, which was only half true.
The truth was, I'd gotten comfortable. I'd proven I could be good at something. I'd built the foundation Cedric talked about. I was strong enough to protect myself if I needed to.
What more did I need?
My mother noticed the change but didn't push. "If you want to train less, that's your choice. You're ten years old, Aldric. You've been incredibly disciplined for years. It's alright to ease up."
My father was less understanding. "Skill fades without maintenance," he said. "But you're old enough to make your own choices. Just remember—the consequences are yours as well."
But there were no consequences. Not immediately.
Life continued peacefully. I studied history, mathematics, and politics with my tutors. I read extensively in the manor library. I attended noble functions with my parents.
I was comfortable. Safe. Secure.
I'd forgotten what Cedric had tried to teach me from the beginning: comfort is dangerous. Complacency is death.
I was ten years and three months old when everything changed.
It was a Tuesday evening. Father was away at court, as he often was. I was in the library, reading about magical theory, when Clara appeared in the doorway.
Her face was white. Her hands were shaking.
"Young master," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You need to come quickly. It's your mother."
The book fell from my hands.
I ran.
Through the hallways, past startled servants, toward my mother's wing of the manor. Guards were clustered outside her chambers. The manor's healer, the same old man who'd examined me at birth, was there, his face grave.
I pushed past them into her room.
My mother lay in her bed. Her beautiful mahogany hair was spread across the pillow. Her amber eyes were closed. Her skin was too pale, waxy, wrong.
Her chest wasn't moving.
"Mother?" My voice came out small, childlike. "Mother!"
I ran to her bedside, grabbed her hand. It was cold.
So cold.
"I'm sorry, young master," the healer said behind me. "She's gone. The poison was too advanced by the time we discovered it. There was nothing I could do."
Poison.
The word didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense.
"No," I said. "No, she's just sleeping. She's my mother; she wouldn't just die. Wake up. Please wake up."
Her hand stayed cold in mine.
"Someone poisoned her," the healer continued, his voice heavy. "A slow-acting toxin that mimics natural illness. By the time the symptoms showed, it was too late. She... she didn't suffer at the end. I made sure of that."
The room spun.
This couldn't be happening. Not again. Not this.
I'd disappointed my mother once in my previous life; I'm doing it again.
I couldn't lose this mother. The one who'd loved me unconditionally. Who'd been there every day. Who'd believed I deserved everything good.
"Who?" I managed to say. "Who did this?"
"We don't know yet," one of the guards said. "The Duke has been informed. He's returning immediately. An investigation will..."
"Who. Did. This."
My voice didn't sound like my own. Something was rising in my chest. Something hot and violent and overwhelming. I'd felt this before; this was pure undiluted fury.
The transparent mana that was usually barely visible around me was suddenly clear. Bright. Almost white in its intensity.
The temperature in the room dropped.
"Young master," the healer said carefully, backing away. "You need to calm down. Your mana is...."
I didn't hear the rest.
All I could see was my mother's face. Peaceful in death.
All I could feel was rage.
Someone had done this. Someone in this manor, someone we trusted, someone who'd served us or smiled at us or pretended to be loyal.
Someone had murdered the only person who'd ever loved me without conditions.
And I'd been too comfortable, too complacent, too assured of my safety to see it coming.
If I'd been training. If I'd been vigilant. If I'd been strong enough...
The guards were shouting something. The healer was backing toward the door.
I didn't care.
My mana was exploding outward, responding to emotions I couldn't control. The windows in the room cracked. Frost formed on the walls despite it being summer.
"ALDRIC!"
Cedric's voice cut through the chaos.
He was there suddenly, grabbing my shoulders, forcing me to look at him.
"Breathe," he commanded. "Control your mana before you bring the entire manor down. BREATHE."
"They killed her," I said, and I was crying now, tears streaming down my face. "Someone killed her and I wasn't....I couldn't....."
Cedric yelled, "If you were stronger, you'd what?"
His tone made me snap out of it.
His tone changed immediately
"I know. I know." His voice was surprisingly gentle. "But you need to control yourself. Your mother wouldn't want you to hurt yourself or others in grief. You know this."
His words cut through the rage just enough.
I took a breath. Then another.
Slowly, so slowly, my mana began to recede. The frost on the walls stopped spreading. The windows stopped cracking.
But the rage remained.
And underneath the rage, guilt.
I'd stopped training. Gotten comfortable. Thought I was strong enough.
And while I was being complacent, someone had poisoned my mother.
Cedric must have seen it in my face because his grip on my shoulders tightened.
"This is not your fault," he said firmly. "You're ten years old. This is not your burden to carry."
But he was wrong.
I was ten years old in body only.
And I'd failed. Failed to protect someone I loved. Failed to be strong enough when it mattered.
Just like I'd failed Kenji Yamamoto's mother by being too selfish to care.
Just like I'd failed everyone in my previous life.
"I need to see my father," I said, my voice hollow. "When will he arrive?"
"By morning," Cedric said. "He's riding through the night."
Morning. Hours away.
Hours to sit with this knowledge. This failure. This overwhelming, crushing guilt.
I looked at my mother's body one more time.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm sorry I wasn't better. I'm sorry I stopped trying. I'm sorry...."
My voice broke completely.
Cedric pulled me away gently but firmly. "Come on. You shouldn't be here right now."
He led me from the room, past the guards and servants who wouldn't meet my eyes.
As we walked through the manor halls, I swore.
To my mother's memory.
To myself.
To the ghost of Kenji Yamamoto, who understood loss.
I would find who did this.
I would make them pay.
Whatever it took.