The training grounds lay beyond the eastern wing of the estate, stone tiles worn smooth by generations of blades.
The steady thud of wooden swords echoed through the air, punctuated by calm commands from the knights.
Rod Ochilis was absent, called away by his duties, and the space felt lighter for it.
I followed my siblings through the gates, my gaze moving instinctively—corners, distances, lines of retreat—habits from a life that no longer existed, yet refused to fade.
Lance trained at the center with disciplined precision, every step measured, every swing exact.
Kainel laughed as he pushed his speed too far, reckless and alive, a blur that ignored caution.
Derrick stood slightly apart, sword resting against his shoulder, eyes sharp and quiet, learning without moving.
Cecilia sat at the edge of the grounds, legs swinging, watching with longing she didn't know how to name.
As I passed her, the air stirred—faint, subtle, easy to miss. Mana. It brushed my senses like a held breath. In my previous life I had never noticed it. This time, I did. I took a wooden sword from the rack; it felt wrong in my hand—too light, too small.
My body lagged behind my mind, which remembered killing as naturally as breathing. Fine. I would build it again, piece by piece, and this time I would not rush.
When practice ended, I returned to my room and locked the door. The Progenitor—Sir Hendricks—had said his teachings were imprinted upon my soul,
and now, as I sat cross-legged and stilled my breath,
the truth surfaced not as words but as rhythm. Hendricks' Blue Sword Sutra.
It did not chase spectacle or speed.
It stored mana in vast quantity, compressed it without mercy, and refined it until it became sharp—mana as a blade rather than a flood.
I began the circulation.
The flow was calm, cold, and exacting. Pressure gathered in my chest as layers folded inward, each pass denser than the last. My body trembled under the strain, weak and young, but my mind was stronger.
The final compression came quietly. A point formed beneath my sternum—stable, heavy, real.
A first core. Pain flared briefly, cleanly, and warmth touched my throat as a thin trace of blood slipped past my lips—the price paid without ceremony. Strength drained at once; exhaustion swept me off my feet, and I fell into sleep with a steady breath and a steady mind.
In the dark, a vision rose: a shattered plain beneath a darkened sky, and there stood Sir Hendricks, broad and unmoving, sword grounded, facing a dragon so vast it bent the world with its presence. The dragon roared; the world trembled. Hendricks did not retreat. His calm was absolute. I felt it then—the same cold clarity, the same certainty—and the vision broke.
I woke hours later in my bed, body aching but whole, a quiet weight resting within me.
The core was sealed, silent, invisible to those who measured power by leaks and flares. Hendricks' Blue Sword Sutra hid what it forged.
Rod would sense nothing. The knights would see nothing.
Only I knew what had begun, and only I understood the rule now carved into me: this path would demand payment every day.
The first core hummed faintly inside me, a heartbeat of power that was mine alone.
The Sutra would not allow it to remain idle. I closed my eyes and began the next cycle—assimilating mana from the air, the floor, even the faint residue lingering in the walls.
Each layer folded inward, compressed and sharpened, until the energy condensed into a perfect, silent blade within me.
My body trembled under the strain, small and young, yet the Sutra did not yield.
When I opened my eyes, the truth of its cost lay bare.
The floor was streaked with faint blood, dark impurities clinging stubbornly to the corners, and a sour stench hung in the air.
The room reeked of what I had expelled, the Sutra purifying and refining everything within me.
Ordinary children would have cried. I did not. I knelt and began cleaning.
Every motion was precise, deliberate—scrubbing the dark streaks from the floor, wiping the corners, restoring the room as though nothing had happened.
The maids could not know. Suspicion could undo weeks of preparation.
When the room gleamed and smelled of polished wood rather than blood, I called for dinner.
My voice was soft, harmless, betraying nothing.
The maid entered, smiling at the small, polite boy, unaware of the storm of power that pulsed beneath my ribs.
I ate slowly, tasting purpose rather than hunger, while my first core settled, faint but steady, inside me.
Then, a memory struck sharply—my father.
Tall, proud, and stern, his eyes always measuring not just skill but heart.
In my previous life, I had lost him. Now, in this second chance, I felt the pull of his presence, commanding and stern even from a distance.
My pulse quickened, and for the first time since forming the core, a hint of anxiety touched me.
A sharp knock echoed at the door. I stiffened. "Enter," I said quietly.
Sir Deckard, the head butler, appeared immediately. His posture was impeccable, his expression calm but unreadable. He was no ordinary servant—Deckard had once been a high sword expert himself, renowned across the continent, but had retired decades ago to serve the family in secret.
His eyes still carried the precision and awareness of a master, and even from a distance, he could sense subtle shifts in mana—though the Blue Sword Sutra's concealment was impeccable it wasn't all absolute.
"Young Master Michael," he said, bowing slightly, "The Master—your father—requests your presence. It has come to his attention… that you have formed a Mana Core. He wishes to meet you immediately."
My chest tightened. The first core pulsed faintly, a heartbeat of silent power no one else could perceive.
Deckard's gaze swept over the spotless room, satisfied that no trace remained of the Sutra's work.
"I shall escort you to the Blade Sanctuary," he said, voice low and deliberate. "Follow me."
I rose, small and composed, letting the demeanor of a harmless seven-year-old mask everything beneath.
Every step through the estate carried the weight of memory, power, and purpose. The halls stretched long and familiar, yet charged with anticipation.
Outside, the sounds of training continued, oblivious to what had transpired in my room. The core beneath my ribs pulsed steadily, whispering the promise of power, refinement, and revenge. I was ready.