From the dawn of our lineage, when the founder first grasped a sword's hilt, to this very hour, House Wolfhard has reigned supreme in the art of the blade. Even those within the family deemed merely "average" were hailed as prodigies in the eyes of the wider world.
And then there was me.
Arthur Romaeus van Wolfhard II—who was denied even that modest grace of being just "average."
I was cursed.
My mana core, the wellspring of power in this world, lay shattered in my chest—irreparable, inert. In this world, such a fate was akin to stillbirth—or being a corpse that still drew breath. A futureless existence. I could never wield a blade like all those who came before me, could never scale the heights of power that this name demanded. My road ended before my first faltering step.
In a House that worshiped strength, I was an empty altar. In this life, I was as ordinary as the earthbound souls from my former life—utterly unremarkable.
Nor could I walk the shadowed path of the Demon Lord. That road led only to destruction and ruin. It would claim the lives of those I would come to cherish. My conscience, scarred from the grief of my previous life, could not bear more suffering—more loved ones torn away.
But I still possessed a gift unknown to this world: a photographic memory from my earthly days, carried across death itself. And more—I had written this world. Shaped its history, its heroes, its catastrophes. I knew every secret, every betrayal, before it unfolded. My body was new; my mind was ancient—seventeen years old, a high schooler from another world, imprisoned within an infant's fragile shell. Essentially a god cursed with mortal limits and swaddling cloths, watching events I'd penned unfold around me with the terrible certainty of prophecy.
If fate had stripped me of strength, I would not wait quietly as the original owner of this body had. I would bend my past experiences to reshape this life. I would mold destiny until it fit my hands.
When word of Sushila's paralysis and my fractured core reached the Patriarch's wives, it sang to them like a siren's melody.
Their fear dissolved.
They harbored no grudge against me for my bastard birth, nor for my mother's lowborn roots, nor even for the Patriarch's favoritism toward his concubine.
No—their venom stemmed from my visage: hair as white as snow itself, framing eyes of crimson, profound and foreboding as blood upon forged steel. I was the spitting image of him—the unparalleled swordmaster, Arthur Romaeus van Wolfhard the First, the Sword Saint and Founder of House Wolfhard. To them, it was as if the progenitor himself had clawed out of the grave, a specter risen to seize power once more.
They dreaded my rise, feared I would seize the Patriarch's seat and eclipse their legitimate children with the weight of legend made manifest.
They saw me as a threat—a ghost of a legend that refused to stay buried.
They saw a boy who could redefine talent, render genius ordinary.
So they conspired.
And their conspiracy reduced this body to merely a ghost of legend—born with the Sword Saint's face but none of his power.
The Bloody Carriage Incident was no accident—a well-placed scheme executed as Sushila and I returned from the Cathedral after my birth.
That night should have been my end.
It wasn't.
One day, they would regret their failure.
---
Time flowed like a river unchecked.
---
4 months: I was rolling over, reaching, grasping objects with my tiny hands, and passing them between my fingers. Small victories in a body that felt like a prison.
6 months: What began as attempts to stand by gripping table edges—legs wobbling while Raina clapped as though I'd slain dragons—quickly evolved into walking with increasing speed and agility. Crawling was beneath me; I bypassed it entirely, while children my age still fumbled on their hands and knees.
9 months: Short sentences formed on my lips. My first word—deliberate—"Mama"—lit Sushila's eyes with joy, and she enveloped me in a hug so tight I thought my ribs might crack.
1 year: I spoke the world's language fluently, my vocabulary expanding rapidly. It wasn't the achievement Sushila believed it to be; after all, I had created this tongue in my past life. It came as naturally as breathing, bearing striking similarities to English.
2 years: I began sneaking into the palace's grand library. The first time triggered a massive search—Sushila panicked, certain I'd been kidnapped. Servants eventually found me asleep, drooling on an open book about territorial wars I was using as a pillow.
I could recall details from texts after a single glance.
I deliberately sought out histories, maps, records—everything from the creatures inhabiting this world to territories, habits, governmental structures, the various races, economic systems.
The monetary system was simple: gold coins represented the highest denomination, silver the most common currency, copper the lowest value.
I verified every detail against my memories, searching for divergences—places where this reality had strayed from my design.
Nothing had changed.
Good.
This body betrayed me at every turn. I grew exhausted merely climbing stairs to reach the library.
I nodded off mid-paragraph. Soiled myself while dreaming of my old life's bathroom—humiliating.
The servants whispered: Genius. Strange. Cursed.
3 years old: My reputation solidified—a "worthless genius." Some called me a wolf without fangs—renowned for my intellect, capable of holding adult conversations that should have been impossible for a child my age. Yet worthless as a Wolfhard, whose swordsmanship was their lifeblood.
The Patriarch hired the finest scholars money could summon—specialists in literacy, history, alchemy, astronomy, arithmetic, and more.
This created complications. Some resigned after a single session with me, humiliated that a three-year-old surpassed their knowledge.
Others attempted to exploit me—stealing my equations and magical formulas, claiming them as their own. They gained temporary fame until the Wolfhards had them assassinated.
---
5 years old: The Royal Academy adopted a new foundational theory on ley lines and magical energy flow.
Think of it as a survival mechanism—like a seatbelt for magic—reducing the likelihood of death or serious injury.
If a mage or warrior found themselves in danger, they could activate an incomplete incantation or aura on a blade's edge. It would trigger a weaker version and produce an immediate effect. It sacrificed power for speed and efficiency—but enough to create time to escape, distract, create distance—to survive.
The attack wouldn't be as powerful, but it conserved stamina and mana significantly.
It wasn't power—it was survival.
Concept in Action:
Mages:
Full Spell: "Lightning Strike!" → Massive damage, high mana cost.
Half Spell: "Lightning…" → Small surge, enough to blind, shock, or flee; lower mana cost.
Warriors:
Full Aura: "Aura Surge!" → Entire body and sword covered in aura, granting immense strength and defense; high mana cost and stamina drain.
Half Aura: "Aura…" → Coats blade in aura for a single strike, sending a wave of energy to the opponent—enough to cut, stagger, or distract; lower mana cost.
It lowered casualties—fewer accidental deaths in battle and street conflicts.
It democratized magic—making low-mana casters useful.
Reduced power meant half-spells were situational—useful for distractions, brief stuns, minor burns, but not kill-shots.
The military adopted it—techniques for moments when soldiers needed to buy time until reinforcements arrived.
Resonance. That's what they called it.
Scholars hailed it as "the most elegant solution of the century," a breakthrough for generations to come.
Old mages and knights dismissed it as "coward's magic, coward's swordsmanship"—calling oneself a true mage or warrior while employing such techniques was considered an insult.
This ingenious innovation was credited to Professor Vincent Marlowe, who named it "Resonance" after his daughter, Resa Nancy Marlowe. He had once been my lecturer before rising to prominence, then vanished suddenly without receiving the recognition or compensation he deserved. His daughter, at least, received a marriage proposal from a renowned scholar and inherited her father's fame and fortune. She was praised as the daughter of the genius who changed magic.
None of them knew the equation had actually been scribbled by a toddler barely capable of holding a quill.
Poor man. What did he expect, stealing from a Wolfhard?
---
Around this time, something shifted.
I began to see my loved ones—truly see them. Not as characters I'd written, but as people.
I developed genuine affection for Sushila as my mother—I loved her as deeply as I had loved Maeve and Grandma. Raina reminded me of Maeve; she felt like an older sister to this body.
I gained recognition from Grael after my formula spread through academic circles. He wanted to enroll me into the Royal Academy to sharpen my talents.
But Sushila refused, citing my youth and inability to defend myself against older children's bullying.
---
They thought they could dismiss me. A child with a broken core could never be a threat.
Only Sushila saw what they couldn't.
So I trained differently from their prodigies—a shadow lurking behind the true heirs, watching, waiting.
---
When I turned six, tradition demanded I dine with the Patriarch and the family.
I dressed formally.
The age where Wolfhards commenced sword training—in my case, old enough to choose the maid—one who would stand beside me for life.
Till death do us part.