Once Frejion finally unlocked the mythical skill of reading (at least simple to medium words), he started gobbling up books like a starving scholar. What he found was both fascinating and ridiculous: this world ran on two core powers—Sticking and Unsticking.
Yes. You heard that right.
Apparently, humans in this world had the unique ability to attach themselves to things or detach themselves from things. It sounded like a superhero power created by a sleep-deprived toddler. But hey, it worked. Sort of.
The true twist came with something they called "Substance." Not like "emotional depth" or "protein shakes," but a literal force within every person. It was kind of like soul energy, if you squinted hard and ignored all the logic. Each person had a unique Substance that determined what kind of sticking or unsticking tricks they could pull off.
Some could stick their hands to walls—but not to objects. Others could detach from the ground and float like discount superheroes, but couldn't do much else. The range was wild, and most people were boxed in by whatever flavor of Substance they were born with.
It made yesterday's battle make a lot more sense.
Dad could stick his legs to the ground. That's how he launched Zenitch like she was on a medieval rollercoaster.
Zenitch, on the other hand, could "unstick" parts of her brain and body to move in ways that would make contortionists cry. It wasn't human. Or maybe it was… just on hard mode.
For Frejion, this was insane—in the best way possible.
Every day after that, he buried himself in books. If it had pages and mentioned powers, he read it. Then, when the sun dipped low, it was training time with his dad, who believed in the philosophy of "no pain, no progress, no mercy."
By the time Frejion turned five, he was already knee-deep in brutal training. No fancy birthday party, no cake. Apparently, birthdays weren't a big deal unless you were royalty, or at least royalty-adjacent. The rich kids got confetti and parades. Frejion got push-ups and life advice screamed into his face.
Not that he minded. In his old world, he'd trained for seventeen years without caring about trivial things like celebrations. Heck, he didn't even remember his actual birthday back then.
He had bigger fish to fry. His goal? Understand what kind of cheat skills had followed him into this weird, glue-based world, and how to use them before someone stronger decided he wasn't worth the oxygen.
So he kept learning, observing, and theorizing based on the kind of guesswork that would make scientists cry. He needed to understand how this magic—if you could even call it that—actually worked.
I mean, who wouldn't want to boost their strength, zip around with a sword, or casually walk on water like a holy ninja?
Sure, some of it sounded childish. But to someone who had trained in a world of strict martial arts where flashy powers didn't exist, this was Disneyland.
He still had tons of questions, though. Like:
Where did this Substance come from?
Could it evolve or change?
Was there a food chain in this world?
And how exactly did society react to people who could fly by ungluing themselves from gravity?
He wanted to know it all. Every little detail. Every hidden rule.
"A real fighter knows his battlefield," his real father had once said before being cut down in a war against overwhelming odds.
Frejion took those words to heart.
Back on the topic of Substance—turns out it activates differently depending on age. And yes, it can be strengthened in three major ways:
1. Training
2. Real fights
3. Coming face-to-face with death and somehow surviving
You know, the usual power-up methods.
And to Frejion? That was exciting as hell.
***
In a rather modest room that had clearly seen better days—judging by the crack-laced walls and the cheap coffee table wobbling like a drunk goblin—two women sat across from one another, locked in a deep conversation.
And by deep, we mean the kind of conversation that hops between philosophy, child-rearing, and roasting their mutual idiot: Loniel.
Both women bore an uncanny resemblance. If a drunk bard walked in, he'd swear he was seeing double. Same jet-black hair, same sharp eyes with that slight crimson hue, and a similar aura of "Don't mess with me unless you want your liver turned into soup."
The only real differences were in their build and posture. One sat like a tired lioness—graceful but absolutely done with everyone's nonsense. The other had the resting posture of someone constantly ready to throw hands.
They were Zenith and Maria Damon.
Zenith, sister-in-law and proud owner of unresolved emotional tension, was sipping on her coffee when the wall to her right exploded.
Yes. Exploded.
The shockwave yeeted the coffee right out of her hand and onto the floor.
"What the hell is that idiot Lon doing now?!" Zenith shouted, looking ready to transform into a shounen protagonist powered by caffeine and rage.
Maria, on the other hand, didn't flinch. Her coffee was gone, her robe was stained, and her expression hadn't changed a bit. She took one long, tired sigh like a mom who had seen way too much anime nonsense in her lifetime.
"Probably training with Frejion again," she said flatly, brushing some wall dust off her shoulder like it was just another Tuesday. "Honestly, I think our son might be a prodigy. The way he swings a sword… it's not normal. I mean, I've seen veteran duelists with less form."
Maria said this with the kind of pride only a battle-hardened mom could muster. If she could, she would've already paraded Frejion around the city in full armor shouting, "LOOK AT THIS GENIUS CHILD!"
Unfortunately, her little bundle of murder potential was a bit shy. Or introverted. Or maybe plotting something? Who knew with kids these days.
Zenith crossed her arms and scowled.
"I noticed too. Think he could beat the girl from the First Clan? Or that golden boy from the Third?"
Ah yes. Clans. Because this world just had to have political drama mixed with power scaling.
Maria paused, her fingers tapping her knee. Her maternal instincts screamed yes, but her battle-worn common sense whispered hell no.
"If he had the same resources? Absolutely. But he doesn't. We're talking about the top clans in the district, Zenith. Let's not go full delusional."
Another explosion shook the room. Plaster fell from the ceiling like it had given up on life.
Zenith slammed her hand on the armrest.
"Okay that's it! Who does he think he is?! Bakugo?!"
Maria blinked.
"Who?"
"Never mind."
She stood up, looking like she was ready to suplex Lon through a dimensional rift.
Maria, meanwhile, glanced toward the hallway. Her eyes narrowed.
"Maybe I should check if that fool of a husband hasn't accidentally killed our only child."
The third explosion made the decision for her.
As the dust settled, they both saw a leg-sized hole in the wall. Through it, they could hear muffled voices.
"YOU CALL THAT A BLOCK?! A GOBLIN COULD'VE DODGED THAT!"
"Maybe if YOU didn't shout in my face while I parry—"
Maria sighed, long and loud.
Zenith pinched the bridge of her nose.
"He's doing the full Shounen Dad thing again, isn't he? Training arc included."
"Worse. He thinks he's in a sports anime."
"Oh no."
"Yeah."
The two women stared at the hole in the wall, the silence between them thick with mutual concern and disbelief.
Maria finally broke it.
"Want to place bets on how long before they blow a hole in the roof?"
"Fifteen minutes."
"Ten."
"You're on."
As they sat back down, someone screamed outside: "SWORD TECHNIQUE: HORIZONTAL METEOR SPLIT!"
Zenith blinked. "That doesn't even make sense."
Maria sipped what remained of her dignity. "Neither does parenting."
But deep down, even under the sarcasm and drywall, they were proud.
Foolish. Dangerous. Loud. But proud.
Especially Maria, who secretly already had Frejion's name embroidered on a Champion's Cape she planned to gift him on his 10th birthday.
Assuming Loniel didn't explode the house before then.
Again.