By the time I turned four, my body had finally caught up with my mind—at least enough for what came next.
For most children, that meant longer walks through the woods, mischief with neighbors, or finally being trusted near fire without supervision. For me, it meant something else entirely. Something I had been waiting for since the day I first realized I could move my fingers again.
It meant a sword.
Not a real one. Not yet. But wood was enough.
Cassian handed me the training blade one quiet morning after breakfast, wiping his hands on his apron and nodding for me to follow him outside. It was a simple thing—no ornamentation, just a carved stick with decent weight and a wrap of leather around the grip. But I took it like it was the finest blade forged in the halls of the Highforge.
He didn't make a speech. He wasn't a sentimental man. He just gestured to the clearing behind the house where the grass grew flat from years of footwork and hammering. "We'll start with the basics."
I nearly laughed.
The basics.
As if I hadn't already mastered every known sword form in the last world. As if my muscle memory didn't ache for stances he hadn't even heard of.
Still, I played along. It was easier that way.
Cassian showed me how to hold the sword. Where to place my feet. How to distribute weight, shift balance, align the blade with my center of gravity. He was solid—no wasted motion, no flair. Everything practical. It was the kind of style you only picked up from actual fighting, not formal instruction. Likely military, or mercenary at the very least.
But I could tell from the way his eyes lingered that he noticed something wasn't right. Not wrong—but not normal.
I moved too well. Too confidently. Even when I made "mistakes," I corrected them too quickly.
When he demonstrated a diagonal slash and had me repeat it, I matched it within two strokes. The third time, I improved it.
Cassian didn't comment. But I saw it in the way his jaw shifted slightly, or how his eyes narrowed at my feet when I pivoted perfectly without instruction.
We trained for over an hour that first morning. Most kids would've tired in ten minutes. I only pretended to yawn when it was time to stop.
After that, training became a daily ritual.
Each morning, I practiced with Cassian, performing drills, parrying his strikes, refining forms I already knew by heart. I adjusted my progress carefully, giving just enough to seem gifted—but not supernatural. Not yet.
But my father wasn't a fool. Every few days, he increased the intensity. Swung a little harder. Changed angles mid-strike. Tested me.
I never failed.
One afternoon, as we sparred beneath the late spring sun, he lunged at me with a feint—shoulder dipping, blade angled for my left side—then twisted mid-stride, reversing direction for my ribs.
I parried before his blade was even halfway through the turn. My counter was fluid, fast, and light.
He stepped back, lowering his practice sword, breathing a little harder than usual.
"That was fast," he muttered, more to himself than to me. His eyes searched my face, looking for something—an explanation, perhaps. "Too fast."
I shrugged, feigning confusion. "I just moved."
He gave a short laugh, but it was dry. "You didn't just move. You read it. Like you knew what I was going to do before I did it."
I kept quiet, waiting for the lesson to resume. But Cassian didn't speak right away. He paced slowly in a circle around me, eyes narrowed in thought.
"I've trained grown men who couldn't block that move. You're four."
There was no accusation in his tone—just quiet disbelief.
What could I say? That I had once fought demon warlords atop collapsing ruins? That I'd led charges across burning cities and disarmed masters twice my size?
That I'd died as a sword god?
No. Better to stay silent. Let him draw his own conclusions.
Still, something shifted after that. Cassian never said it aloud, but he began watching me more carefully—measuring not just my movements, but the speed of my growth. He started testing me in subtler ways: asking questions about angles, asking me to adjust my form without demonstrating it. I answered correctly every time.
Eventually, I let myself show a little more.
When I channeled mana into my body, I did it in pulses—brief, contained flows through muscle groups. It enhanced my reaction speed, gave me sharper footwork, more precise timing. I made sure it wasn't too obvious. But when I moved, there was a grace and force to it that no child should have had.
Cassian noticed. Of course he did.
He never asked what I was doing. But once, after a particularly clean parry where I used mana to boost my shoulder torque, he looked down at me and said, "You're not just talented. You're unnatural."
It wasn't an insult.
If anything, it sounded like admiration.
And something else.
Worry.
⸻
Outside of training, I continued refining the spiral. My meditations deepened. I learned to not just draw in ambient mana, but to hold it steady at higher compression. I could now pass it through the lattice of soul-etched glyphs without overheating, blending it with instinctive bodily enhancement.
I also began experimenting with weight training—small stones at first, strapped to my ankles and wrists, gradually increased each week. The mana helped with fatigue and repair. I recovered from soreness in hours instead of days.
And at night, I listened. Always listening.
To the tension in Cassian's voice when soldiers passed through town.
To the way Jasmine changed the subject whenever Rexor or the demon lands were mentioned.
They were hiding something from me. That much was certain now.
But I wasn't ready to confront them.
I didn't want to confront them.
In my previous life I was always in a state of constant struggle. Here it was different.
I had a family here.
⸻
For now, I would train.
I would sharpen my body the same way I'd forged the spiral: slowly, deliberately, with the patience of someone who had lived a thousand battles and wasn't afraid of the next thousand to come.
This world would not wait for me.
So I would not wait for it either.