The moment his words left his mouth, I moved.
A sharp pivot—faster than a child should have been able to manage—sent me surging toward him. My grip adjusted mid-step, angling the sword low before sweeping up in a fluid arc aimed for his ribs.
Varian's eyes widened in surprise, but his reflexes were fast. His own sword came down in a firm, practiced block. The impact vibrated through my arms, but I didn't stop. I twisted with the momentum, bringing my foot around in a kick aimed at his side.
He barely dodged.
This time, when he looked at me, his expression had changed. The amusement was gone.
"That…" he muttered, steadying his stance. "That was interesting."
Varian's grip on his sword tightened, his stance shifting ever so slightly. He was taking me seriously now.
"Alright, little lord," he said, rolling his shoulders. "Once could've been a fluke. Let's see if you can do it again."
I didn't respond—I just moved.
This time, I feinted low before stepping in sharply, my blade arcing toward his side. He twisted to block, but I had already anticipated it. Using my momentum, I pivoted off my front foot and brought my sword down toward his shoulder.
Varian reacted fast, raising his blade to parry. The clash sent a sharp vibration through my arm, but I didn't falter. Instead, I shifted my weight, using the force of our weapons meeting to spin and strike from the other side.
He barely blocked in time. Although it was apparent he was holding back.
For a brief moment, our eyes met. There was a flicker of something in his gaze—something between surprise and intrigue.
Then he moved.
Faster than before.
I barely dodged the first strike. The second came even quicker, forcing me to twist awkwardly to avoid it. Third, I had no choice but to block—and the impact nearly sent the sword flying from my hands.
"Not bad," Varian murmured. "But you're still a pup among wolves."
He pressed forward, his strikes faster, sharper. I parried where I could, dodged where I had to. But the difference in strength and experience was undeniable.
Then, in a blur, he was behind me.
The flat of his sword tapped against my shoulder.
"Dead," he said simply.
I exhaled through my nose, lowering my blade.
Varian studied me for a moment before stepping back. Then, to my surprise, he let out a chuckle.
"You fight like a man who's seen war," he said. "Not a child who's barely out of his lessons."
I didn't answer.
He tapped his sword against his shoulder again, glancing at me with a smirk.
"Alright, little lord. You've got my attention. Let's go again."
As I exhaled, a strange calm settled over me—a quiet void swallowing the world around me. My vision tunneled, my grip firm but relaxed as I raised my sword into a stance I had studied in the old texts of our family's library.
The blade angled forward, tilted slightly toward the ground, while my dominant hand held the hilt near my chest. My off-hand rested lightly against the pommel, steadying my grip. It was an ancient form, meant for both offense and defense, designed to control the flow of battle with swift, decisive cuts and calculated counters.
It had no grandiose name—only a simple description in the old texts: The Warden's Guard.
A stance of kingslayers and warlords long before the Empire's rise.
I liked it.
Varian's brows lifted slightly as he observed my shift in posture.
"That's not something they teach regularly," he murmured.
I remained silent, letting the weight of the stance settle into my bones. It was different from the techniques used today—less reliant on bursts of power, more focused on precision. The positioning allowed for immediate downward strikes, sharp counters, or a seamless transition into a thrust. It was balanced, adaptable.
Varian's smirk widened. "Let's see if it holds up."
He lunged.
I didn't flinch.
His blade came fast—faster than I expected, faster than someone twice my size should've been able to move. But my body, even in its juvenile state, reacted on instinct. I stepped to the side just enough, the sword grazing the air inches from my cheek as I twisted my torso and brought mine upward in a diagonal arc.
Clang!
Our blades met. The clash rang through the courtyard like a bell, sparks flying. The impact sent a tremor through my arms, but I held firm. His strength far outweighed mine—but that didn't matter. I didn't need to overpower him. I just needed to out-think him.
He drew back with a single step, reevaluating me.
"You're not just mimicking old forms," he said slowly, lowering into a tighter stance. "You've trained in them."
"I read a lot," I replied, my tone dry, almost amused. "And I'm a fast learner."
He barked a laugh. "You're a strange child."
I gave him a sideways glance. "That's the nicest thing someone's called me all month."
Then he moved again. This time more cautious—less testing, more real.
The swords sang. I parried, danced back, shifted into the second guard from the Warden's style—Cradle of Steel, I'd named it in my head. A closed stance meant to redirect power. My sword caught his with a fluid motion, guiding it past me as I ducked under and pivoted to his flank.
I was struck.
The flat of my blade slapped against his ribs. He grunted and stepped away, nodding in approval, though clearly surprised.
"You don't fight like a five-year-old."
I tilted my head. "That's because I'm not just a five-year-old."
His eyes narrowed slightly at that, but he said nothing. Instead, he looked toward the open doors of the estate, where two other knights had gathered to watch.
"Bring the practice dummies," Varian called out. "This one wants to train."
One of them blinked. "He's just a—"
"—He's more than 'just,'" Varian cut in firmly. "And if he wants to fight, we'll make sure he does it right."
I couldn't help the grin that pulled at the edge of my lips.
This was only the beginning.
I caught his lingering stare and quickly added with a smirk, "I'm just a really good fighting five-year-old."
That earned a laugh—not just from Varian, but from one of the knights by the door.
"Is that right?" Varian said, stepping back and resting the tip of his blade on the ground. "You'll have to show us just how good then, little lord."
"Be careful," another knight called out with a grin. "Next thing you know, he'll be training us."
"Wouldn't be the worst thing," Varian muttered, eyes still on me. "At least he's got footwork. Most new recruits trip over themselves for a month."
I gave a dramatic bow, my blade still in hand. "Your standards are alarmingly low."
Varian raised a brow, amused. "And your mouth is alarmingly sharp."
"Runs in the family," I said with a glance back toward the house. "You should hear my mother when she's mad."
That got a genuine laugh from the others.
The tension broke. Just enough. I wasn't a mystery anymore—I was just an unusually sharp-tongued, sword-wielding five-year-old. Which, in this world apparently full of monsters, prodigies, and extra-galactic magic, might not have even been the strangest thing they'd seen this week.
I handed the sword back to Varian, who gave me a respectful nod—half impressed, half bewildered—and turned without another word. My bare feet padded quietly across the smooth stone as I made my way back inside the estate. The massive front doors closed behind me with a low thud, muffling the chatter of the knights outside.
The warmth of the interior hit me like a wall. Golden light spilled across the halls from crystal lamps mounted along the walls, flickering gently with a soft hum of ambient magic. I took a breath and followed the lingering scent of tea and burnt ozone—the latter always faint in the air after my mother used her magic.
She sat exactly where I had left her, at the low tea table near the window, a book now resting in her hand. She didn't look up when I entered. Her eyes scanned the pages slowly, deliberately, but I could see the small, knowing smirk curling at the corners of her lips.
"You're not limping," she said idly, flipping a page. "I assume the knights went easy on you."
"They didn't not try," I said, stepping closer. "But I didn't give them much to work with."
That earned the tiniest glance upward, then back to the book. "And?"
"And I want to learn more. Seriously." I paused, folding my arms. "I'm not going to sit in here forever while everything interesting happens out there."
She sighed softly, placing a ribbon between the pages before closing the book. "You're five."
"Five and capable."
Her gaze met mine—sharp, unreadable. "So was I at your age."
That made me pause.
"You think you're ready," she said, rising smoothly to her feet, "but understanding how to use your strength is more important than simply having it. You don't even know the extent of your own abilities yet."
"That's why I'm asking. To learn." I frowned. "You didn't seem to hesitate when that man broke in. Two swords through the shoulder, sip of tea, like it was nothing."
She walked past me, her fingers trailing along the edge of the table before coming to rest on the back of a chair. "That wasn't nothing. That was a warning."
"To him?"
"To everyone."
There was something cold in her tone that hadn't been there earlier. Something final.
I tilted my head. "So teach me to be like that. Like you."
She turned to face me fully now, and for the first time that day, I saw real emotion in her eyes—not frustration, not amusement—hesitation. "You want to be like me?"
I nodded once. "I don't want to be caught unprepared. Ever."
She studied me in silence, and then—at last—she smiled, quiet and proud. "Then we'll begin tomorrow."
***
The morning air was crisp, the sky painted with thin streaks of violet and gold as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon. I was already awake, standing barefoot on the cold marble floor of the training hall just beyond our estate's inner gardens. The room was silent except for the faint whir of magic embedded into the walls—ancient runes that shimmered softly in the early light, pulsing like a heartbeat.
I hadn't slept much. Not from excitement—though there was some of that—but because my body felt like it knew this was important. My core buzzed quietly inside me, a soft current of warmth near my stomach. It wasn't quite cultivation, but it was mine. I didn't know what to call it yet, but it was growing.
My mother entered wordlessly, her long black hair pulled back, her robes simple—grey and gold, regal and unassuming. She carried no sword. She didn't need to.
"Feet apart. Shoulder width," she said without greeting, walking past me to the center of the hall.
I obeyed.
"Now tell me," she said as she turned, eyes narrowing slightly. "Why do you want to learn to fight?"
I tilted my head. "Isn't it obvious?"
She waited.
I didn't say anything back but she just knew.
A slow nod. "Good." Then, with a flick of her wrist, a ripple of energy burst across the floor. A training sword appeared in front of me, hovering mid-air. I grabbed it.
"We begin with a stance. Then flow. Then focus. Then pain."
"Pain?" I echoed.
She smirked. "You'll see."
My fingers tightened subtly around the hilt of the training sword. "I just want to be strong," I said, correcting myself. "That's all."
Mother didn't reply at first. She studied me—really studied me—with those sharp eyes of hers. There was a silence that stretched long enough to feel heavy, like she was peeling back layers I didn't even know I had.
"You're quick with your answers," she finally said, walking toward me slowly. "Too quick for a five-year-old."
I shrugged, trying to look unbothered. "I read a lot."
She arched a brow but said nothing more about it. Instead, she reached up, brushing some of my hair back behind my ear. "You really do look like me," she murmured, almost to herself. "Though your eyes are sharper than they should be."
I looked up at her, quiet.
"You want to fight, fine," she said, stepping back. "But you'll do so under my rules. You won't get to swing that sword until you understand what it means to draw it."
I nodded. "Then teach me. That's what im here for."
She narrowed her eyes again but gave a small, amused breath through her nose. "No more questions, then?"
I gave a crooked smile. "Not about that."
She waved a hand toward the far end of the hall. "Then begin again. From stance."