- Autumn
Two years had passed since that conversation with Mother. In that time, I had learned much—not just about swordsmanship, but about the way our family truly operated. Strength wasn't just encouraged; it was expected. The world beyond our estate was brutal, and power dictated everything.
My training had been relentless. Mother didn't coddle me. She made me fight, made me think while fighting, and ensured I never relied solely on raw strength. I learned how to move, when to strike, and—more importantly—when not to.
Now, at seven years old, I stood at the center of our estate's training grounds, surrounded by knights. Some watched with mild amusement, others with scrutiny. I had grown stronger, faster. My magic core had solidified, and I had learned to manipulate it with greater control.
Yet, something was still missing.
I exhaled, adjusting my stance as the knight before me leveled his blade.
"Are you sure about this, young master?" he asked, not unkindly. "You've improved, but you're still—"
I shot forward before he could finish, closing the gap between us in an instant. His sword came up reflexively, but I twisted my body mid-step, pivoting around his blade and aiming a strike at his side.
CLANG!
He blocked, but I had already moved again.
A murmur rippled through the watching knights.
The fight continued, my mind calculating every movement, every counter. My past life had made me a warrior. My new body was still catching up, but it was getting there.
And soon, I would be ready.
In the past two years, I had grown—not just in skill, but in body. I now stood at a solid 4'9", taller than most children my age. My hair, thick and black like my mother's, had grown long enough to brush against my shoulders. I usually kept it tied back, though a few strands always managed to fall into my face no matter what I did. My features had sharpened, taking after my mother's striking beauty, though my eyes..those purple eyes..they held an intensity that was entirely my own.
Physically, I had developed well. Training every day had carved definition into my muscles, giving me a wiry, athletic build. I wasn't bulky—my body was still too young for that—but I was strong for my age, stronger than I had any right to be.
My dantian, however, was what truly set me apart. In my past life, it had been a vast, boundless sea of energy, honed through decades of cultivation. Now, it was something entirely different. It had reformed into a unique core, swirling with remnants of my old power and the strange energy of this world. It wasn't just a wellspring of strength—it was alive.
At night, under the moonlight, I could feel it pulse with Yin energy, drawing in the cold, silent power of the night. Unlike traditional magic cores, which relied on elemental affinity, mine was something deeper. It didn't just channel energy—it transformed it. I had learned to use it to reinforce my body, to sharpen my reflexes, to move with an unnatural grace. Sometimes I practiced alone—in the forest, or tucked away in my room—working with both my dantian and my mana core. I'd shape constructs from qi-mana, forge a bow from pure mana, then notch it with a qi arrow. From what I understand, qi hits harder than mana... but I could be wrong. But there was still much I didn't understand.
And that was why I continued to train—why I pushed myself beyond what was expected of a mere seven-year-old.
***
One Week Later, Spring
The night air was crisp, but not cold. The scent of blooming flowers still lingered, mixing with the faint scent of wet stone from the evening rain. It had been an uneventful week—until now.
I stood in the courtyard, training under the moonlight, when I felt it. A shift.
Something was wrong.
A whisper of movement, the subtle displacement of air. Someone was here.
I turned sharply, my core instinctively flaring to life. The Yin energy of the moonlight pulsed within me, mixing with what remained of my previous cultivation.
Then, they came.
Two figures in black, silent as shadows, moving in perfect coordination. Assassins.
Unlike the fools who had tried before, these ones were different. Their movements were precise, refined. No wasted motion. No arrogance. These were trained killers.
I barely had time to react.
One lunged with a blade. I dodged, my enhanced legs carrying me just out of reach. But the second was already anticipating my movement, his dagger cutting toward my side.
I grinned.
Instead of retreating, I went forward.
With a burst of strength, I slammed my palm into the first assassin's wrist, twisting his strike wide. Before he could recover, I dropped low, sweeping his legs out from under him. He crashed to the ground, but the second was already attacking again.
He aimed for my throat.
I caught his forearm mid-strike. Twisting. Redirecting. Using his own momentum against him.
He stumbled, just for a second.
That second was all I needed.
I lashed out with my foot, striking him clean across the jaw. His body twisted in the air before he hit the ground, skidding across the stone.
The fight should have continued. But it didn't.
Because before I could move again—
SHING!
A silver blur.
The second assassin's body jerked—then collapsed.
I turned sharply.
My mother stood at the edge of the courtyard, calmly lowering her hand. The air shimmered faintly as an invisible force pulled the bloodied blade from the assassin's chest. It hovered for a moment, then clattered to the stone.
She exhaled. "Seven years old, and already fighting assassins?"
I wiped sweat from my brow, breathing heavily. "You let them get this far?"
She tilted her head. "I was curious."
"Curious?" I scoffed. "I could've died."
"If you were that easy to kill, you wouldn't be my son."
She stepped forward, glancing at the first assassin—still groaning in pain.
"You left one alive?" she mused.
I folded my arms. "If I kill them right away, I don't get to ask them why they're trying to murder me."
Her lips curled slightly. "Smart."
She flicked her wrist, and the unconscious assassin's body lifted into the air before being tossed aside like garbage.
"Come inside," she said. "We have things to discuss."
I hesitated, casting one last glance at the unconscious assassin. My core still pulsed faintly, the Yin energy settling back within me.
***
Later That Night
I sat in my mother's private study, the scent of parchment and aged ink filling the air. A single candle flickered on the desk, casting shifting shadows against the bookshelves lining the walls. The assassin, still bound and unconscious, was slumped in the corner, barely breathing.
Mother sat across from me, her gaze sharp, calculating.
"Whoever sent them," I began, resting my chin on my hand, "they're not amateurs."
"Clearly." She sipped her tea, unbothered. "But that isn't what concerns me."
I raised a brow. "Oh?"
She set her cup down with a quiet clink. "You've been using your core too openly."
I tensed slightly. "I needed to test it in real combat."
"You think I don't understand that?" She gave me a measured look. "I tested my abilities the same way at your age. But there's a difference between learning and exposing."
I frowned.
She gestured toward the assassin. "This man is a tool. If we break him, we get a name. If we get a name, we follow the trail. But whoever is behind this? They already know you're dangerous."
I leaned back, exhaling slowly. "They shouldn't."
"Yet they do," she said simply.
Silence stretched between us.
I knew she was right. I had been careful—training in secret, keeping my progress under wraps—but something had tipped them off. My mind raced through the possibilities. Had someone seen me sparring? Had the knights spoken of my strength? Or was it something else entirely?
A chill crept down my spine.
There was only one other possibility.
"You think someone in the family betrayed us?" I asked, my voice quieter.
Mother didn't answer right away. Instead, she lifted her hand, and the unconscious assassin lurched awake with a choking gasp.
I straightened, watching as his dazed eyes flickered between us. He tried to move—only to realize his limbs were bound by invisible force.
Mother smiled. It wasn't kind.
"Let's find out."