A year passed in the Grand Forest.
For anyone else, that year would have been a nightmare — monsters lurking, storms raging, the very air heavy with danger. For a baby with an adult soul, it was mostly… inconvenient.
Alaric sat bundled in moss inside the hollow of a massive tree, gnawing on his own fist. His golden eyes were half-lidded, his expression one of eternal boredom.
So this is one year of my new life. I still can't walk. I still can't talk. And my only hobby is watching zombie-dad clean his sword. Peak entertainment. Ten out of ten.
He let out a dramatic sigh, which came out more like a squeaky coo.
Ashen, seated at the hollow's entrance, glanced back. His pale, expressionless face showed no reaction, but his gaze lingered.
Alaric met those silver-gray eyes, then snorted faintly.
Don't give me that look. It's not like I can go chop wood or something. My job is staying alive. Yours is doing all the work. Perfect teamwork.
That morning, something changed.
The air felt… thicker. Threads pulled at Alaric's senses, faint but insistent. Warm currents drifted through his chest, pulsing with rhythm like a heartbeat. Cold currents tugged at the edge of his thoughts, heavy and sharp.
He stilled, blinking.
…What the hell is this?
The warmth soothed him, made his tiny body feel lighter. The cold made his skin prickle, his bones ache. Yet both felt familiar, like voices he should have always known.
He reached for them instinctively.
His fingers twitched. The moss beneath him pulsed faintly, glowing for the briefest second before fading.
Alaric froze. His golden eyes widened.
Wait. Did I just—?
Ashen was already watching. His gaze sharpened, silver eyes catching the faint glow.
The baby blinked up at him, cheeks puffing.
Don't look at me like that! I'm not a glowstick. I just… did something.
Ashen stood and walked over, kneeling beside him. He studied the moss carefully, then placed a pale hand against the child's chest. His fingers hovered, sensing.
Alaric squirmed faintly.
Hey, hands off. I'm not broken. Probably.
But Ashen seemed satisfied. He sat back, calm as ever, though his gaze was steadier now, heavier.
Alaric swallowed, his tiny fists curling.
So you noticed I'm not normal. Figures. Guess there's no hiding it.
That night, the forest was alive with sound. Wolves howled in the distance, insects shrieked in chorus, and the air smelled of rain.
Ashen carried the child in one arm, moving silently through the mist.
Alaric stared at the shifting shadows, but his mind was elsewhere. The warmth and cold currents tugged at him again, invisible threads brushing his skin.
He let out a faint whine, frustrated.
It's like… I can feel it, but I can't hold it. Like trying to grab smoke. Ugh. This is going to be a pain, isn't it?
Ashen glanced down at him. His expression didn't change, but he shifted his hold, adjusting the swaddle so Alaric could see his hand clearly.
Then, without a word, Ashen raised his palm.
Mana stirred.
Light flickered faintly between his pale fingers — not fire, not wind, but the pure current of death's cold. The air thickened, the ground darkened, and for a moment it felt as though even sound had been swallowed.
Alaric's eyes widened.
Ashen closed his hand, and the darkness vanished.
He looked down at the child again, silent as always.
Alaric blinked, stunned, then let out a quiet hiccup-laugh.
You're kidding me. You knew all along? You could've started training me earlier! I've been wasting a whole year drooling on myself!
Ashen said nothing. He only lifted his sword, resting it against his shoulder, then shifted the baby back into his other arm.
But his gaze — calm, deliberate — said enough.
Training had begun.
Ashen didn't waste time. The very next morning, after settling the child on a bed of moss, he lifted his pale hand and called forth mana again.
This time, it wasn't the cold current of death but something softer.
A faint green glow shimmered across his palm. The moss at his feet pulsed, brighter, fresher, as though a whole month of growth had passed in a heartbeat. The air smelled cleaner, sharper, almost sweet.
Alaric's golden eyes widened.
So that's life magic, huh? Healing, growth, renewal… That's busted. Totally busted. And I can do that too? Please tell me yes.
Ashen closed his fist, and the glow faded. He then looked at the child, as if to say: Now, your turn.
Alaric blinked. His small fists curled.
What, already? Dude, I'm still in the tutorial level. At least give me a mana potion or something.
But Ashen waited, silent and steady.
Alaric huffed, puffing out his tiny cheeks. He closed his eyes, focusing on that strange dual current inside him. Warmth. Cold. Two voices pulling, pushing.
He reached for the warmth.
His baby fingers twitched. The moss beneath him brightened faintly, then fizzled out.
Alaric groaned, flopping against his swaddle.
Ugh. This body is useless. I'm like a gamer stuck on inverted controls. How am I supposed to be a prodigy when I can't even sit up on my own?
Ashen's head tilted slightly. His expression didn't change, but his gaze lingered with something almost… approving.
Alaric blinked up at him, panting faintly.
…Don't look at me like that. I'll get it eventually. Just… gimme a few decades.
Later, Ashen demonstrated death magic again.
This time, his hand darkened, the air chilling as veins of black shadow seeped into the soil. A beetle crawling nearby stiffened, then crumbled into dust before hitting the ground.
Alaric stared, slack-jawed.
Okay.... Note to self: do not piss off my babysitter.
He tried to copy. He focused on the cold current, pulling it toward his hand. His tiny palm twitched, the air shimmered faintly, and—
Pop!
The swaddle smoked.
Alaric coughed, eyes watering. His little body jerked, and he let out an indignant squeak.
Ashen moved instantly, patting out the smoke with calm efficiency before adjusting the cloth around him.
Alaric glared up at him, cheeks puffed like a sulky hamster.
I almost roasted myself! You couldn't have warned me?
Ashen blinked slowly. His silence was answer enough.
Alaric groaned, rolling his tiny head aside.
This is child abuse. Magical child abuse.
Training became routine.
Every day, Ashen demonstrated both currents — the warmth of life, the chill of death. Every day, Alaric tried, failed, sulked, then tried again.
Sometimes he managed a flicker of green light, sometimes a spark of shadow. Most of the time, nothing.
But each failure pushed him harder. Each flicker filled him with stubborn pride.
Fine. I'll do it. I'll master this, even if it kills me. Again. Just… maybe not today. Today I'm tired. Nap first, magic later.
Ashen never scolded. Never praised. He only watched, guiding with silence, demonstrating when needed.
But his presence was constant, steady.
And slowly, Alaric began to feel it — the rhythm of mana. The way the warmth spread when he calmed, the way the cold answered when he clenched his will.
It was clumsy. It was slow. But it was real.
One night, lying in his moss bed, Alaric stared up at the canopy. The stars barely peeked through, faint pinpricks of light.
His tiny fists curled against his swaddle. His golden eyes glimmered faintly in the dark.
I died alone once. A nobody. No one cared. But this time… this time, I'm different. I've got this magic. I've got… him.
He turned his head. Ashen sat at the entrance, as always, sword across his lap, silver eyes watching the dark.
Alaric's chest loosened faintly. He let out a soft laugh, though it came out as a bubbly coo.
Yeah. I'll survive. Even if I'm lazy. Even if I complain. I'll survive, because you're here. And maybe… one day, I'll be strong enough to stand beside you.
His eyelids drooped, and he drifted into sleep, the threads of mana pulsing faintly in his chest.
And Ashen, silent as ever, tilted his head slightly toward him — a gesture small, but enough.
As though he had heard.