Eight months had passed since Aurelian von Blackthorne first entered the Blackthorne Sword Hall.
Time no longer felt slow to him. Days flowed one after another, each filled to the brim with effort, discipline, and relentless self-improvement. Somewhere between countless sword swings and silent nights of meditation, his age quietly surpassed nine.
Yet no one who looked at him would dare call him a child.
By day, Aurelian belonged to the Sword Hall.
From dawn until his muscles screamed in protest, he trained with the blade. Basic forms, footwork, balance drills, strength conditioning—nothing was skipped. He practiced horizontal slashes until his shoulders burned, vertical strikes until his wrists trembled, and thrusts until his stance became instinctive rather than learned.
By night, he belonged to magic.
When the castle slept, Aurelian sat cross-legged in his room or within isolated training chambers, grimoires floating before him. Mana flowed through his body like a quiet river, refined again and again through meditation. His control grew more precise with each passing week.
He had already awakened his mana at an age that shocked even veteran mages.
Now, at just over nine years old, he was already firmly established as a Second Circle mage—and advancing rapidly.
Six more months, Aurelian thought one night, eyes shining faintly with mana light, and I'll form my Third Circle.
The thought filled him with genuine happiness.
Progress was visible. Tangible. Earned.
He was not stagnant.
He was growing.
---
Despite his rigorous routine, Aurelian was not isolated.
He spent quiet moments with his mother in the garden, listening to her gentle advice on mana circulation and spell structure. Sometimes she brewed tea for him herself, watching him with a gaze filled with pride she never tried to hide.
Occasionally, his father trained him as well.
Those sessions were brief—but intense.
Alaric von Blackthorne never praised him, never raised his voice. He corrected Aurelian's stance with a single word, demonstrated a strike once, and expected perfection in return. Each lesson felt heavier than hours of normal training.
Yet Aurelian treasured those moments.
Because in his father's silence, there was expectation.
And expectation meant acknowledgment.
---
That day began like any other.
Steel rang against steel in the Sword Hall as soldiers trained in disciplined formations. Aurelian moved among them, practicing solo forms near the edge of the hall. His breathing was steady, his movements smooth, his eyes focused solely on the path of his blade.
Then—
The sound stopped.
Not abruptly, but subtly, like a ripple passing through still water.
Aurelian sensed it before he saw it.
He turned.
The head butler, Sebastian, stood at the entrance of the Sword Hall. His presence was calm, dignified, and authoritative enough that even hardened soldiers straightened unconsciously.
Sebastian walked forward and bowed deeply.
"Young Master," he said, voice respectful yet firm, "His Grace has summoned you."
Aurelian paused.
His sword lowered.
"…I understand," he replied after a brief moment.
There was no visible reluctance. He wiped the sweat from his brow, sheathed his blade, and left the hall without a word. Soldiers watched him go, curiosity flickering in their eyes.
Summons from the Duke were rare.
---
Aurelian changed from his training clothes into simple casual attire and followed Sebastian through the castle corridors.
When he reached the Duke's office, the door was already open.
Alaric von Blackthorne stood inside.
Not seated.
Standing.
The moment Aurelian entered, his father turned toward him.
"Come," the Duke said.
That was all.
No explanation.
No discussion.
Aurelian nodded and followed.
They walked through the castle halls in silence. Knights bowed as they passed, their eyes briefly flickering toward the young heir. Yet none were ordered to follow. No servants joined them either.
The path led not inward—but outward.
Toward the main castle entrance.
Aurelian's steps slowed slightly as he noticed what awaited them outside.
A carriage.
Old.
Worn.
Its wooden body was scratched and faded, the iron reinforcements dulled by age. There were no mana circuits engraved along its sides. No crest of Blackthorne adorned it.
It looked like something a minor merchant might use.
Not a Duke.
Aurelian hesitated, confusion surfacing in his eyes.
His father stepped inside without pause.
Aurelian followed, seating himself across from him.
Sebastian took the coachman's seat.
No knights.
No escort.
The carriage began to move.
Aurelian stared out the window, mind racing.
This world has mana-powered carriages… even airships, he thought. Why something like this?
After several minutes of silence, he finally asked, "Father… why are we using this carriage?"
Alaric did not look at him.
"When we arrive," he replied calmly, "you will understand."
The conversation ended there.
---
The journey lasted hours.
The scenery gradually changed—from well-maintained roads to uneven stone paths, from open land to dense forests. Eventually, the road narrowed into a mountain pass. Cold wind slipped through the cracks of the carriage.
Then—
The carriage slowed.
Laughter echoed through the mountains.
"Looks like we got lucky today!"
"Hand over your credits!"
Figures emerged from the roadside.
Bandits.
More than thirty of them.
They blocked the narrow mountain road, weapons drawn, faces filled with greed and amusement. Their clothes were ragged, their movements crude—but their confidence was overwhelming.
In Noctyrr, credits were the universal currency.
And these men were here to take them.
Aurelian felt his chest tighten.
He turned toward his father instinctively.
Alaric's expression remained cold, unreadable.
Then he spoke.
"Go," the Duke said flatly.
"And kill them."
For a moment—
Aurelian's mind went blank.
The words did not register.
"…Kill?" he whispered, staring at his father in disbelief.
Alaric finally turned to him.
"This is real combat," he said. "If you wish to survive in this world, you must be prepared to take lives. Hesitation leads to death."
Aurelian's fingers tightened around the fabric of his clothes.
In his previous life, he had never killed.
In this life, despite all his training, he had never taken a human life.
This was different from sparring.
Different from training.
Reality crashed down on him with terrifying clarity.
"…Go," the Duke repeated.
The carriage door opened.
Cold mountain air rushed in.
Aurelian stepped out slowly, his sword already in his hand.
The bandits burst into laughter.
"A kid?"
"Is this a joke?"
"They sent a child to die!"
More than thirty of them.
Their skills were far inferior to Blackthorne soldiers. Their stances sloppy. Their coordination poor.
But numbers mattered.
And killing was real.
Aurelian took a deep breath.
Slow.
Controlled.
He lowered his stance.
Then—
He ran forward.
Straight toward them.
The laughter faltered.
Shock flickered across their faces.
The mountain wind howled as Aurelian closed the distance, blade gleaming—