The farming knife rested lightly in Aerin's small hand.
Moonlight slipped through the canopy, catching on its edge—not reflecting, not shining, but acknowledging it. The blade looked ordinary, almost laughably so, yet Aerin could feel it: the connection was absolute.
Not ownership.
Recognition.
"This shape is enough for now," he whispered.
The knife dissolved into motes of dim light and sank into his palm, vanishing as if it had never existed.
Aerin exhaled slowly.
No backlash.
No drain.
No instability.
Infinite mana meant nothing if one lacked control. And control, he had learned in his previous life, was built on restraint.
The ancient tree before him creaked softly.
Not from wind.
From awareness.
Roots shifted beneath the soil.
The earth swelled, then parted as something massive rose from below—wood, stone, and moss interwoven into a towering humanoid form. Its body was carved from living bark, its joints glowing faintly with emerald light.
A forest guardian.
In his previous world, such a being would have been classified as a national calamity.
Aerin did not move.
The guardian's hollow eyes settled on him, ancient and unreadable. Pressure rolled outward, heavy enough to crush normal men to their knees.
Aerin felt it.
And let it pass through him.
The pressure faltered.
The guardian tilted its head.
For a long moment, neither moved.
Then, slowly, the guardian knelt.
Its massive form lowered until its wooden forehead touched the earth before the child.
Aerin's heart skipped—not in fear, but surprise.
"So that's how it is," he murmured.
The forest had judged him.
And accepted him.
When the guardian rose again, it dissolved back into roots and soil, leaving behind only disturbed earth and silence.
Aerin turned back toward the village before dawn could betray his absence.
From that night on, the forest no longer hid from him.
Years passed.
Aerin grew as children did—slowly, awkwardly, bound by flesh and time. He learned to speak the local tongue fluently, to swing a wooden practice sword poorly, to trip, to scrape his knees.
To fail.
The village elders smiled at his clumsiness.
Only the forest knew the truth.
At night, when stars hung low and insects sang, Aerin sat beneath trees older than memory and listened. Mana flowed around him like breath, like tide, like thought itself.
He practiced not casting spells—
But existing.
He learned how to compress mana until it vanished entirely, how to let it diffuse so gently that even spirits passed by unaware. Infinite mana was useless if it screamed his presence to gods and monsters alike.
One night, as he practiced concealment, a voice spoke.
"You hide too well for a human child."
Aerin did not flinch.
A woman stepped from between the trees, her form tall and graceful, silver hair flowing like moonlight over dark skin. Her ears tapered to fine points, her eyes glowing faintly blue.
An elf.
A high one.
"I live here," Aerin replied calmly.
The elf studied him intently.
"This forest kills adults," she said. "Yet it shelters you."
"Then perhaps," Aerin said, "it likes me."
Silence.
Then laughter—soft, genuine.
"Dangerous answer," she said. "I am Lysera."
"Aerin."
She knelt to meet his eyes.
"What are you?"
Aerin met her gaze evenly.
"Someone who doesn't want trouble."
Lysera straightened slowly.
"That," she said, "is the most dangerous kind."
High above the forest, wings stirred clouds.
A colossal dragon circled lazily, its scales black as obsidian, eyes burning gold. It had watched this forest since before kingdoms learned to write.
And now—
Something new existed within it.
Something quiet.
Something wrong.
The dragon inhaled deeply.
Mana shifted.
Then stilled.
"…Interesting," it rumbled.
Not prey.
Not rival.
Not god.
A question.
The dragon banked away.
For now.
That night, Aerin lay awake, staring at the ceiling of his modest home.
He remembered the throne room.
The sword.
The betrayal.
Then he looked at his small hands—unscarred, steady.
"I won't repeat it," he whispered to the darkness.
No crowns.
No banners.
No heroics.
If power was to be used, it would be chosen, not demanded.
Outside, the forest rustled softly, as if agreeing.
And somewhere far beyond mortal sight, gods watched the quiet child with growing unease.
Because the one who had learned to disappear—
Was slowly becoming impossible to ignore.