Arian first had to understand this world.
Although the memories of "Arian Oswald" seemed to have settled deep within his mind by now, they were blurred and faded; he could barely recall the features of his new family or the intricacies of this palace through them. He had to seek the truth himself.
He began searching through the dust-covered piles of books in a neglected corner of his room until his hand fell upon a massive, ancient tome. Its cover was worn, its yellowed pages brittle, exuding the scent of a forgotten era. Its language was strange, akin to forgotten hieroglyphs; yet, thanks to the new consciousness inhabiting him, he could comprehend the writing with absolute fluency.
He turned the pages with intense focus, his eyes tracking the lines: "We are in a continent called 'Arknar', divided by four great kingdoms. And at the edge of this world, beyond the Dead Seas, lies another colossal continent named 'Erebus'... and from there began the march foretold by the ravens."
The book's words were cryptic, steeped in historical symbolism, but Arian grasped one truth as clear as the sun: this was neither the past he knew, nor the world in which he had spent ninety years. It was an entirely different dimension, with different laws, geography, and powers.
He closed the book quietly and stood up. His goal was now clear: the training ground. He must begin honing this frail body immediately, for will alone is insufficient to wage battles with the heart of a child.
The moment he traversed the castle's stone corridors, the whispers of the servants began trailing him like annoying, repulsive flies.
— "That's the maid's son..."
— "How pathetic, hasn't he died yet?"
— "Since when hasn't he left his room?"
Such words would not have shaken a single hair on a veteran commander like him, but he deeply understood why the former "Arian" preferred to cower in the dark, away from this silent cruelty. He ignored them entirely, continuing on his way with calm, steady steps that exuded a dignity unbefitting a nine-year-old.
On his way to the courtyard, he encountered a man nearing seventy. He was burly, with stern features and a thick white beard that suggested experience and cunning. It was "Tyus", the Lord's counselor and right hand.
Tyus adjusted his circular spectacles as he cast a scrutinizing, highly observant glance at the boy:
— "It is surprising to see you outside your quarters, boy. Are you looking for the way back?"
Arian replied in a calm tone, his unwavering eyes not blinking before the old man's imposing presence:
— "Greetings, Counselor. Nothing of the sort; I am merely on my way to the knights' training ground."
Tyus stopped moving for a full second. His features, which usually suggested an air of boredom, shifted to muffled astonishment and genuine surprise. He studied the boy's face deeply, then said in a lighter tone:
— "You did not stammer while speaking... it seems something has truly changed within you." He paused briefly, then added with a sort of implicit acknowledgment: "Good, this is better than hiding in your room like a rat."
Arian continued on his way, feeling Tyus's gaze still piercing his back with curiosity and caution before the counselor resumed his walk toward the throne room.
There, Tyus knocked on the massive door and entered upon receiving permission. Lord "Maegor Oswald" sat behind his desk, surrounded by an overwhelming, cold aura. Behind him, a giant window overlooked the province like a divine eye watching over its subjects. His long black hair and the scars covering his powerful hands told the tales of thousands of bloody battles he had fought to prove his right to rule.
Tyus placed a report before the Lord and spoke in a serious tone:
— "It is the report from the wall guards, my Lord. The frequency of demon raids coming from the islands has increased alarmingly of late."
Maegor gestured with his hand without lifting his eyes from his papers, speaking in a voice as rough as distant thunder:
— "As usual... increase the number of recruits at the walls. I do not want a single breach."
— "As you command. But... there is another matter that might interest you."
Tyus paused briefly to gauge the Lord's reaction, then said:
— "I encountered your son, Arian, in the corridor a moment ago. He was heading for the training ground."
The Lord's quill abruptly ceased writing. He raised his cold eyes toward Tyus for a moment, and a heavy silence draped over the room, as if the very air had frozen. Then, without a single word, he coldly returned to his work:
— "Was there anything else? You may leave."
Arian had finally reached his destination. The training ground was a vast courtyard adjacent to the castle, filled with the clamor of clashing swords and the shouts of knights and new recruits. The moment he entered, looks of astonishment and contempt rose on everyone's faces, as if his presence there were a desecration of the place.
He headed toward the armory with cold steps, only to encounter Instructor "Rolf" at the door; a blond knight whose features were cloaked in vulgar arrogance.
— "What do you want here? This is no place for children's games," Rolf addressed him with disdain.
— "I am going to take a training sword. Step aside," Arian replied in a tone devoid of any emotion, which only fueled the knight's ire.
— "Who do you think you are talking to, you scum? Do you really believe you are one of the Lord's heirs just because you bear his name?"
Silence fell over the area. Arian did not answer him; instead, he merely stared into his eyes with a terrifying coldness. Rolf was momentarily unsettled by that gaze, which did not belong to a child, before he drew a heavy wooden training sword and pointed it at Arian's chest.
— "Do you wish to die, boy? Very well... I will remind you of your true place, you son of a maid."
Rolf swung his sword at Arian's head in a direct, forceful strike. Everyone expected the boy to fall, drenched in his own blood. But for "Laurent", the sword's trajectory was laughably slow and predictable. In a fraction of a second, with a single precise sidestep, Arian evaded the attack with stunning prowess.
Rolf's sword cleaved empty air and struck the dirt ground violently. Absolute stillness engulfed the courtyard, and the knights' eyes widened in disbelief. Rolf muttered to himself, trembling with rage: "Did he just dodge it? Impossible... my hand merely slipped."
Rolf tightened his grip on the sword once more, but suddenly froze in place. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a piercing gaze glaring at him from a nearby balcony; it was Sir "Gared", the castle's Captain of the Knights, whose mere look was enough to stop any man's heart.
Rolf swallowed hard and stepped back, then said arrogantly, trying to save face:
— "You got lucky today, but that won't always be the case."
Rolf turned to leave, but Arian had no intention of letting him walk away without paying a price. He said in a faint, dismissive tone that reached everyone's ears:
— "It seems you failed to strike an unarmed, nine-year-old child who is half your height. What a disgrace to knighthood you are."
All movement in the courtyard ceased entirely. Rolf turned slowly, his eyes burning with savage malice.
— "What... what did you just say?"
Arian replied with the same coldness:
— "It seems you are deaf as well. I said you are nothing but a disgrace to knighthood."
Rolf's face turned crimson, the veins in his neck bulging. He grasped the hilt of his real, iron sword this time, and would have drawn it had his subordinate not intervened, whispering in panic:
— "Sir! If you kill him now, it will create problems for us with the Captain of the Knights!"
Rolf shouted in a thunderous voice that shook the surroundings:
— "Very well, son of a maid! I challenge you before everyone to an official knight's duel... to the death!"
Arian looked at him, a faint, barely visible smile forming on his lips, and replied in a confident tone:
— "Agreed. I accept your challenge, but on one condition... we fight a week from now, in the center of this courtyard."
Arian entered the armory. While browsing through the weapons, he sensed someone's presence. He turned to find a boy with purple hair and handsome, soft features, roughly his age. It was "Valen", the youngest knight in the province.
Valen asked him in a soft, low voice:
— "Why did you accept? You will die."
Arian replied simply:
— "No particular reason."
Arian continued his search until he found a massive sword, exceptionally broad and long... and absurdly heavy. It was the type he was accustomed to fighting with in his previous life. He lifted it with extreme difficulty and walked out with it amidst the mocking laughter of the knights.
He strapped the sword to his back and began to run. One hour... two hours... three hours. Sweat dripped from him like rain, and his heavy panting tore at his small chest, but he rose every time he stumbled. He was not using aura; he was using the willpower of a commander who had refused death thousands of times.
When night fell and the courtyard emptied, Arian finally collapsed, fainting from extreme exhaustion, barely holding onto a shred of consciousness. As his vision darkened, he noticed an armored boot standing beside his head.
He raised his eyes with immense difficulty... Sir "Gared", the Captain of the Knights, stood looming over him, watching him in majestic silence.