Morning came the same way as usual. The sun was at its zenith, casting a warm glow over the damp earth and clear blue skies. 

I was sitting in the backyard, wind blowing as it always did. This time, though, it felt chilly rather than soothing.

The grass beneath me was still wet from the early dew, seeping through my clothes as I sat there with my knees drawn close. I didn’t mind it. The cold helped me stay present. Somewhere beyond the fence, I could hear distant voices from the village, faint laughter, the sound of carts rolling over uneven paths. Life was moving forward at its own pace, steady and unbothered. I wondered how many mornings like this I had already lived, and how many more would pass before something finally changed. 

My thoughts refused to settle. No matter how much I tried to enjoy the quiet, my mind kept circling back to the same unease. What happened yesterday had not left me. The image lingered, clear and sharp, refusing to dull with time. A beast. Blood. A presence that ended it in a single strike. Even now, when I close my eyes, I could still feel the pressure in the air, the kind that made breathing feel heavier than it should have been.

I clenched my hands slowly, feeling a faint ache in my fingers. My body was still that of a child, light and fragile, yet my thoughts did not match it. From the outside, I was Kairon…but from the inside, I was still Sievert, the commander, the professor. 

Footsteps approached from behind, soft but deliberate. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Her presence carried a familiarity that settled my nerves even as it made my back straighten instinctively. Mom stopped a short distance away, silent for a moment, as if studying me. I could feel her gaze, sharp and thoughtful, nothing like the gentle warmth she usually carried.

“You’re awake early, Kai.” She said at last. 

I nodded. “I couldn’t sleep.”

She didn’t question it. Instead, she walked past me and placed something against the wooden post near the yard. The dull sound caught my attention. When I looked up, my breath hitched slightly. A wooden sword rested there, worn but well cared for, its surface marked by countless past uses. It wasn’t a toy. That much was obvious.

Mom turned to face me, her expression calm but serious in a way I hadn’t seen before. “Finish sitting,” she said. “Then stand.”

I rose slowly, my heart beating faster than it should have. 

Mom picked up the wooden sword and turned it in her hands, inspecting it as if she hadn’t been the one to leave it there moments ago. When she held it out to me, I hesitated only briefly before stepping forward. The weight surprised me. It was light enough for a child but not forgiving. If I lost focus, it would punish me. That alone told me this wasn’t meant to be a play.

“Grip it,” Her voice lacked the usual softness, it was as if she was my mentor.

As I wrapped my fingers around it, I felt a familiar feeling. Ah, that’s right. I was a swordsman back on Earth. I held the sword the way I remembered, firm but careful, keeping my stance narrow. I could feel her eyes on my hands immediately.

“Too tight,” she corrected. “You’re holding it like you’re afraid it’ll disappear.”

I loosened my grip slightly.

“Again.” 

I adjusted it a little more, mimicking the way I used to hold a sword and how I’d seen swords being held in the past, though I was careful not to lean on instinct. Instinct would betray me. She watched for a moment longer, then nodded once.

She stepped back and gestured for me to follow. We moved to the open part of the yard, where the ground was flatter, and the fence stood further away. The wind brushed past us, carrying the faint scent of soil and wood.

“We’ll start simple,” Mom said, adjusting her grip on the wooden sword. “Swordsmanship isn’t about rushing ahead. You learn what’s in front of you first.”

She stepped back a little, planting her feet into the damp earth. “A sword isn’t just a weapon,” she continued. “It’s an extension of your body. If your body is unstable, the sword will be the same. Strength comes later. Control comes first.”

She tapped the ground lightly with the tip of her blade, drawing my attention to her stance. “Your feet matter more than your arms. If you don’t stand right, everything above it falls apart.” She shifted her weight, slow enough for me to see it. One foot forward, the other slightly angled, knees bent just enough that her posture looked relaxed rather than rigid. “Balance isn’t about standing still. It’s about being ready to move.”

I adjusted my stance to match hers. It felt awkward at first, like my legs weren’t quite sure where they were supposed to be. The ground was uneven, and the chill in the air made my muscles tense without me realizing it. 

Mom noticed immediately. “Don’t lock your knees,” she said calmly. “You’re not a statue. You’re a person. Let your weight settle naturally.” 

I exhaled and loosened up, feeling the tension drain from my legs. The difference was subtle, but I could tell right away that it felt easier to stay upright. 

She nodded. “Good. Now grip it.” She gestured for me to try it.

I nod. “Ok,” I said, and gripped it as I used to grip a sword on Earth. I gripped it tightly, feeling my fingers ache.

She moved closer, gently adjusted my hands on the wooden sword. “Too tight, and you’ll tire yourself out. Too loose, and the sword won’t listen to you.”  Her fingers tapped my knuckles lightly. “You’re not trying to dominate it. You’re guiding it.” She moved back a step.

I focused on her words as I adjusted my grip, letting my hands relax enough. This world’s sword style is quite different from Earth’s. The sword felt lighter than before, not because its weight had changed, but because I wasn’t fighting it anymore.

“Posture, grip, footing,” she took another step back. “These are the foundations. Everything else builds on them. Speed, power, technique…they mean nothing if these are wrong.” 

Well, I know that…they put us through hell on Earth. I had to suppress a shiver from the memory. 

She raised her sword into a simple guard position, the blade angled forward, her movements smooth and unhurried. “For now, you don’t attack. You observe and copy.” 

I mirrored her stance again, this time with more confidence than before. It felt unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable. 

She gave a nod and lowered her blade. She gestured for me to follow. “Now let me show you a basic swing.” She took a few steps away from me and demonstrated a simple downward form first. The blade rose above her shoulder, paused for a heartbeat, then descended in a clean, controlled arc. There was no flourish to it, no excess movement. It was efficient. Quiet. 

I lifted my sword to copy her, but I hesitated. Hold up…if I don’t make any mistakes, it would seem way too suspicious. I knew the motion, hell, I knew everything she taught me about swordsmanship, so far. My brain knew every moment, every movement…but this body I’m in can’t seem to follow. That’s good! 

I took in a breath and let my timing slip. 

My swing came down a fraction too stiff, my shoulders tensing as the blade cut through the air. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t clean either. The sword dipped slightly at the end, the momentum pulling me forward more than it should have. I know the way this swing should flow from the hips instead of the arms. 

Mom watched closely, eyes narrowing—not in suspicion, but in focus. “You’re leading with your arms,” she said. “Feel it start lower. Your body moves first. The sword follows.” 

She stepped beside me and repeated the motion, this time slower. “Imagine the swing beginning at your feet. Then your hips. Then your shoulders. Your hands come last.”

I nodded and tried again, deliberately overcorrecting. This time, my hips moved too much, throwing off my balance.  The sword wobbled near the end of the arc. 

“That’s better,” she said, surprisingly gentle. “Not good enough, but better. You’re thinking about it now.”  

I relaxed my grip slightly and tried a third time, letting the movement flow, but stopping myself just short of letting it become natural. The swing was cleaner, the blade steadier, but still imperfect enough to pass as a beginner learning through trial.

Mom nodded again. “That’s the one. Remember that feeling.” 

We practiced the same motion repeatedly. Each time, I adjusted just enough to show improvement without revealing how easily the corrections settled into my body. I let my footwork lag behind my hands. I mistimed my breathing. Small mistakes. Safe ones.

Occasionally, Mom would tap my wrist or adjust my stance, explaining the reason behind it rather than just fixing it. She never raised her voice. Never rushed me. She treated each correction like a lesson, not a failure. 

After a while, my hands began to ache, not from unfamiliarity, but from restraint. Holding back was harder than pushing forward.

“Enough,” Mom said eventually, lowering her sword. “That’s plenty for your first day.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

She studied me for a moment, then smiled faintly. “You learn fast. That’s good.” She ruffled my hair. “Just don’t rush yourself.”

I nodded, wiping sweat from my brow. “I won’t.”

As I stood there, wooden sword resting against my shoulder, I couldn’t help but feel it…this wasn’t just training. It was preparation. Even though I was hiding part of myself, every step forward still felt real.

 The practice ended quietly. Mom returned the wooden sword to its place and went back inside, already thinking about the rest of the day. I stayed behind.

The backyard felt quieter once she was gone. The wind brushed past the grass, light but constant, and for a while I just stood there, staring at the marks in the dirt where my feet had been. Each one was shallow. Temporary. Like everything else lately.

Swordsmanship wasn’t difficult to understand. My body struggled, yes—but my mind didn’t, I know every movement, every strike, every angle. But my body doesn’t. I don’t know why, but it was a relief that my body couldn’t perform every strike correctly. 

I let out a slow breath and walked inside the house, then walked out of the house through the front door.

Walking helped. It always did.  

The path out of the village was familiar, worn down by years of footsteps and passing carts. I followed it without thinking, my thoughts drifting the further I went. The houses thinned. The voices faded. Eventually, the fields gave way to trees. 

I stopped near the edge.

The forest marked the border between humans and elves, who loomed quietly ahead. It wasn’t threatening, but it wasn’t welcoming either. The air flowing from the forest felt different. It was denser. Older.

I had no intention of crossing it. 

Still, I found myself standing there longer than I meant to, staring into the shade between trunks, wondering why my feet had carried this far in the first place. 

How did I end up here…? I should head back before Mom finds out. 

I turned around and was about to start walking when the rustling of bushes reached my ears. 

I froze. 

My hand instinctively tightened at my side, though there was nothing to grip. The sound came again, closer this time, heavier. Leaves shifted, branches trembled. I took a step back, my heart pounding far louder than it should have.

Then someone stumbled out.

She tripped over a root and fell right at my feet. Snow-white hair spilled over her shoulders, tangled with leaves and twigs. Her ears, partially hidden beneath her hair, tapered into a delicate point. 

An elf. 

One I recognized far too easily.

She looked up at me, eyes widening just as much as mine must have. For a moment, neither of us spoke. 

Then she narrowed her eyes and shouted, “Wait! I know you!” She scrambled to her feet, brushing dirt off her clothes. “You’re the short kid from back then!”  

She straightened up proudly…and wasn’t taller anymore. 

A smug grin crept onto my face as I noticed the difference. “Well,” I said, unable to stop myself, “look who’s short now.” 

She froze, her eyes going up and down my form. She huffed, cheeks puffing out. “How did you get taller than me?!” 

I tapped my chin, pretending to think. “Hmm…I went to a wizard who makes you taller if you give him your hair.” I pointed toward the forest behind her. “If you go that way, you’ll find him.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Really?!” She turned around and started running. 

My eyes widened. I lunged forward and caught her wrist, stopping her before she could disappear into the trees. “No! I was joking.”  

Her excitement drained instantly. She yanked her hand back and pouted. “You’re mean,” she muttered. 

Silence settled between us, thick and awkward.

Then she sighed. “I wasn’t lost,” she said quickly, avoiding my eyes. “I just needed to be away from people.” 

I raised an eyebrow. She was definitely lost. 

“Riiight,” I said, smirking. “You didn’t get lost, didn’t get scratched up, and you totally didn’t run around calling for—” I stopped myself. 

I scratched the back of my head. Damn it. She’s just a kid. What are you doing, Sievert? 

A sob slipped past her lips. 

My heart skipped. Well…shit. 

“H-Hey,” I said quickly, panic creeping in. “I’m sorry…” 

She clutched her arm. When I looked closer, I saw a dark bruise forming. “I-it hurts…” she whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks. 

My expression softened immediately. Of course it hurts. She’s just a child. 

I gently took her hand. “Come on,” I said, keeping my voice low. “My mom and dad can help you.”

She hesitated, glancing back at the forest one last time, then nodded and followed me.

The walk back was quiet. Too quiet. The village felt different somehow. A few villagers paused to stare as we passed, their gazes lingering longer than usual. Why wouldn’t they stare? I was bringing an elf home, a princess at that…though, I doubt they know she’s royalty. 

I glanced at her clothes, they were embroidered, finely made, far too elegant for anything worn here…Well, they probably knew. 

My grip tightened slightly around her hand. She looked nervous. I smiled at her, hoping it helped. 

We stopped in front of the door to our house. I reached out and opened the door; it creaked softly. “Come on,” I said gently. “Don’t be shy.” 

She hesitated, then stepped inside. 

The scent of food filled the air. We approached the kitchen, where Mom was. She was cutting vegetables. 

“Kairon, you’re back.” She gestured toward the table without looking up. “Go sit down. And where were you?” 

Then she glanced over. 

Her knife stopped mid-motion. 

I tensed.

She blinked once. Then twice. Then her eyes widened. 

“Wait…” her voice caught. “…Valmira?!”

(New year, new chapter. Happy New Year! 🎆 I hope this year treats you well, and I hope you’ll stick with Kairon’s journey a little longer. Thank you for reading!)