The morning sun, filtered through the high arched windows of Velwolf Manor, painted golden stripes across the polished marble floor. It was my third birthday. Lady Elara, my mother, fussed over my small tunic, adjusting the collar with delicate fingers. She hummed a tune I vaguely recognized as a lullaby from my previous life, a faint memory from Earth. Her touch was always gentle, her eyes soft, clouded often by a weariness that I, with my adult memories, understood but could not alleviate. She saw a child. I was a passenger in that child's body, a quiet observer of her tender care. “My little Jaxson is growing so fast,” she murmured, kissing the top of my head. The sweet scent of her perfume, jasmine and something else earthy, filled my nostrils. I forced a wide, innocent smile, the kind that always melted her heart. It was a practiced facade, honed over two years of pretending to be nothing more than a precocious toddler. Inside, my mind raced, calculating. The world outside the manor walls was shifting. The abstract playground of my infancy, where I had reveled in my unique physical gifts, had officially come to a violent end. My secret training had intensified with each passing week since I'd overheard Sir Kael mention Paul Greyrat. Every dawn, before the household stirred, I slipped from my crib, moving with a silent grace that belied my size. In the abandoned wing, far from watchful eyes, I pushed my body. The Touki, a warm, protective shroud, coiled around my limbs, making my movements sharp, efficient. I could now maintain a low-level Battle Aura for nearly an hour, a subtle sheen on my skin, enhancing every punch and kick against the worn tapestries I used as targets. My infant muscles, already dense and strong, hardened further with each repetition. Magic flowed with an alarming ease. A snap of my fingers could conjure a fist-sized fireball, a concentrated orb of orange flame that hovered, humming, before dissipating. A subtle twist of my wrist sent a jet of water splashing against a dusty stone wall. The ground shivered at my bare foot’s stomp, and gusts of wind, barely visible, ruffled the heavy curtains. Chantless magic, the kind only true prodigies or ancient mages wielded, was becoming second nature. It was exhilarating, a confirmation of the latent power humming beneath my skin, but it was also a stark reminder of the global catastrophe that awaited. The increasing reports, relayed by Master Elms during his morning discussions with Lord Reinhardt, had become impossible to ignore. Strange mana fluctuations rippling across the edges of the Fitoa region. Unnatural weather patterns – sudden droughts in one area, torrential downpours in another. Beastfolk caravans, usually stoic and practical, reported unease, a prickling sensation in the air. Mages of the Royal Academy were baffled, speculating about cosmic rifts or planar disturbances. I knew exactly what those tremors portended. The Teleportation Incident was not just coming; it was already knocking at the door. Staying hidden, continuing my solitary, limited training, was no longer an option. The world outside Oakhaven manor was about to shatter, and I refused to remain helpless, a fragile child caught in the maelstrom. My current capabilities, impressive for a three-year-old, were utterly inadequate for survival against the forces that would soon be unleashed. I needed real training, structured guidance, and access to resources far beyond what my secret sessions could provide. This meant revealing enough to convince my father, Lord Reinhardt Velwolf, that his youngest son was far more than he appeared. The decision solidified, cold and unyielding, in my chest. It felt like stepping off a cliff, but the alternative was far worse. I would face the consequences of showing my hand, of breaking the carefully constructed illusion of my childhood. But what would Reinhardt do? His stern demeanor was legendary, his expectations of strength and discipline absolute. He had noticed my unusual reflexes, my surprising physical strength for an infant, but he saw potential for a future warrior, not a nascent mage or a reincarnated adult. He would not take kindly to deception, or to a child who defied the natural order. Yet, I had no choice. I spent the rest of the morning observing him. He was in the grand training courtyard, as usual, his movements precise, almost ritualistic, as he guided Lyran through sword forms. My half-brother, a decade older than me, swung his practice blade with youthful enthusiasm, though his technique lacked the honed edge of his father's. Reinhardt's broad shoulders, his weathered hands gripping the hilt of his own heavy training sword, spoke of a lifetime spent in combat. He was a pillar of strength, precisely what I needed to leverage. The clang of steel against steel echoed, a rhythmic pulse that beat against my resolve. Lady Elara tried to tempt me with candied fruit and a new wooden horse, but my mind was elsewhere. I nodded, mumbled my thanks, and then, with a quick glance to ensure her attention was elsewhere, I slipped away. My small footsteps were silent on the heavy rugs, then clicked softly on the stone corridors leading towards the courtyard. Each step was deliberate, carrying the weight of my past life and the terror of the impending future. This was not a game. This was a gambit for survival. I had to make him see. I had to make him believe. The bright sunlight of the courtyard hit me with a sudden intensity, making me squint. The air thrummed with the scent of sweat, oiled leather, and damp earth. Lyran, his brow furrowed in concentration, parried an imaginary blow, his breathing heavy. Reinhardt stood observing, a critical eye on his son's form. He noticed me then, a flicker of surprise in his steel-grey eyes. I straightened my small shoulders, fixing my gaze on him, a three-year-old in a tunic, walking with the posture of a man ready for battle. His expression shifted, a subtle tightening around his mouth. He knew, on some level, that I was different. Now, he would know how much. I walked straight past Lyran, who paused mid-swing, curiosity replacing his focus. The dirt of the courtyard felt cool beneath my bare feet. I stopped a few paces from my father, tilting my head back to meet his stern gaze. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant chirping of birds. He raised an eyebrow, a silent question. This was it. I took a deep breath, the dust of the training ground filling my lungs. Then, without a word, I pushed a ripple of Touki from my core, not a full shroud, but a visible, shimmering distortion in the air around my small body. It was subtle, but undeniable, a silent pulse of raw power. Reinhardt's eyes widened, a flicker of shock replacing his customary sternness. Lyran gasped, dropping his practice sword with a clatter. Their reactions confirmed it: they could see it. They could feel it. “Father,” I said, my voice clear and unwavering, despite the small size of my throat. I looked up into his stern face, past the initial surprise, and met his gaze with an intensity that belonged to a seasoned warrior, not a child of three. “I require your tutelage.”

Chapter 2: The World's Demand