A few months passed in a blur of routine and strange normalcy. Life as a baby—again—was, frankly, humiliating. Velren spent his days enduring the indignities of infancy, though it wasn't all bad. Sköll and Fenrir took care of most of his needs. Sköll, in particular, seemed oddly adept at things like feeding and bathing him—though Velren suspected the white wolf enjoyed swaddling him a little too much. Fenrir, on the other hand, was more of the "if he's not crying, he's fine" type of guardian. It worked... mostly.
And then there was him.
The old man—Velren's so-called "grandmaster." The title might've inspired awe if the guy didn't spend most of his waking hours clutching a bottle like it was a lifeline. It seemed that booze was the man's first and truest love. Mornings began with the clinking of glass, afternoons with the scent of fermented grapes or grains, and evenings... well, evenings often ended with snoring and empty bottles rolling across the floor.
Yet, despite the drunken antics, something about the old man intrigued Velren. There were times—usually in the dead of night—when curiosity got the better of him. He'd crawl out of his tiny bed, inching across the wooden floor, careful not to make a sound. He'd peek into what he'd come to know as the library—a grand name for a room packed with dusty shelves, scrolls, and tomes that reeked of old paper and aged liquor.
That's where he'd find him: the old man sitting cross-legged with his spine straight, despite his usual slouch. His robe—which was stained and creased—draped over him as a faint glow illuminated his figure. Strange energy, like wisps of smoke and light intertwined, rotated around him in slow, deliberate spirals. It was mesmerizing. Almost... calming.
And every single time, just as Velren's curiosity reached its peak—
"Gotcha."
Sköll would appear, seemingly out of thin air, clamping his teeth gently onto the edge of Velren's shirt, and drag him back to bed. Like clockwork. Every night. Without fail.
It was getting infuriating.
***
Tonight, though... tonight was different.
Velren had overheard earlier that Sköll was out on a long hunt. That meant only Fenrir was left keeping watch—and unlike Sköll, Fenrir preferred to stand guard outside, gazing at the forest rather than babysitting him every second. Perfect.
Grinning inwardly, Velren shuffled out from beneath his blanket. The wooden floor was cool against his palms and knees as he crept toward the familiar door. His tiny heartbeat quickened with excitement. No annoying white wolf to interrupt him tonight.
Usually, Sköll would catch him by surprise, dragging him back to bed with that annoyingly gentle grip on his clothes. But tonight? Sköll was out on a long hunt. And Fenrir—unlike the ever-watchful Sköll—kept his watch outside, leaving Velren with a rare window of opportunity.
He pushed the door open with a faint creak, flinching as the sound echoed louder than expected. Holding his breath, he waited. No heavy footsteps. No reprimanding wolves. Perfect.
Yet, as he peered into the library, he paused. Empty? That was unusual. Most nights, the old man would be seated cross-legged in the center of the room, surrounded by the swirling energies that Velren still couldn't comprehend. But now... nothing.
A muffled noise caught his attention.
Snore.
His shifted his gaze toward the room next to the library. Of course. The old man's booming snores echoed through the walls, rattling the shelves like a distant quake.
'He drank himself into oblivion again, huh?'
It wasn't surprising. If the drunkard wasn't meditating or mumbling about ancient things, he was drinking like it was his life's purpose.
Not that Velren was complaining—this worked out perfectly.
Silently, he padded into the library. The scent of old parchment and faint traces of incense was hanging in the air. Rows of towering bookshelves stretched toward the high ceiling, and each of these shelf was crammed with worn tomes, scrolls, and various trinkets. Strange crystals flickered dimly in alcoves, casting a soft amber glow that illuminated the intricate carvings along the wooden beams above.
'Shall we get to work then?' his eyes were gleaming with curiosity.
***
After a moderately long time of rummaging through the room—carefully pulling out volumes and peeking at their titles—Velren finally stumbled upon a book that piqued his interest. The worn leather cover was embossed with faded golden letters that read:
"Essence Beyond Flesh: The Origins and Flow of Ka."
The word ka had been persistently stuck in his head. The first time he had ever heard of it was during his initial days in this strange world—when the old man had asked Fenrir about the condition of his ka. It wasn't just a passing mention, either. Throughout the past months, Velren had noticed that the trio, especially during the wolves' rigorous training sessions, often referred to it. Words like reserve your ka effectively or don't let your ka disperse too recklessly echoed in his memory, though back then it was all just incomprehensible idiom to him.
Velren flipped open the cove. A cloud of dust puffed out, making him scrunch his face. The first page greeted him with an ornate illustration—a figure standing beneath two radiant orbs with their hands raised as streams of light flowed into its chest.
"Chapter 1: The Essence of Ka"
His gaze trailed down to the text below, the archaic script was surprisingly readable despite its age:
Ka—the vital essence, the soul-force that permeates all living beings. More than mere spirit, it is the intrinsic energy that sustains life and shapes destiny. Where there is breath, there is Ka.
Velren blinked, intrigued.
'Soul-force, huh...?'
The book continued, explaining how Ka was believed to be a dual entity: a reflection of one's inner vitality and a tether to the metaphysical world. It was the reason warriors fought beyond their limits, why elders could sense danger in their bones, and how mages harnessed their power.
"Ka is both a gift and a burden. Strengthen it, and one transcends mortal limits. Neglect it, and even the strongest body becomes a husk."
He skimmed further, finding diagrams of humanoid silhouettes with swirling lines indicating energy pathways. It reminded him of the strange lights he often saw when he was watching the old man meditate.
"The manipulation of Ka requires discipline. Reserve too much, and you remain frail. Expend too freely, and you risk collapse."
So that's why Fenrir and Sköll kept mentioning Ka during their training... It was more than just stamina—it was life itself.
His fingers traced down the yellowed page until a new heading caught his eye:
"Origins of Ka: An Ancient Legacy"
Velren leaned in closer.
"Long before kingdoms rose and fell, before magic was named, there existed an ancient civilization where the understanding of Ka began. A place of gods, pharaohs, and sacred rites... An ancient land known as... Egypt."
He froze, reeling his mind. Egypt...? The name stirred something deep in his hazy memories, like an echo from a dream he couldn't fully grasp.
The page ended there.
'Egypt... Why does that sound... familiar?'