If my past life taught me anything (besides the fact that trucks are dangerous and naps are criminally underrated), it's that practice—no matter how tedious—usually pays off. Or at the very least, it makes you really good at being tediously persistent.
So, I set up my secret baby-monk-in-training routine. While crawling around the house, exploring every dusty corner (and, of course, taste-testing them—gotta keep up appearances), I dedicate part of my downtime to that internal energy thing. It's exhausting. Trying to "pull" those warm specks of light feels less like focused effort and more like trying to juggle Jell-O using sheer willpower. My adult brain is screaming in frustration inside this baby skull, but all my body does is babble nonsense or hiccup randomly.
Mom is my main source of intel, and I'm eternally grateful she's such a chatterbox. She talks to herself while sorting herbs, fills Dad in when he gets home from work, and even explains things to villagers who stop by for healing. And the best part? She assumes I'm just enjoying the sound of her voice. Poor, clueless woman—I'm absorbing every word.
"Once you awaken," she explained one day to some noble-looking kid with a fractured arm, while I "played" with my feet (surprisingly entertaining, by the way), "your core is... raw. Like a lump of coal. Dark, full of impurities." She paused, and I felt her gaze flick toward me. "But over time, with meditation, with careful use of energy... it cleanses. It refines. It turns dark red, like dying embers. Then a brighter red, like blood. With more work, orange like the sunset, yellow like the midday sun... The most gifted or diligent might reach silver, like the moon, or even pure white, like light itself."
Light. Like hers.
When she heals, I can feel the warmth, the brightness, the purity of her energy. And when she explained the elements—Earth, Water, Air, Fire as basics; Light and Darkness as rarities; and advanced combos like Metal, Electricity, Ice... even Gravity (okay, that sounds OP!)—I felt a pull when she mentioned Light. Was it because of her influence? Or did I actually have an affinity for it?
My daily training continues. I crawl over to my favorite spot in the yard to watch Dad. Today, he's not alone. Thom, a young guard—kinda lanky, bald, with a mustache that covers half his face and looking way out of shape—is sparring with him using wooden swords.
Or at least, trying to.
Thom is getting absolutely wrecked. Dad moves with a speed and fluidity that totally contradicts his bulky frame. He dodges a clumsy swing, spins effortlessly, and disarms Thom without breaking a sweat.
"You need to train more," Dad says with a sigh. "You left your left flank wide open. And your stance... you gotta take this seriously, buddy. You never know..."
At the peak of a particularly fast exchange, as Dad blocks one of Thom's desperate thrusts, I swear I see the faintest orange flicker on his wooden blade. A second later, a wave of dry heat brushes against my skin. Definitely Fire. But controlled—so precise it's almost unnoticeable.
Maybe to impress his adoring audience (me, obviously), Dad decides to put on a little show.
"Watch this, Thom! You too, champ!" he says, winking at me. He braces himself, drops into a low stance, and suddenly explodes into a flurry of cuts and thrusts against a training post. His wooden sword whistles through the air, leaving afterimages. Each impact shakes the ground, and with every strike, I feel it. A pulse in my chest. A resonance.
The air around the post distorts slightly from the heat.
I'm so caught up in the display, feeling that strange vibration deep in my core, that I don't notice the real danger.
Dad's final strike lands with extra force, and a small shockwave ripples outward. For Thom, it's just a warm breeze. But for me—a barely three-month-old baby—it's like getting smacked by a pillow the size of a house.
I go flying.
A choked little yelp escapes my throat as I tumble onto the grass. Before I can even process what happened, I hear an exasperated sigh and feel Mom scooping me up. There's no blinding light, no dramatic display of magic—just a subtle distortion in the air and the faint scent of something... bitter.
"Garen," she says, her voice deceptively pleasant, "I told you to be careful."
Dad immediately freezes, looking like a man who just realized he walked into a trap.
"You seemed to be in the mood to fly," Mom continues.
Before Dad can even react, she shifts me to her left arm and, with her right, grabs him by the wrist.
A trained warrior. A man who can literally set his sword on fire.
Effortlessly lifted off the ground and yeeted into a haystack.
With a dull thud, Dad vanishes into a pile of straw.
Thom, wisely, takes this as his cue to leave.
Mom gently checks me over, her expression softening. "Are you okay, little one? That brute of a father..." She shoots a death glare at the haystack, where Dad is slowly emerging, covered in straw and looking thoroughly humbled.
"It was just a demonstration, Elara!" he protests, brushing himself off.
"Demonstrate age-appropriate things, Garen. Not how to create shockwaves."
Yeah. Mom is definitely the scary one.
With the family drama over, I shift my focus back to my actual training.
Lying on my stomach, I zero in on one of those stubborn little motes of warm light in my left shoulder. I pull—with everything I've got—imagining an invisible thread...
And—PLICK!
Not a sound, exactly. More like a sensation. Like a tiny rubber band snapping.
The mote moved. Barely a micrometer. But it moved! It's closer to my core.
And then—
--------------------
[Lexo]
Level: 0.01
HP: 12/12
MP: 6/6 (+1)
(STR, VIT, DEX slightly increased from physical growth)
INT: ?? (Locked)
WIS: ?? (Locked)
MAG: 1
Status: Conscious Mind, Minimal Mana Flow Detected.
--------------------
ONE MP POINT! And a status change! "Minimal Mana Flow Detected."
Ha! I knew it!
Ridiculous persistence has paid off with a minuscule but measurable result.
I feel absurdly proud. And completely wiped out.
I need a nap. A real nap, not a fake training nap.
Three months old. I can almost sit up by myself, my babbling is starting to vaguely sound like "Mama" and "Dada" (totally on purpose—gotta keep the parents happy), and I've moved an infinitesimal fraction of my internal energy.
Progress is progress.
And now, I have crucial new intel on elements and core refinement.
Let's see where this goes.