The routine has become my secret religion. Eat, sleep, soil diapers (ugh, the indignity!), and in every quiet moment—every second before I nod off or right when I wake up—my consciousness dives inward. Time to move those fragments. Every second counts, I tell myself with the utmost seriousness of some ancient monk trapped in a body that can barely hold its own head up without wobbling.
Progress is glacial. Like trying to erode a mountain by blowing on it. But it's not zero. After weeks of effort that leave me mentally drained (a super weird feeling in a body that just wants to drool and sleep), I've managed to get a couple more specks to join the first one near my core. They're still incredibly tiny, like grains of sand on an endless beach, but they're there. My core doesn't feel like a dead spot anymore—it's more like... a very, very dim firefly. And my MP is up to 8. Small victories!
Meanwhile, my understanding of the world—and especially my parents—keeps growing.
Dad isn't just an ex-hero. He's the ex-hero.
Sometimes, when we go to the village market (with me strapped to Mom's chest like a glorified fashion accessory), I catch whispers. Names spoken in awe: Ash Fang, The Terror of the Northern Hordes. Sneaky glances of admiration aimed at the big guy who's now awkwardly haggling over some vegetables. It's surreal. This gentle giant who makes silly faces at me and lets me tug on his scruffy beard is apparently a living legend.
"Ow! Too rough, champ. You'll leave my chin bald—and then Mom will get mad," he says, gently pulling my hand away.
I pause. Then, with the precision of a master manipulator, I let out a soft whimper.
"Gwaah."
Dad freezes. I swear I see his instincts kick in, like a battle-hardened warrior sensing an ambush.
A soft hand lands on his back.
"Lexo, champ, Dad will let you play," he blurts out, immediately placing my fingers back on his beard. "No worries about a few less hairs, ha ha ha!"
I peek past him. Mom is standing there, watching.
I flash her my best baby smile. Checkmate.
But back to Dad's story. He gave it all up—for Mom, for me. From what I piece together from snatches of conversation at lunchtime, it's almost a light novel cliché: a battle-worn hero finds peace in the eyes of a kind healer. The pregnancy was the final straw. He hung up his sword (the real one, not the wooden training prop) and sought anonymity in this quiet village. Now he's just a simple guard—a job ridiculously beneath his skills—but it lets him be home every night.
"His core is Yellow, Lexo," Mom whispers to me one day while rocking me, as if I could actually understand. "Bright Yellow. Something most people only dream of seeing, let alone reaching. Years of battles, of refining his spirit and inner fire..."
Fire.
That's his element. A Fire user with a Yellow core. One in a million, Mom said. And he doesn't just use magic—he channels that super-refined energy into pure physical skill. Now I get why his training sessions look so intense. Why his strikes against that poor old practice post aren't just hits, but precision-crafted destruction.
When he moves, I feel it. The ground trembles ever so slightly beneath his feet. The air ripples around him.
I clap my chubby little hands when he finishes, letting out a "Bababa!" He takes it as pure admiration (and he's not entirely wrong). His smile, glistening with sweat and pride, is worth more than any treasure from my past life.
Mom is Light.Dad is Yellow Fire.Both exceptional in their own ways.
And me... I'm their son.
The firstborn. With my way-too-early consciousness and my fledgling core that barely flickers. The rarity of high-level cores, the near impossibility of being multi-elemental... all that info buzzes in my head.
What kind of potential do I have?
Will I inherit something from them?
I've been moving fragments without thinking about their color, purely focusing on the mechanics of control. But now that I know more about the elements—and seeing the raw power Dad wields physically and the refined grace Mom channels magically—curiosity is starting to itch.
My mana flow is minimal, sure.
But it exists.
And that's enough.
For now.