Two Years Later (Age 5)
"One, two... one, two..."
The rhythmic count echoed across the training field, steady like a war drum. Whose voice was it? Naturally—mine.
I am Paul Viktor Albrecht, prince of the Kingdom of Hanburg. And this morning, like every morning, I was running. Training. Pushing myself.
Why exercise? Simple—endurance. Maybe I could get away with resting while living in the castle. But out there—in the wilds, in the unknown, in the depths of a dungeon—rest is a luxury. Especially on the middle to lower floors where survival depends on every breath, every heartbeat.
I can't afford to be weak. Not even as a child.
While my feet pounded against the earth and my thoughts wandered, I heard someone call out to me.
"Your Highness…"
I didn't stop.
"Yes… go on…" I said, barely missing a beat, breath steady as I kept moving forward.
When I talk like that, most people get the hint and go back to whatever they were doing.
But not this guy.
He kept walking alongside me, boots clacking against the stone.
"What are you doing out here, Prince?"
I stopped and looked at him, deadpan. "Running."
He chuckled like it was some kind of joke. "So... why are you running, Prince?"
That was it. I turned to face him fully.
"It's none of your business," I said flatly. "Go do yours."
Then, without another glance, I picked up the pace and left him behind—where he belonged.
One Hour Later
"Hah... hah... hah..."
I lay sprawled at the edge of the training field, chest rising and falling with each breath, sweat soaking through my shirt.
The morning sun had climbed higher, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Around me, the space was no longer empty—guards and knights had begun their drills. Dozens of clashing swords, synchronized shouts, and the pounding of boots filled the air.
Curious, I propped myself up on one elbow.
They said this was one of the kingdom's most refined and popular training methods. Watching them now, I wanted to see for myself—how real knights moved, how they fought, how they trained.
I wasn't just here to run.
I was here to learn.
Two Hours Later
I was starting to get bored.
Watching the same sword swings and shield drills on repeat lost its charm fast. What felt awe-inspiring at first was now just... repetitive.
I knew if I walked up and asked one of the knights to teach me, they'd say the same thing they always do:
"It's too early for a prince to hold a weapon."
Right. Too early.
Too young.
Too fragile.
With a sigh, I brushed the dirt from my clothes and turned back toward the castle.
Fine. If I couldn't train like them, I'd go back to my room.
For what? Obviously—to study Rune Magic.
The wooden exoskeleton was complete—every joint and panel fitted just right.
All that remained was to install the frame and inscribe the runes inside.
But there was one problem...
"Ranya, has the ink arrived? I need it," I asked, glancing over my shoulder with a flicker of hope.
"Not yet," she replied with her usual calm, unreadable expression.
Magic ink.
Not just any ink—the kind needed to bring runes to life. Without it, all of this work was meaningless. The frame would be nothing more than a hollow shell.
I sighed, leaning back and staring at the unfinished project.
Waiting again.
If I try drawing wind runes with just my hand and pure mana, they vanish the moment the wind stirs.
Too weak.
Too unstable.
And the mana cost? Ridiculous.
I've been testing it again and again, and I think I finally get it—
The mana drains too fast during the formation of the rune. It doesn't have time to stabilize, let alone activate.
So, the best method?
Draw the rune first. Let it settle.
Then channel the mana, slowly, deliberately, in the exact direction I want it to flow.
It's not as flashy. But it works.
And in magic, stable beats flashy every time.
3 Hours Later
As I was sketching possible improvements to the rune structure on paper, deep in thought, I heard a voice.
"Prince…"
It was Ranya. She stood in the doorway, holding a small bottle in both hands.
I didn't need to ask. I knew immediately—that was it.
The ink I'd been waiting for.
Magic ink, refined from the core of a mid-grade mana beast.
Not rare, but not exactly common either. Not many request it, so it's rarely stocked. That makes it hard to find.
Harder still when you're five years old.
But now, it was here. And my project could finally move forward.
I stood up, my eyes locked on the bottle in Ranya's hands. Without a second thought, I rushed over, snatched it gently, and held it like treasure.
No time to waste.
I uncorked the bottle, dipped the brush, and began drawing the rune directly onto the wooden frame of the exoskeleton.
Every stroke had to be precise—one wrong line and the circuit would collapse.
This wasn't just decoration. This was the installation process.
And it had finally begun.
1 Year Later (6 Years Old)
The night was calm, filled with nothing but the quiet hum of my tools as I worked on my exoskeleton. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows on the half-assembled frame in front of me.
I had just tightened a core socket into place when—
Whoosh...
A gust of wind slid through the slightly open window, fluttering the curtains like whispers in the dark.
I turned.
And there she was.
A woman stood at the window, her figure framed by the night sky. Short black hair, jet-black eyes that seemed to see right through me, and a long, dark wizard coat that billowed slightly from the wind. She looked like she stepped out of a forbidden tome—elegant, dangerous, and completely out of place in a child's room.
For a moment, I froze.
And without thinking, the word escaped under my breath, quiet and honest—
"...Goddess."
The woman, still hearing my words, laughed softly, a melodic sound that seemed to echo like magic itself. A slight smile curled her lips as she stepped closer, her black coat trailing behind like a shadow.
"Hello, my prince…" she said, her voice smooth like velvet, tinged with amusement. "Let me introduce myself. My name is Lilith."
She tilted her head slightly, eyes gleaming with an unreadable depth.
"I'm sorry, honey, but I'm not a goddess… Though most people refer to me by the same name as my gift. They call me a witch."
My pulse quickened—not from fear, but something stranger. Unease? Fascination?
She crouched slightly so we were eye-level, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear as she asked, almost playfully,
"So, my prince… how are you?"