And just like that, the library became my second home.
Every morning, as the sun crept gently past the velvet curtains of my room, I wake not with the sluggish yawn of a child, but with the quiet determination of someone chasing something only I could see.
The librarian, a bespectacled old man named Gerod, always greeted me with a warm, fatherly smile, as if seeing the boy soothed something deep inside him. He never asked questions. He only opened the door wider and gave a soft nod welcoming me.
Each day, I buried myself in books, chasing meaning through ink and parchment. I stumbled, faltered, and often needed to repeat lines over and over just to decipher a single phrase. But the language of this world—Gazian that I am learning—was slowly becoming less foreign. I picked up on tones, sentence structures, and patterns. I also began to associate symbols with meaning. It wasn't easy, but it was the first true goal he had set for himself in this new life.
In the evening, my fathe would arrive to pick me up. He is always punctual, always smiles. Sometimes he carried freshly baked sweets, and sometimes he simply stood by the library doors, arms crossed, watching me from afar. I loved those moments. The pride in my father's eyes was something I had never known in his past life. It made my chest tighten with emotions I didn't yet have the words for.
I still remembered the day I saw my father hugging my mother in pure joy.
"Our son... Elizabethour son is a genius. Not just in talent, but in spirit."
I had heard those words from the hallway, barely understanding them at the time—but the feeling they carried? I could understand he was praising me,
I had to live up to their expectations. Not out of pressure. But out of love. Out of gratitude for the life I had been given.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.
By now, I was at least two years old. I could walk confidently, and most of the time, I spoke without stuttering—though my pronunciation still carried a childlike lisp. But I understood things, concepts, emotions and social structures.
The language spoken around me was Gazian, the tongue of the Gazi Empire—one of the largest realms of this world. The barony of Ludeons, my family's domain, was just one among many under the empire's banner. Yet even within such vastness, the name "Ludeon" carried weight.
I was the only son of this noble house. There were no brothers or sisters—no rival heirs. Just me. And slowly, I was piecing together the fragmented history of the world.
Three hundred years ago, there had been a war—a war not between humans, but between humans and demons. The stories in the books spoke of infernal hordes and twisted kings, of mountains turned to ash and skies painted in blood. But humanity had emerged victorious. The demons were extinct now—reduced to nothing more than bedtime tales and dusty tomes.
The world belonged to humans.
Still, danger hadn't vanished entirely. Beast tides—sudden surges of wild, aggressive monsters—swept across cities every few years. Nature, it seemed, had inherited the fury of the demons.
Yet, I am not afraid.
I had learned something else. Something that changed how I saw everything.
My father, Olive Ludeon, was a mage. Not just any mage—an Epic-class mage. A title of considerable weight.
I remember sitting on a plush cushion in the corner of the library, flipping through a worn, leather-bound tome that outlined the tiers of magical aptitude.
I whispered the rankings to myself, tasting each word like a sacred chant:
Lesser – The most common magic users, basic and limited in ability.
Greater – With refined control, they could wield practical, battle-ready spells.
Epic – The first truly recognized tier of greatness; these mages could influence battles, shift tides with a flick of the hand.
Legendary – Names carved in history. Casters of miracle-like magic. Often known by titles rather than names.
Phantasmal – Rare and elusive, wielders of powers that defied natural law.
Transcendental – Beyond comprehension. Their magic affected not just the world, but reality itself.
Supreme – The absolute peak. Godlike. Some say there were only one or two alive at a time, if even that.
"Father is… Epic…"
It filled me with pride and fear. The bar was already set so high. Can I even reach it?
I turned the page.
The swordsmanship system mirrored the magic ranking—though less mystical, it was no less majestic.
Novice – Untrained, unrefined, chaotic in motion.
Disciple – Beginning formal training; learning balance, rhythm, and control.
Elite – Sharpened instinct. Clean strikes. Personal style begins to emerge.
Master – Respected in noble and military circles. Names spoken with reverence.
Grandmaster – Able to lead, command, or even defeat armies single-handedly.
Mythblade – Legends written in steel. Swordsmen who could alter fate itself with a swing.
Supreme Edge – The zenith. Sword and soul united. Only one ever known in history—the Wise One, who fell in the Demon War.
My fingers trembled slightly as I closed the book. My thoughts, however, were not of despair, but clarity.
People would scoff if I said I wanted to reach that height. They would call me naïve and stupid.
I placed the book back and stepped out of the library, walking the now-familiar path back to the manor.
But instead of returning to my room, I made a detour—to the training hall.
It was late in the day, and the sun cast golden shafts of light across the polished marble floor. The clang of steel filled the hall as guards sparred, practiced, trained.
When I entered, they paused briefly, offering respectful nods.
"Young master!"
They said.
And then they returned to their battles.
I watched them intently—every footwork, every parry, every stance. I didn't have a wooden sword, but I mimicked the footwork with invisible weapons in hand.
One of the guards, noticing my curiosity, began slowing down his movements. Demonstrating amd teaching me without saying a word.
_____________
From above, on the balcony overlooking the training grounds, Elizabeth stood beside her husband.
"I worry, Olive. He's... too aware for a child. Sometimes I wonder if this is really a child at all…"
Olive remained silent for a moment, watching his son.
"He is a child. But he's also an exception. A miracle. I believe Arile will bring the Ludeon name honor like never before. Perhaps… even beyond me."
Elizabeth sighed, resting her head against her husband's shoulder.
"Just don't let him carry the weight of our pride alone."
"He won't. He's not alone. He has us."
Below, in the training hall, a small boy watched warriors clash under the fading light. His heart burned not with the fire of ambition, but with quiet determination.
This time, he would live his life as he please.