Today was a great day—not for Frejion, but for his father.
Loniel Damon, after years of plateauing, had finally managed to reinforce his Specificity during a training session with Frejion. Not a mock battle. A real fight. One where Loniel had to give his all just to keep up with a five-year-old boy.
To be fair, even among the adult warriors of this world, Frejion would already be seen as a serious threat—at least by those in the lower to mid-tier ranks. His combat prowess was monstrous. Unique. Terrifying.
Frejion's fighting style didn't just adapt—it evolved. He followed a pattern, but that pattern was sharp, surgical, deliberate. It was as though he could break down his opponents into puzzle pieces mid-battle and rearrange them to suit his desired outcome. And worse—no, more impressive—was how fluid he was with weapons. Sword, spear, shield, dagger—it didn't matter. Frejion excelled with every tool he touched, as if each had been created specifically for him.
This reality deeply unsettled Loniel and Zenitch—his father and his aunt. Their fear, although masked by adult pride and bravado, was entirely justified. After all, what kind of child could stand at the peak of martial mastery before even reaching adolescence?
A terrifying one.
But Frejion wasn't just any child. He was a man reborn. A prodigy from another world, with over a decade of real war experience under his belt. He was once a figure capable of toppling kingdoms, assassinating monarchs, and even dismantling religious institutions. In terms of sheer skill, Frejion far surpassed both Loniel and Zenitch. Despite being bound to the frailty of a child's body, he constantly found ways to adapt and overcome.
Between ages one and two, he began strategizing how to best exploit his physique. From three to four, he trained rigorously and crafted his own combat formula. And now, at five, he was putting it into practice—with frightening results.
His father, panting heavily, sat slumped against a tree, soaked in sweat. His breath came in ragged gasps as he stared at the child before him.
"Ha... ha... he's a monster," Loniel wheezed, trying to form words through his exhaustion. "Is it even possible that this kid's my son and not Moriarty Diamond's? I mean... I know I'm strong, but this is just too much."
Zenitch scoffed beside him, spitting lightly into the grass.
"Stop whining. You nearly killed the boy with that last attack," she said with feigned irritation. "I'm not telling my sister what you did, but don't do it again, got it?"
Deep down, she was likely proud—perhaps even thrilled—that Loniel had finally broken through his limits. But she didn't show it. Maybe it was pride. Or maybe it was habit. Zenitch was the kind of woman who'd learned to conceal her emotions so deeply, even she probably forgot where she'd buried them.
Truth be told, Loniel could have ended the fight at any moment had he used his Specificity at full capacity.
But he didn't.
Because he was Frejion's father.
And because, at his core, Loniel Damon wasn't a fighter.
He was a killer.
Frejion knew this well. He had seen glimpses of it before—in Loniel's fight with Zenitch, and again today. That instinct, raw and primal, always held back by a thin thread of morality. A thread that might one day snap.
Murder is the essence of my father's fighting style, Frejion thought, a small, amused smile curling on his lips.
Murder, huh? That reminds me of that bastard king…
Arthur Dragon, the 14th King of the Celestial Kingdom. A man born solely for war. No emotion, no weakness. The perfect warrior. Cold. Imposing. Unreachable.
Maybe that's why he didn't hesitate to unleash his frustration on his father. To push him. To force him to the edge. And it had worked. For a split second, Loniel had actually tried to kill him. It had been instinctive, sure—but it was real. And in that moment, Loniel's Specificity evolved. Reinforced.
In this world, a person could reinforce their Specificity a total of ten times—each step recorded as a "level." Frejion had once assumed that a level was a level. That a level five was stronger than a level three. Simple logic.
But reality wasn't logical. Not here.
Reinforcement depended entirely on the person. A level one could beat a level ten if their growth aligned with their core potential. Specificities were not equal. The world didn't deal in fairness.
If you're born without high Substance levels, you're screwed.
If you're born without a useful Specificity, you're screwed.
If you're born poor, screwed.
Low level at birth? Screwed.
Frejion often thought this world might be more unfair than his previous one.
Even people with nearly identical powers could grow in completely different directions based on reinforcement alone. It was maddening.
And yet, despite his supposedly "useless" power, Loniel Damon had learned to squeeze out every last drop of usefulness from it. So much so that outsiders would never doubt its efficacy.
"Congratulations, father!" Frejion called out, his voice playful but with an undertone of steel. "Your precious son is so proud of you. Now… when are we going to resume our training? I haven't progressed nearly as much as you."
Loniel blinked, eyes wide. He looked at his son like he was staring at a puzzle missing all its corner pieces.
Even after a near-lethal attack, Frejion's expression was as calm as ever. Not a twitch, not a flicker of fear.
That wasn't normal.
It wasn't human.
Come to think of it… Frejion had never cried. Not once since his birth.
Maria, his mother, had summoned doctors, scientists, and even strange people wielding tools Frejion barely understood—specialists dealing with "Artificial Intelligence" or "AI." Some of the machines were humanoid—androids, called K-AI (King-Intelligence Artificial) in this world.
They all came to the same conclusion: Frejion was perfectly healthy.
Just... different.
An anomaly. A genius. Born to stand above the rest.
A terrifying conclusion that only fed into his parents' quiet dread.
Loniel groaned in pain as he stretched his back.
"Just... wait a bit, alright?" he said with a breathless laugh. "I need to rest. We'll continue... I promise... just give me a second... aaah..."
Zenitch stayed by his side, speaking to him in low tones. It was their usual routine. When things got too intense, Frejion and his mother would quietly slip away.
They understood the rhythm now. They understood what was happening.
His father was sleeping with Zenitch.
His mother's own sister.
Frejion had figured it out months ago.
He'd experienced harems in his past life. Seen rulers parade multiple spouses like trophies. It wasn't the concept that disgusted him.
It was the hypocrisy.
The denial.
The lies.
The silence.
Everyone pretending it wasn't happening. Knowing that at least one party was suffering. And doing it anyway.
Frejion didn't just find it shameful.
He found it vile.