The study was dimly lit, the scent of aged parchment and ink thick in the air. Heavy bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound tomes of history, warfare, and governance. The wooden desk at the center of the room was cluttered with documents, maps, and reports, their edges curling from constant handling. A single candle flickered, casting long shadows over the workspace, where a man sat hunched over, pen scratching against parchment in steady, deliberate strokes. The only sound in the room was the rhythmic writing, the faint rustling of paper as one document was set aside for another.

  And then, a voice cut through the silence.

  "It’s been almost five years since then, but now... the wolves have caught the scent of blood once more."

  On the couch, where no one had been a second ago, sat an old man. His wild gray hair and eccentric garb looked out of place in the disciplined order of the study. Yet, despite his sudden appearance, the man at the desk did not flinch, did not pause his work. If anything, he seemed accustomed to such intrusions.

  "That they are," the working man replied, his tone calm, detached. Over the years since the raid on the so-called bandits, there had been continued acts of sabotage. Small fires breaking out in storage houses, supply shipments going missing. The disruptions were never large enough to cripple them outright, but they were constant, an ever-present thorn in their side. Though nothing as direct or brazen as before, the quiet persistence of these incidents served as a reminder that their enemies had not forgotten, nor had they given up.

  The old man’s expression twisted into something between frustration and grim satisfaction. "Are all the proofs I've given you still not enough, Aldric?" He leaned forward, eyes sharp with barely restrained anger. "You made a promise, boy. Have you forgotten? Or are you content to let the past rot?"

  Aldric finally set his pen down, rubbing his temples before exhaling slowly. "I have not forgotten."

  "Then why do you hesitate?" The old man’s voice rose, his hands tightening into fists. "I have given you names, movements, signs! And yet you sit here, drafting reports as if ink and parchment will avenge what was taken from us!" His breathing was ragged, the weight of long held rage pressing down on his shoulders. "You swore to me, Aldric. Swore that when the time came, you would act. That you would see justice done."

  Aldric met the old man’s gaze, steady and unyielding. "And I will. But I will not be reckless. And I will not sacrifice my son in the process."

  The old man scoffed. "Sacrifice? The boy does not need coddling! He is more mature, more clever than you give him credit for. He is hiding something, Aldric. He is not like other children."

  Aldric frowned but said nothing. The old man reached into his robes and pulled out a piece of parchment, unfolding it with a flourish before slamming it onto the desk. "This."

  Aldric picked up the paper, eyes scanning the crude yet strangely methodical sketches. A strange contraption, unfamiliar and oddly simplistic, yet there was a distinct purpose behind the lines. His brow furrowed. "Another one of his drawings?"

  "Look closer," the old man insisted. "This isn’t some child’s idle fantasy. This is a weapon. One that should not exist in a child’s mind."

  Aldric studied it again. He had seen plenty of Edwin’s odd little sketches, fantastical devices with no practical function, the wild imaginings of a child. But this one... there was something unnerving about its structure, something disturbingly practical in its design. "And what do you think this is?" he asked, skeptical.

  "From what I can deduce," the old man said, voice low, "it is a device that propels a projectile at lethal speed. A ranged weapon unlike anything we have. Faster, deadlier, and most importantly, not magical. Anyone could wield it."

  Aldric’s frown deepened. "Even if that were true, this could just be a coincidence. A child’s imagination running wild. He’s seen weapons all his life, bows, crossbows, and trebuchets."

  "Yes," the old man snapped. "And yet none of his sketches depict those. He does not dream of swords and shields like other boys. He envisions weapons of mass destruction. That is not normal."

  Aldric sighed, setting the parchment down. "You’re too paranoid. You see shadows where there are none."

  The old man’s eyes darkened. "Am I? Like I was too paranoid about that damn traitor?" His voice dripped with venom. "Tell me, Aldric, was I wrong then?"

  A muscle in Aldric’s jaw twitched, his fingers tightening ever so slightly. But before he could respond, a knock at the door interrupted them.

  A voice from the other side spoke. "Lord Aldric, young Master Edwin is awake and ready."

  Aldric let out a breath, the tension in the room shifting. "Thank you. Proceed as planned."

  As the footsteps outside faded, Aldric turned back to the old man, his expression unreadable. "I agree that Edwin is intelligent for his age. But intelligence alone is not enough. No one will take a child seriously, especially one who lacks magic. He is not ready for noble society. What are we even doing this ceremony for if we already know the outcome?"

  The old man exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "You’re missing the point. You always do when it comes to him. Your role as his father blinds you to the truth."

  Aldric held his gaze for a long moment before leaning back in his chair. "And what, exactly, is the truth?"

  The old man scoffed but did not answer. Instead, he stood up, dusting off his robes. "We will speak of this again." He turned towards the door but hesitated. "As for the ceremony, you may be right. He does not have magic. That much, I am certain of."

  Aldric arched a brow. "Then what’s the point of this?"

  The old man smirked. "Because whatever he’s been doing with his body, this ceremony might finally give us a glimpse of it."

  Scattered across the dimly lit room were papers, notebooks, and drawings, piled high in an almost chaotic fashion. Rough sketches and scribbled notes covered nearly every available surface, each detailing strange contraptions and odd ideas, some hastily scrawled while others were meticulously crafted with methodical precision. Some designs were half-finished, hastily crossed out, while others looked methodical, drawn with careful precision. The wooden desk was covered in stacks of parchment, some curling at the edges, ink stains marking where revisions had been made. There was an almost organized chaos to it all, as if each piece had been studied and discarded in pursuit of something greater.

  To the side, a tall body-length mirror stood, its frame made of dark, polished wood. The reflection wavered faintly under the dim light, catching the subtle movements of the boy who approached it.

  The child who stood before the mirror had golden hair, slightly tousled from sleep, and bright grey eyes filled with sharp intelligence. Though still young, his features held an undeniable charm, the kind that would one day mature into something striking. There was an almost natural refinement in the way he carried himself, an awareness in his gaze that set him apart from an ordinary six-year-old.

  A knock at the door broke the moment.

  "Young Master Edwin, the preparations are ready. You should head to the venue as soon as possible."

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  Edwin turned from the mirror and called out, "I’m heading there right away!"

  He took a few steps toward the door before pausing, as if something had suddenly crossed his mind. Turning back, he made his way toward a small wooden bin tucked beside his drawing table. He reached inside, sifting through its contents until he found what he was looking for, wet ashes, smudging his fingertips with blackened streaks. The remnants of a drawing he had made the night before.

  It had been a crude sketch, a simple schematic of a musket, drawn from memory. He hadn't intended to keep it; he only needed to recall its structure, the principle behind how it fired. The last thing he wanted was for such knowledge to fall into the wrong hands before he was ready. The thought of what a weapon like that could do, what it could change, sent a quiet shiver down his spine. A single musket could alter the balance of power in this world. If distributed carelessly, it could lead to the rise of warlords, the collapse of noble houses, or worse, senseless bloodshed fueled by greed and ambition.

  Technology was a double-edged sword. A blessing or a curse, depending on who wielded it.

  Five years had passed since his first birthday, and in that time, much had changed. And yet, in some ways, very little had. He had grown accustomed to this world, Falandria, as it was called. From his parents, from the servants, and from the books he had read, he had pieced together a clearer picture of it. A vast, medieval land filled with noble houses vying for power, magic shaping society, and remnants of forgotten knowledge buried beneath the weight of history. Despite his young age, he had been praised as a prodigy for his fluency in the language, an ability that made people see him as precocious rather than suspicious.

  During these years, he had also been steadily putting his engineering knowledge to paper, carefully sketching out designs he could one day implement. However, he had been careful not to go into detail, just rough sketches, playful enough to seem like the wild imagination of a child. No one would scrutinize them too closely. No one would realize that each of those drawings held the potential to propel this world into an era of rapid technological advancement. An era that, if introduced too quickly, could bring as much destruction as it did progress.

  Confirming that his musket sketch was completely destroyed, Edwin dusted off his hands and made his way back toward the door. As he reached for the handle, the door suddenly swung open—

  —and he walked straight into someone, nearly toppling backward.

  "Ow, that hurts!" a boy exclaimed, rubbing his forehead. He looked to be around Edwin’s age, with auburn hair that gleamed almost red under the dim light and eyes of the same fiery shade. His expression was one of exaggerated pain, though the mischievous glint in his gaze betrayed the act. His features were sharp for his age, a face that would likely grow into a striking and confident look as he matured. Dressed in the crisp uniform of a servant, he looked like a miniature butler, though the way he carried himself, playful smirk and all, clashed with the refined elegance his clothes suggested. His vest and neatly pressed trousers only served to highlight the energy barely contained within him, a contrast of discipline and chaos wrapped into one lively form.

  Edwin let out a small sigh, his previous moment of reflection shattered. "Gideon, I told you to knock before entering my room."

  Gideon grinned, unfazed by the scolding. "Is that how you greet someone who came all this way just to escort you to the ceremony? Honestly, you should be grateful instead of complaining to your only friend here."

  Edwin crossed his arms. "Oh, I wasn’t aware that barging into my room unannounced was considered an act of friendship. Perhaps next time, I should return the favor?"

  Gideon chuckled, stepping aside with an exaggerated bow. "By all means, Young Master Edwin, feel free to surprise me in my quarters anytime. Though, I doubt you’d get past my mother’s watchful gaze."

  Edwin raised an eyebrow. "Which is precisely why I don’t go around causing unnecessary trouble. Unlike someone I know."

  "Trouble? Me? I prefer the term ‘adventurous spirit,’ thank you very much." Gideon flashed an impish grin before jerking his head toward the hallway. "Come on, let’s go before your father decides that we’re late on purpose and finds some noble punishment for us."

  Edwin shook his head but relented, following after Gideon as the boy practically bounced ahead, his usual energy undeterred by the early morning hour.

  As Edwin followed Gideon through the halls, he couldn't help but reminisce about the years they had spent growing up together. From the age of one to now, Gideon had been by his side. His friend, his confidant, and in some ways, his ever-loyal servant. They had been the only children of similar age within the gilded cage of the castle they called home, and that bond had shaped them both. Whether it was Gideon dragging him into mischief or standing beside him when the weight of noble expectations loomed overhead, Edwin had come to rely on him in ways he never would have expected. There was something reassuring about knowing he wasn’t alone in this place, that no matter how strange or isolating his situation felt, Gideon was always there, keeping pace with him, step for step.

  As they neared the library where the ceremony would take place, Edwin couldn't hold back the question that had been weighing on him for months.

  "So, are you finally going to tell me?" he asked, glancing at Gideon out of the corner of his eye.

  Gideon groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. "You're asking that again?" he sighed in exasperation. "I already told you, I can't say! If I do, my mother will somehow find out and scold me within the hour!"

  Edwin smirked slightly but let the matter drop. For all his mischief, Gideon was surprisingly dutiful when it came to certain things. Either that, or he was genuinely terrified of Marian’s wrath. Considering her sharp eyes and uncanny ability to always know when her son was up to no good, Edwin supposed he couldn’t blame him.

  "We are here," Gideon announced in his usual energetic tone. He looked Edwin in the eye and, noticing the slight nervousness on his face, gave him a reassuring grin. "Relax, there's nothing to worry about. I can at least say that it’ll be quick. At least, mine was."

  Edwin narrowed his eyes. "That’s not very reassuring."

  Gideon chuckled. "Well, my mother was quite angry afterward. She told me it shouldn’t have been that quick, but, well... you'll understand once you enter."

  Edwin exhaled, steeling himself. "Alright."

  Psyching himself up, he moved toward the double doors of the library. He wasn't nervous because he didn't know what would happen. He had an idea, and that was what unsettled him. If he was right, based on all the fantasy novels he had read, this might be a ceremony to determine whether or not a child possessed magic.

  And if that were true, then he might be screwed.

  For years, he had tried to cultivate, but his body had always failed him. Every time he thought he had made progress, his body would ache, and the energy he was trying to absorb would disperse before it could settle. It shouldn't be like this. He had surmised that his body was simply too young.

  In his past life as a cultivator, children didn’t typically begin their training until around thirteen. Experts in cultivation theorized that younger minds lacked the necessary mental maturity to properly circulate spiritual energy, as the process required a deep understanding of energy flow, body reinforcement, and controlled absorption. Without this knowledge, a single mistake in guiding the energy could lead to internal injuries, blocked meridians, or worse, permanent crippling of their cultivation potential. There were already countless recorded cases of overly ambitious children attempting to cultivate too early, only to end up ruining their futures before they had even begun. The complexity of balancing the mind and body’s synchronization with spiritual energy was something that only a more developed consciousness could handle, reinforcing the belief that cultivation should not be rushed.

  Those so-called experts had only been partially correct.

  Edwin had already lived through the initial phases of cultivation before. He knew the proper methods, the dangers, and the necessary caution. Yet, despite his perfect control, his body simply couldn’t handle it. He had come to suspect that the body itself had to mature before it could truly absorb energy, like a sponge too dry to soak up water efficiently. If his guess was right, then the ripe age for cultivation in this world could very well be six. Otherwise, why else would they hold this ceremony at this age?

  He would have to test his theory later. For now, he just had to survive this.

  Luckily, there should be little to no trace of his failed cultivation attempts. The energy had dispersed, and the last time he had tried was when he had just turned five. There was nothing that should set off suspicion, at least, he hoped so.

  As he reached for the door, Gideon’s voice made him pause.

  "Good luck, and happy birthday, Edwin."

  Edwin turned to look at his friend. Gideon was grinning, as carefree as ever, but there was something reassuring in his expression. Edwin smiled, nodding in thanks before facing the grand double doors once more.

  With a deep breath, he pushed them open and stepped inside.

  The moment he crossed the threshold, the air shifted. The warmth of the morning halls was gone, replaced by something heavier, something charged. Candlelight flickered along the towering bookshelves that lined the grand library, shadows dancing ominously as if the room itself was holding its breath.

  Waiting for him.

  Edwin took another step forward, the sound of his small boots tapping against the polished floor echoing louder than it should have.

  The ceremony was about to begin.