Ere woke the next morning as the first rays of sunlight slipped through the wooden shutters and settled across his face.
The warmth pulled him slowly from sleep. For a moment, he simply stared at the ceiling, listening to the quiet sounds of the house waking around him—the faint crackle of the morning fire, the soft movement of his mother in the kitchen, the distant rustle of wind brushing against the trees outside.
Then he sat up. Today was different. It was his first day of training.
He stepped toward the small mirror hanging against the wall. Its surface was old and uneven, the reflection slightly warped around the edges, but it was enough. He looked at himself.
He had grown. More than he had realized.
His dark hair had become longer, falling past his forehead in loose strands, enough to curtain his eyes when he wanted it to.
His eyes, however, had not changed—still dull, still unreadable. They revealed nothing.
But his face… compared to the other children in the village, there was a certain sharpness to his features. A quiet charm. Something inherited from his mother. The traces of her elven beauty had carried into him—softer lines, cleaner features. Something that felt almost out of place in a village shaped by hardship.
He brushed his hair back with his fingers and stepped outside.
The morning air was cool and fresh. The scent of wet earth and woodsmoke lingered along the village paths.
His father was already waiting.
Wooden swords in hand.
Ere had no real experience in fighting. No battles, no instincts, no natural talent. But he had a mentor.
Mika.
Not a master of daggers, but a hunter. A survivor. For someone like Ere, that was enough.
The first strike came without warning.
Wood cracked against wood—sharp, jarring.
Ere barely raised his arms in time.
The second hit followed immediately.
Then a third.
Faster.
He staggered.
Pain shot through his wrists, his grip weakening as the force traveled up his arms.
He blocked—once.
Missed—twice.
Fell back—again.
But he watched.
He was learning quickly.
Every step back forced balance.
Every mistake stayed.
Sweat gathered along his forehead. His breathing grew heavier. Across from him, Mika smiled. Not mockingly but proudly. Each time their wooden swords locked, that smile remained—small, steady, certain. As if every clash proved that Ere was improving.
His mother had once told him that a sword was how hunters spoke. Each clash carried meaning. Intent. Power. A conversation without words. For the first time, Ere understood.
By the time training ended, the sun had already begun to sink, the sky shifting into shades of gold and orange. His arms ached. His shoulders burned. Even lifting the wooden sword had become difficult.
And still—it wasn't enough.
Alongside training, he had begun forcing his body to grow stronger. Morning runs. Push-ups. Lifting whatever he could find—branches, stones, buckets of water. His body was still weak. Still small. But pain had become part of the routine.
This time, it was pain he chose to endure. At least, it meant progress.
Later, his mother prepared a bath. It was simple—a large wooden barrel placed in the corner of the house, just big enough for him. Steam rose gently from the heated water. The moment he stepped in, the ache in his muscles softened. Heat wrapped around his limbs, easing the tension. His mother knelt beside the barrel and began cleaning the dirt and sweat from his skin. Her movements were patient. Careful. Quiet. Ere said nothing. But he didn't pull away.
That evening, Mika made an exception. As a reward for his first day of training, Ere was allowed to sit with the hunters around the fire. The gathering took place near the edge of the village, where the jungle began. A large fire burned at the center, its flames casting shifting shades of orange and red across the faces around it. The hunters looked as expected. Broad shoulders. Rough hands. Faces marked by scars and half-healed cuts. Some wore thick beards darkened by ash and smoke. Others had leather armor patched together from monster hide. Their weapons rested nearby—spears, worn swords, hunting blades. Not polished warriors.
Survivors.
Ere sat close to Mika, close enough to feel his presence. Mika spoke proudly, telling the others about Ere's training—how he held the sword, how fast he learned, how one day he might surpass him.
The hunters laughed warmly, some ruffling Ere's hair while others nodded in approval. Ere remained still, listening, watching. This was the closest thing to pride he had ever seen directed at him. Bowls of hot soup passed between them, the fire crackling softly as the night settled in.
Then one of the hunters looked toward the horizon.
Fury.
A tall man with a scar across his jaw and thick, fire-colored hair. He raised a finger, pointing into the darkness beyond the village. Far away, a faint red light glowed—small, steady, like something watching.
Fury grinned. "Listen, Ere. Since we're around the fire tonight, that means it's time for tradition."
Mika chuckled beside him. "Don't go scaring the boy with horror stories."
Ere felt no fear. Only curiosity.
Fury leaned forward, the firelight sharpening his features. "A hundred years ago, there was a dwarven village near here." His tone shifted. "They were strong. Strong enough that we felt safer just knowing they were there. We traded with them—armor, swords, tools. In return, we gave them food and supplies from the jungle."
He paused.
"There was a chief named Dain. The kindest dwarf you could ever meet."
The fire grew quieter around them.
Then—
"One night, the village was attacked. A demon-class monster. They say its scales couldn't be pierced by ordinary steel. No mage. No wielder. No way to stop it. They were gone."
Silence settled.
This wasn't a story. It was a memory, a tale passed from one generation to another. A wound carried forward.
Ere looked around. The men who had laughed moments ago now stared into their bowls, their expressions heavy.
Fury pointed again toward the red light. "You see that? They say it was a signal. A spell to call for help. But no one came. And somehow… it still burns. One hundred years later. The kingdom investigated it, but every morning there's nothing there."
Ere had stopped eating. The soup in his hands had gone cold.
The others laughed lightly, assuming his silence meant fear.
But inside— something else had taken hold.
Questions.
Why were there villages beyond the kingdoms? How could an entire dwarven settlement fall to a single monster? If even the dwarves could die that way… what chance did someone like him have?
Strength alone wasn't enough. Magic. He needed magic. He was still around two years away from even a chance to awaken.
And if nothing came.
Then this life…
would be no different from the last.