"Again."
The sharp command echoed across the palace training yard.
Serenil—now five years old—panted heavily, sweat clinging to his brow as he raised his wooden blade. Before him stood his sword instructor: Master Aerion Vael, a stern former knight commander with one eye and a reputation for breaking prodigies.
"You're fast, Prince," Aerion said, voice gruff. "But speed alone won't save your life."
He lunged without warning.
Serenil dodged left, pivoted under the strike, and countered with a thrust aimed at the ribs—Aerion parried it easily.
"Too predictable!"
The next blow sent Serenil tumbling to the ground, the sword knocked from his hand. Pain flared in his wrist.
"Get up."
Serenil's small body trembled. Not from fear, but rage. His pride—his sword—was his soul.
"I said get up!"
The moment the master turned away, Serenil sprang like a shadow and landed a strike across Aerion's thigh.
It wasn't enough to cut, but enough to sting.
Aerion turned, then smiled.
"Hah. So the prince has fangs."
Serenil picked up his sword again. "I'm not just a prince."
Aerion's good eye gleamed. "No. You're a swordsman."
They trained until sunset.
Each day after, Serenil improved.
He memorized every form, mastered every counter, and began adding his past life's techniques—slowly, subtly—never enough to draw suspicion, but enough to advance faster than any boy his age.
He also began wielding weights in secret, meditating with Voidrender beneath moonlight, and quietly observing battle manuals in the library.
The more he trained, the more he realized: his reincarnation was not a gift.
It was a preparation.
For war.
And one day, when the time came to bare his fangs, he would not hesitate.