The candlelight flickered in the stillness of the room, its flame bending with every faint breath of wind sneaking in through the paper screen. Shadows stretched and shrank across the wooden walls, bending like silent spectators in the dim light. Outside, the faint rustle of leaves whispered with the night air, yet inside, the silence was heavier than stone.
Ryouma sat cross-legged on the polished wooden floor, his hands resting loosely on his knees. His gaze was fixed on nothing in particular, yet his eyes did not wander - they were sharp, cold, and focused somewhere far beyond the room. The boy's breathing was steady, but deep inside, his heartbeat echoed like a war drum - not out of fear…....but from a purpose that had finally clawed its way back into his soul.
Fragments danced in his mind.
The ringing clash of steel.
The acrid stench of blood mixing with smoke.
Screams that tore through the air until they were abruptly silenced.
And above all of it…...her voice.
A gentle, reassuring voice he once thought he would never forget.
A smile so warm it could melt the frost of any winter.
A moment that ended with a scream, drowned beneath the roar of an army.
His jaw tightened.
"So that's what I had forgotten…...That face…..and the way they took her from me."
Not all of it was clear. His past was still a shattered mirror, with most of its pieces scattered into the void. He did not yet recall the betrayal that ended his first life, nor the hidden truths of his existence. But he had found one shard of that mirror - enough to cut.
Enough to remember why his soul refused to rest.
Enough to know someone had to pay.
His mind drifted briefly to the streets of his current life - narrow alleys, damp with the smell of stagnant water. The shadows where cruelty hid. The night he had watched Sister Amelia and his only friends cut down by men without honor - men whose faces burned into his mind like brands on his soul.
That night had given birth to his purpose.
And now, pieces of an even older vengeance were rising to meet it.
A soft knock at the door broke the stillness.
"Young Master, I've brought your tea," came the voice of a servant - calm, polite, but carrying a faint tremor.
"Enter," Ryouma said.
His tone was polite, but edged with something sharper - something that made the candle's flame waver as though it had heard him.
The shoji slid open with a muted scrape. A young servant stepped in, careful to keep their eyes lowered. The porcelain tray in their hands rattled ever so slightly as they knelt and set it down in front of him.
Perhaps it was the flicker of the candle…...or perhaps it was the weight of Ryouma's gaze - steady, unblinking, carrying a shadow far older than the boy himself.
The servant bowed low, murmured, "Your tea, Young Master," and began to rise.
"One more thing," Ryouma's voice cut through the quiet.
The servant froze mid-step.
"Be careful what you say….. when you think no one is listening." His eyes flicked toward the far wall, his expression unreadable. "Walls….. have ears."
For a moment, the room felt colder. The servant's breath hitched - just barely - before they bowed even deeper and hurried from the room, sliding the door shut behind them.
Alone again, Ryouma exhaled slowly.
The tea sat untouched. His gaze lingered on the faint ripples in its surface, disturbed by the servant's trembling hands. The scent of the brew - fragrant and calming - was lost on him. His thoughts were already moving elsewhere.
His body was still young, soft in ways the battlefield would not forgive. His muscles lacked the strength, his hands lacked the calluses, and his frame lacked the resilience to endure the storms he knew were coming.
But his soul?
His soul was older than these bones could ever be.
The battlefield had once been his home. It would be again.
First, the body must be forged. Then….. the power.
Qi, ki, mana and soulthread all of it. Every path that could make him stronger, he would walk. Every blade, every technique, every art - he would claim them until the day his enemies trembled at the mere sound of his name.
And when he stood before them, they would know exactly who he was.
His fist clenched tightly, knuckles whitening.
"I was reborn in this world….. but now, Even here, this servants dares to insult my mother. To insult my mother….."His voice dropped to a whisper, cold and deliberate. "..…this will not be forgiven."
The candle flame flared for a brief moment, then shrank, its light pulling shadows tight against the walls. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, the echo of marching boots, clashing steel, and dying screams stirred once more.
There would be no mercy this time.
Not for them.
Not for anyone who stood in his way.
The night had deepened when Ryouma first closed his eyes, settling cross-legged on the polished wooden floor. Darkness wrapped the room like a blanket, but within him, a faint stirring of energy began to awaken. He focused on his breathing, reaching inward to touch the elusive threads of mana. One by one, he drew them into his chest, storing them carefully, feeling each particle respond to his will.
Hours passed in silence. Outside, the world shifted from shadow to the first light of dawn, though Ryouma remained lost in his inner work. Gradually, a small, concentrated pulse solidified at the center of his chest - his first mana core, complete.
Morning light spilled through the paper screens, dust motes drifting lazily in its glow. Ryouma opened his eyes, rising swiftly to dress and check the core. The warmth of accomplishment spread through him, but even as satisfaction settled, he knew the path ahead would not be easy.
"First stage complete….. but advancing to the next stage….. that will be even harder."
The corridor was quiet, the soft scrape of Ryouma's sandals against the polished wood the only sound. Morning light filtered through the paper screens, casting gentle, slanted beams that danced across the floor. Outside, the garden lay in calm half-light - dew-laden leaves, the faint scent of moss and earth, and the occasional flutter of a bird taking wing.
Ryouma's eyes were calm, yet focused inward. His hand rested lightly over his chest, where a pale white glow pulsed faintly - his first Mana Core. Weak, unsteady, barely more than a spark….. yet undeniably alive.
Stage One…..Pale White, he thought. The beginning. Fragile. Trembling. Responding faintly to his will. It could barely hold his energy, but it was his - the foundation upon which everything else would be built.
His mind drifted, outlining the path ahead:
• Stage 1 - Pale White: The spark of life. Weak, trembling. Foundation.
•Stage 2 - Sky Blue: Stable, flowing energy. Mana responds consistently. Aura begins to form.
•Stage 3- Emerald Green: Stronger, visible aura. Techniques respond with real power.
•Stage 4 - Crimson Red: Powerful, steady pulse. Aura radiates outward. Strength integrates with body.
•Stage 5 - Golden Yellow: Ultimate physical and soul integration. Energy flows seamlessly. Full potential unlocked.
•Stage 6 - Violet / Indigo: Transcendent, near-divine energy. Aura extends far, brushing the edges of reality.
•Stage 7 -Rainbow: Absolute mastery. Multicolored core. Reality-shaking power. Complete soul integration.
Seven stages….. from a faint spark to a multicolored core of absolute power. He was only at Stage One, but even this spark was alive. He said
"I will nurture it. Stabilize it. One day, it will carry me beyond every limit."
Step by measured step, he walked the corridor. Warm wood underfoot, the shadows bending gently with the morning light. He barely noticed them; his focus was entirely inward, on the faint pulse of energy within him, beating in rhythm with his heart.
The garden drew nearer. Light spilled through the open screens, illuminating the path ahead. Dew sparkled like scattered stars across the grass, and a soft breeze whispered through the leaves, teasing his hair. Ryouma inhaled, centering himself.
Stage One is only the beginning. Every breath, every heartbeat, every step would shape his core. He would not falter.
By the time he reached the garden's edge, the pale glow of his core pulsed steadily, faint but alive- the first dawn breaking over a silent world. Ryouma lifted his gaze to the sky, determination settling into his posture. The journey had begun.
Ryouma moved slowly toward the garden, Outside, dew-laden leaves sparkled faintly, and distant birds punctuated the serene air.
Near the garden's edge, two servants whispered nervously to one another. Fragments of their words drifted to him:
"That night….. Young Master Ryouma has completely changed."
"Yes…..he's…..different now. Truly changed."
Ryouma slowed, casually pretending to examine the flowers lining the corridor. His fingers brushed a bloom lightly, lingering on the petals, but his gaze never wavered from the two.
Inside, his mind remained calm, sharp. Stage One….. just the beginning. Pale white, fragile, unsteady….. enough to respond. Enough to warn. Let them feel it.
A soft smile touched his lips, warmth that did not reach his eyes. The faint pulse of his Mana Core - pale white, alive - throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat, subtle yet heavy in the air.
"If you have time to gossip,"he said slowly, letting each word fall like stones into still water, "perhaps you should spend it polishing your manners instead."
The servants froze, whispers dying midair. Their eyes widened, muscles tense. The corridor seemed to shrink around them, the faint pulse of Ryouma's energy bending the space, a quiet intimidation no one could ignore.
Though he remained calm, almost casual, the faint glow of his Stage One core and the sharp precision in his eyes made the threat unmistakable. Even at this fragile stage, Ryouma's presence demanded attention, respect….. and fear.
He tilted his head slightly, studying them just enough to remind them who they spoke of, then turned his attention back to the flowers. The subtle menace lingered like a shadow in the morning light, a silent echo of the power that was only just beginning to stir within him.
A few moments later, the servants had fled a short distance down the corridor, their breaths ragged, hearts pounding. Only when they felt the distance safe enough to speak did their disbelief spill over.
"I….. I can't believe it," one whispered, still clutching the edge of the wall as if to steady herself. "Seven years old….. and he spoke….. like that. His voice….. it wasn't a child's voice. It….. it was cold. Piercing. Every word cut straight through me."
The other nodded, hands trembling. "And the way he looked….. I've served in this palace for years. I've never seen someone so…..so fully in control. I thought I knew the young master. I was wrong. Completely wrong."
A pause. Both exchanged wide-eyed glances, shivering at the memory of the quiet menace, the subtle pulse of energy that seemed to follow him like a shadow.
"And….. and Lady Akane…..." one finally said, voice dropping to a fearful whisper. "No one dares insult her now. Not with him here. Not with that….. that…..aura of his. He made it clear. Even at seven years old, he could punish anyone who disrespected her. Anyone."
The other shivered, nodding furiously. "We…..we have to tell the others. Everyone in the palace must know. Young Master Ryouma…..he isn't the same child we once knew."
Down the corridor, leaning slightly against the wooden railing, an elite guardian soldier had watched the entire scene unfold. His posture was rigid, jaw tight, eyes wide with disbelief.
Seven years old…..a child, yet he carried himself with the authority and precision of a seasoned warrior. And that voice - cold, piercing, deliberate - it wasn't just words. It carried weight. Weight that seemed to bend the air itself.
But the real shock, the truth that made him freeze in place, was the faint, pale-white glow emanating from the boy's chest. A Mana Core…..already formed. At seven years old.
He swallowed hard. He had trained under masters, seen dozens of prodigies, yet nothing prepared him for this. Nothing explained how a child could forge such a core - not merely exist, but control it with that calm, deliberate menace.
For a long moment, the soldier simply watched as the servants hurried away, whispers trailing behind them, eyes still locked on the small figure that now seemed….. impossibly more than a child.
This was no ordinary young master. This was a boy whose soul had already begun its ascent toward something far greater, and the palace itself would have to reckon with it.