Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Tomorrow
The morning sun, usually a gentle caress, felt like a burning brand on Kaelen's skin. He was fifteen again. The soft bed, the familiar scent of lavender from his mother's sachets, the distant sounds of the castle awakening – it was all real. Too real. The phantom pain in his gut, the lingering taste of ash and blood, the chilling image of his father's severed head on a spike – those were real too, burned into his very soul, a ghost of a future that now, impossibly, lay before him to change.
He stumbled out of bed, his legs feeling strangely light, almost disconnected from the hardened muscles he remembered. He was in his old room, the one he had fled in shame. The practice sword, the very instrument of Gareth's dismemberment, leaned innocently in a corner. He picked it up, the blunted edge feeling alien in his hand. His body was that of a boy, but his mind, his instincts, his very being, were those of a seasoned killer, a mercenary commander who had seen and done unspeakable things.
He moved to the mirror, staring at the reflection of his younger self. Unlined face, clear eyes, a hint of softness still in his jaw. It was a stranger, yet it was him. He clenched his fists, the muscles in his forearms, though underdeveloped, responding with a familiar tension. The memories flooded him: the brutal training with Roric, the countless battles, the precise movements of his blade, the cold calculation of a killer. It was all there, etched into his mind, a vast library of combat knowledge and survival instincts.
But how much of it translated to this body? Could a decade of muscle memory, honed through blood and sweat, truly manifest in a fifteen-year-old frame? He tried a simple parry, a block, a thrust. His movements were awkward, clumsy, just as they had been. The sheer, physical strength wasn't there. The speed was lacking. He was still the average wannabe knight, trapped in the body he had always despised.
A wave of frustration, sharp and bitter, washed over him. He had been given a second chance, but was he still cursed to be weak? He slammed his fist against the wall, a dull thud. No. He wouldn't be. He couldn't be. He had the knowledge. He had the experience. He just needed to bridge the gap between his mind and this underdeveloped body.
The duel. It was today. The thought sent a jolt of ice through him. Gareth. His brother. The one he had maimed, the one whose death he had witnessed in the future. This time, it wouldn't happen. He would make sure of it. But how? He couldn't just refuse the duel; that would only confirm Gareth's accusations of cowardice and laziness. And he couldn't simply beat Gareth; that would raise too many questions, expose his unnatural growth. He needed a plan.
He spent the next hour in a flurry of quiet, desperate activity. He stretched, trying to awaken dormant muscles, to reconnect his mind with his limbs. He practiced subtle shifts in weight, minute adjustments in stance, the kind of nuanced movements that had saved his life countless times in the future. He focused on his defense, on evasion, on controlling the engagement. He wouldn't try to win outright. He would survive. He would disarm. He would humiliate Gareth, perhaps, but not harm him. Not again.
His mind raced, formulating a strategy for the duel. He knew Gareth's style, his tells, his arrogance. He knew the precise moment Gareth would slip. He would use that knowledge. He would exploit it, not to injure, but to prove a point.
A knock on the door startled him. "Kaelen? Are you awake? Father wants you in the training yard." It was Elara's voice, calm and steady.
Kaelen took a deep breath, forcing his expression into a neutral mask. "Coming, brother."
He walked to the training yard, the familiar path now laden with the heavy weight of foreknowledge. He saw the servants, the knights, his family. They were all alive. His mother, her gentle smile, was talking to Lyra. Lyra, her eyes bright with intelligence, was clutching a book. Elara, tall and stoic, stood beside his father. And Gareth, his blonde hair gleaming, his posture radiating confident arrogance, was already warming up, his blunted sword a blur in his hand.
The sight was a punch to the gut. They were here. They were safe. For now.
Baron Theron, his father, stood at the edge, his cold, stern gaze sweeping over Kaelen. Kaelen met his eyes, not with the usual fear or inadequacy, but with a new, quiet resolve. He wouldn't let him down this time. He wouldn't let any of them down.
Gareth, seeing Kaelen, smirked. "Took you long enough, little brother. Ready to prove you're not a complete waste of space?"
Kaelen said nothing, just walked to his position, picking up his own practice sword. He felt the familiar tremor in his hands, but beneath it, a core of steel. He wasn't the same boy. He was a ghost of tomorrow, walking among the living.
The duel began. Gareth, as expected, came at him with a flurry of confident, practiced strikes. He was going easy, but still aiming to hurt, to humiliate. Kaelen, however, was no longer the clumsy, desperate boy. His body might be weaker, but his mind was a fortress of experience.
He parried, not with brute force, but with precise deflections, redirecting Gareth's blows with minimal effort. He dodged, not with awkward lunges, but with subtle shifts of his weight, flowing around Gareth's attacks. He moved like water, yielding, yet unyielding. He let Gareth expend his energy, his arrogance growing with each seemingly successful strike.
Gareth's sneer began to falter. He expected Kaelen to stumble, to fall, to cry out. Instead, Kaelen was a frustrating, elusive target, a shadow that danced just out of reach.
"Fight back, coward!" Gareth snarled, his frustration mounting. "Stop running!"
Kaelen didn't respond. He waited. He watched. He felt the rhythm of Gareth's movements, the subtle shifts in his balance. He knew the rock was there, just a few feet to Gareth's left, partially obscured by a patch of dry grass. He remembered the exact moment Gareth's foot would land on it.
Gareth, growing increasingly agitated, lunged forward, a powerful, wide slash aimed at Kaelen's chest. It was the same attack, the same feint, that had led to the accident in the previous timeline. Kaelen saw it coming, not just with his eyes, but with the chilling clarity of a memory.
This time, Kaelen didn't lunge wildly. Instead, he took a quick, decisive step back, just enough to make Gareth overextend. As Gareth's foot came down, precisely on the hidden rock, Kaelen saw the familiar flicker of surprise, the momentary loss of balance in Gareth's eyes.
This was it. The moment of truth.
Instead of slashing, Kaelen moved with a fluid, almost imperceptible motion. His blunted sword, instead of aiming for the arm, swept down, precisely targeting Gareth's wrist. It wasn't a strike meant to injure, but to disarm.
There was a sharp clank as Kaelen's blade connected with the hilt of Gareth's sword. The force, combined with Gareth's precarious balance, sent Gareth's weapon spinning out of his grasp, clattering harmlessly onto the packed earth.
Gareth stumbled, catching himself before he fell, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief. He stared at his empty hand, then at Kaelen, then at his sword lying on the ground.
The training yard was silent. Not the horrified silence of the previous timeline, but a stunned, bewildered quiet. No blood. No screams. Just the sound of Gareth's sword hitting the ground.
Kaelen stood, his own sword held steadily, his breathing even. He hadn't hurt him. He had disarmed him. He had won. Not with brute force, but with foresight and control.
Gareth, his face red with a mixture of anger and humiliation, finally spoke. "What… what was that? You… you cheated!"
Kaelen simply lowered his sword, his gaze unwavering. "You slipped, brother. And I disarmed you. That's the duel." His voice was calm, devoid of triumph, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions raging within him.
Baron Theron, who had watched the entire exchange with an unreadable expression, finally stepped forward. His eyes, usually cold, held a flicker of something Kaelen couldn't quite decipher. "Gareth," he said, his voice deep and resonant. "A duel is a test of skill. Kaelen disarmed you fairly. You were careless."
Gareth sputtered, but the Baron's word was law. He glared at Kaelen, but the usual sneer was gone, replaced by a grudging respect, and perhaps, a hint of fear.
Elara, his usual sternness softened by relief, clapped Kaelen on the shoulder. "Well fought, little brother. You surprised us all."
Lyra, her eyes wide, ran to him, hugging him tightly. "You were amazing, Kaelen! I knew you could do it!"
Kaelen hugged her back, the warmth of her small body a balm to his scarred soul. He had saved them. This was just the beginning. The first step.
He looked at Gareth, who was still fuming, but now picking up his sword. There was no severed arm, no blood, no guilt. Just a bruised ego. Kaelen felt a strange mix of relief and a grim determination. He had averted the immediate disaster, but the true threats, the ones that had decimated his family and his home, still loomed in the future. He had to prepare. He had to get strong. Not just strong enough to survive, but strong enough to protect.
The ghost of tomorrow whispered in his ear: This is only the beginning, Kaelen. The real fight is yet to come.
The aftermath of the duel was a strange, subtle shift in the castle's atmosphere. For Kaelen, it was a profound relief, a lifting of the crushing weight of past guilt. He had prevented the defining tragedy of his youth, the one that had driven him to abandon his family. Yet, the memories of their strung-up bodies, of his father's severed head, remained vivid, a constant, chilling reminder of the future he had to prevent.
Gareth, after his initial outburst, had retreated, his pride wounded. But Kaelen noticed the way his brother's eyes lingered on him, a mixture of confusion and a nascent respect. The sneer was gone, replaced by a thoughtful frown. It was a small victory, but a significant one. The dynamic between them had changed, perhaps irrevocably. Gareth, the sword genius, had been outmaneuvered by the brother he considered a clumsy failure. It was a bitter pill, but one that might, Kaelen hoped, temper his arrogance.
Baron Theron's reaction was the most perplexing. His father, a man of few words and even fewer outward emotions, had simply nodded, his gaze lingering on Kaelen for a moment longer than usual. There was no praise, no commendation, but Kaelen felt a subtle shift in the air between them. A flicker of curiosity, perhaps even a hint of approval, in those cold, discerning eyes. It was a small crack in the impenetrable facade, and Kaelen, with his foreknowledge, knew its significance. His father had always valued competence above all else, and Kaelen had, for the first time, displayed it in a way that couldn't be dismissed.
Elara, ever the supportive elder brother, had clapped him on the shoulder, his smile genuine. "You've been holding out on us, Kaelen," he'd joked, though his eyes held a serious warmth. "Where did you learn those moves?" Kaelen had simply shrugged, offering a noncommittal answer about "practicing in secret." Elara, bless his trusting nature, had accepted it.
But it was Lyra who truly melted the ice around Kaelen's heart. She clung to him, her small hands clutching his tunic, her eyes shining with unadulterated pride. "I knew it! I knew you had it in you!" she'd exclaimed, her voice bright. Lyra, his brilliant, gentle sister, who preferred books to blades, whose mind was a treasure trove of knowledge. He had loved her fiercely in his past life, and the thought of her brutalized body still sent shivers down his spine. Now, holding her, feeling her warmth, he swore he would protect her with his life, with every fiber of his being.
The rest of the day was a blur of quiet congratulations from the castle staff, who had always held a soft spot for the "different" young lord. Kaelen navigated it all with a newfound composure, his years as a mercenary commander giving him an unshakeable calm. He was no longer the awkward, self-conscious boy. He was a man playing a role, a ghost in his own past.
That evening, at dinner, the atmosphere was lighter than usual. Gareth was still sullen, but less openly hostile. Kaelen found himself engaging more in conversation, offering quiet, surprisingly insightful comments on local politics or farming practices, drawing on obscure knowledge picked up during his mercenary travels. His mother, Lady Elara Valerius, a woman of quiet grace, watched him with a soft, knowing smile. She had always seen past his perceived flaws, always offered him unconditional love. Kaelen felt a surge of profound gratitude for her, a fierce desire to ensure her safety.
After dinner, Kaelen retreated to his room, the weight of his mission settling upon him. He had averted the immediate crisis, but the true war, the one that would devastate Eldoria, was still years away. He had to prepare. He had to get strong. Truly strong. Not just physically, but in every sense of the word.
His first priority was his physical conditioning. He might have the knowledge of a veteran, but his body was still a fifteen-year-old's. He began a brutal, self-imposed training regimen. Before dawn, while the castle still slept, he would slip out to a secluded corner of the training yard. He ran laps until his lungs burned, pushed his body through calisthenics until his muscles screamed, and practiced sword forms until sweat plastered his hair to his forehead.
He focused on efficiency, on maximizing every movement. He wasn't trying to be flashy like Gareth; he was trying to be deadly. He incorporated the brutal, practical techniques he'd learned from Roric and the Iron Fists – the unexpected feints, the low, sweeping attacks, the reliance on an unyielding defense to wear down an opponent. He practiced with a real sword, carefully, precisely, honing his edge, feeling the balance, the weight, the lethal potential. He knew the difference a sharp blade made in a real fight, a lesson learned in countless bloody skirmishes.
The biggest challenge, however, was Aura. In his past life, he had never developed it. He was a warrior of steel and brute force, not spiritual energy. The Valerius family were renowned Aura Knights, their lineage steeped in the mastery of this inner power. His father's Aura Gaze, Elara's steady blue aura, Gareth's crackling green – it was all foreign to him.
He remembered snippets of conversations, lessons he'd half-listened to, observations of his siblings' training. Aura, they said, was an extension of one's will, a manifestation of their spirit. It required focus, discipline, and a deep connection to one's inner self.
Kaelen sat in his room, cross-legged, trying to meditate as he'd seen Elara do. He closed his eyes, tried to quiet his mind, to feel for this elusive inner energy. But his mind was a storm of memories: the screams of dying men, the stench of blood, the cold triumph of the enemy commander. How could he find peace, find focus, when his soul was a battlefield?
Yet, perhaps that was the key. His will was iron-hard, forged in the crucible of war. His spirit, though scarred, was unyielding. He didn't seek tranquility; he sought power, the power to protect.
He tried a different approach. Instead of meditating on peace, he meditated on his purpose: to save his family, to destroy the enemy commander. He focused on the burning desire for vengeance, on the fierce love he held for his family. He channeled his emotions, his memories, his very being, into a single, focused point.
And then, he felt it. A faint warmth, deep within his core, like a tiny ember flickering to life. It was weak, almost imperceptible, but it was there. He pushed, willing it to grow, to manifest. The warmth spread, a faint tingle through his limbs. He opened his eyes. Nothing visible. No shimmering aura like his brothers. But he felt it. A connection.
He realized his Aura wasn't like his family's. Theirs was pure, flowing, a natural extension of their noble lineage. His was… different. It felt raw, untamed, born from the crucible of his past life's brutality and fueled by his grim resolve. It was an Aura of survival, of vengeance, of protection. It might not be pretty, but he knew, instinctively, that it would be potent. He would have to learn to control it, to refine it, to make it a weapon.
He continued his physical training, but now, he added Aura exercises. He tried to infuse his blade with that faint energy, to harden his skin, to quicken his reflexes. The progress was slow, agonizingly so, but it was progress nonetheless. He was building himself anew, brick by painful brick.
Beyond his personal training, Kaelen began to subtly gather information. He listened more intently to conversations among the castle staff, to the knights returning from patrols, to the merchants passing through Eldoria. He paid attention to the political climate, to rumors of border skirmishes, to anything that might hint at the impending war with Vorlag.
He learned that the relationship between Eldoria and Vorlag was indeed strained, a simmering tension that had existed for generations. Border disputes were common, but never escalated to full-blown war. That, he knew, was about to change. He needed to understand why it escalated, what the trigger was.
He started spending more time in the castle library, a place he'd rarely visited in his previous life. He devoured maps, historical texts, and military treatises. He learned about Vorlag's military structure, their known commanders, their magical capabilities. He sought out old records of past conflicts, trying to identify patterns, weaknesses, and strengths. Lyra, who practically lived in the library, noticed his sudden interest.
"Kaelen, you're actually reading!" she'd teased one afternoon, her eyes twinkling. "Are you finally going to join me in the world of knowledge?"
Kaelen managed a small, genuine smile. "Perhaps. There's a lot I need to learn, Lyra."
He found himself seeking out his father and Elara more often, not just for training, but for discussions. He'd casually bring up topics related to border security, troop deployments, and supply lines. He'd ask seemingly innocent questions, probing for information, trying to subtly guide their attention towards the growing threat from Vorlag.
"Father," he'd said one evening, during a rare private moment with Baron Theron. "I've been thinking about the northern watchtowers. Are they truly sufficient? The terrain there seems… vulnerable."
His father, who usually dismissed his questions with a grunt, paused. "Vulnerable? How so?"
Kaelen, drawing on his future knowledge of Vorlag's invasion routes, explained. "The forested valleys, the hidden passes. A small, disciplined force could bypass the main roads and emerge unexpectedly. Perhaps an additional patrol, or even a small, concealed outpost, might be prudent."
Baron Theron had looked at him with that same flicker of curiosity. "You've been studying maps, haven't you, boy?"
"I have, Father," Kaelen admitted, maintaining his calm. "It seems… important."
His father said nothing more, but a few days later, Kaelen overheard Elara discussing new patrol routes in the northern valleys, and the possibility of reinforcing a forgotten hunting lodge into a temporary outpost. Kaelen felt a surge of triumph. It was working. Slowly, subtly, he was planting the seeds of change.
He also began to observe the castle's defenses with a critical eye. The walls, while sturdy, had weaknesses he now recognized from his future experience breaching fortresses. The garrison, while loyal, lacked the rigorous training and coordinated tactics he'd seen in the mercenary world. He began to devise drills in his mind, strategies to improve their readiness, to turn Eldoria into an unassailable bastion.
The burden of his knowledge was immense. He walked through his days with the chilling clarity of a prophet, seeing the shadows of future events in every innocent conversation, every ordinary moment. He saw his mother's gentle smile and knew the horrors that awaited her. He saw Lyra's bright eyes and knew the desecration her body would suffer. He saw Elara's stern, dependable face and knew his valiant, futile last stand. And Gareth. He saw Gareth's arrogance, but also his latent talent, and knew the brutal end he would meet.
The weight of it all was almost unbearable. He couldn't share his secret. Who would believe him? He'd be declared mad, or worse, a demon. He was alone in this fight, a solitary sentinel against a future he desperately needed to rewrite.
Yet, amidst the grim determination, there were moments of unexpected warmth, of quiet joy. He found himself appreciating the small things he had lost: the taste of his mother's cooking, the sound of Lyra's laughter, the easy camaraderie with Elara, even Gareth's less aggressive teasing. He savored these moments, knowing how precious and fleeting they were.
One afternoon, while training in the yard, he noticed a young woman observing him from a distance. She was a stable hand, a commoner named Elara, with fiery red hair pulled back in a practical braid and eyes the color of emeralds. She was often around the horses, a quiet, efficient presence. In his previous life, he had barely noticed her. Now, his heightened senses, his awareness of every detail, picked up on her subtle glances.
She was a few years older than him, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, and possessed a quiet strength that intrigued him. She didn't gawk like some of the other servants, nor did she avert her gaze. Her eyes held a calm, assessing quality, as if she saw more than just the clumsy noble's son. He caught her eye once, and she offered a small, shy smile before turning back to her duties. Kaelen felt a faint, unfamiliar stir in his chest, a sensation he hadn't experienced in a decade of hardened mercenary life. It was a fleeting thought, a distant possibility, but it was there. The seeds of something new, something beyond his grim mission, were perhaps beginning to sprout.
But the mission remained paramount. Every sunrise was a reminder of the ticking clock, every sunset a day closer to the inevitable. He pushed himself harder, trained more intensely, devoured every piece of information he could find. He was no longer just Kaelen Valerius, the average noble's son. He was the ghost of tomorrow, a man burdened by a terrible past, fighting to forge a different future.
His Aura, once a faint ember, was slowly, painstakingly, growing. It was still unseen by others, a personal, internal power, but he felt its presence, its raw potential. It hummed beneath his skin, a silent promise of the strength he would need. He was learning to channel it, not through the serene meditations of the Valerius family, but through the fierce, focused intent of a warrior. His Aura would be a weapon, a shield, an extension of his will to protect.
He knew the enemy commander was out there, somewhere in Vorlag, growing in power, preparing for the invasion. He knew the magic circles, the cavalry ambush, the strategy that would decimate his kingdom. He carried the weight of that knowledge, a solitary burden.
I will not fail this time, he vowed, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, where the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in hues of blood and fire. I will save them. And that bastard commander will die by my hand. The whisper of the ghost of tomorrow was no longer a warning, but a grim, unyielding promise. The real fight was indeed yet to come, and Kaelen, the regressor, would be ready.