Evelyn pov
That night, once I was certain my parents had fallen asleep, I slipped quietly out of the house. Behind our home stretched a small forest, and in its heart lay a clearing I had discovered months ago. It was the perfect place to train—far enough that my parents would never notice, but close enough that if danger struck, a single scream could bring help.
I exhaled slowly, settling into a stance. Mana in the air was scarce, almost frustratingly so, but even thin mana could be harnessed with patience. I inhaled, drawing the faint threads of energy into my body, weaving them into my muscles. As I did, I threw punches and kicks, careful to keep my body moving. If I simply poured mana into my frame without motion, my muscles could stiffen—becoming as hard as stone yet impossible to move. That mistake could cripple me.
So I moved. Every swing, every step, every strike was infused with mana. Progress was slow, yes—but every night brought me just a little closer to Stage One.
After two hours of training, sweat clinging to my skin, I walked to the village well. The cold water was bracing as I rinsed myself, scrubbing away dirt and fatigue before sneaking back home. Stage One was still far away, but I wasn't worried. At ten years old, time was on my side. And unlike my past life as the Hero, I had no need to burn myself out in a desperate race against death. Monsters were rare in this region, thanks to the thin mana. That didn't mean I could slack off—it just meant I could pace myself.
When morning came, I washed up in our small bathroom, only to notice the water barrel nearly empty. I was considering fetching water from the river when the door creaked open and my father appeared, carrying two heavy buckets in each hand.
"Morning, Evelyn," Father said with a faint grin, setting the buckets down. "I told you yesterday I'd refill it. You should focus on helping your mother instead."
"I could help carry, Father," I said, reaching for a bucket.
But he shook his head firmly. "These arms aren't useless yet. Go help your mother with breakfast. That'll do more good for all of us."
I smiled softly and obeyed.
Mother was already preparing bread and boiling porridge. She looked up as I entered. "Ah, there you are, Evelyn. Your hands are just in time—slice those roots, nice and thin."
"Yes, Mother," I said, taking the knife.
By the time breakfast was ready, Father had finished refilling the water barrels. He sat at the table, wiping sweat from his brow. The four of us—Mother, Father, and I—ate a simple but hearty meal together.
As he chewed, Father spoke. "Evelyn, after we're done here, come with me. We'll check the traps I laid in the forest. If we're lucky, there'll be a rabbit or two."
"Really? You'll let me come?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager.
"Of course," he said with a chuckle. "You're old enough to learn the ways of the forest. Just don't expect it to be as glorious as the stories. Trapping's more patience than thrill."
Mother gave him a look, half amused, half worried. "Don't let her wander off too far, Ivan. She's still young."
"I'll keep her close," Father promised.
We went out after breakfast. The traps had caught a few rabbits, which Father showed me how to kill quickly and painlessly. His hands were steady, efficient—born from years of practice. I tried to imitate him when re-setting the traps, but my movements were clumsy.
"You'll get there," he reassured me. "Don't rush. Skill comes with time."
When we returned home, Mother set me to work helping with her tailoring. She threaded needles with effortless grace, her fingers moving faster than I could follow.
"It looks so easy when you do it, Mother," I muttered, pricking my finger on the needle.
She chuckled softly, taking the cloth from my hands to demonstrate again. "It only looks easy because I've been at it since I was your age. One day, you'll be the same. Don't let mistakes discourage you."
Her confidence lit a spark in me. "Then I'll practice until I can make my own clothes. Maybe even… clothes no one has ever seen before."
"Oh?" Mother raised her brows playfully. "My daughter, a fashion designer? That would make me proud indeed."
We laughed together, the warmth of her voice filling the room.
Later, when the rabbits were skinned and cooked for lunch, I took time to "play" in the village like the other children my age. In truth, I was training—running, stretching, sharpening my endurance. My parents didn't need to know, and no one suspected. To them, I was just another child with too much energy.
But I knew better. Every step, every breath, every hour of sweat brought me closer to strength.
I was Evelyn, daughter of a hunter and a tailor. But I was also someone else, someone who had carried the weight of the world before. This time, I would grow stronger quietly, patiently—until the day came when the world needed me again.