Evelyn's POV
Time keeps moving. It waits for no one.
When I first regained my memories, I was ten—the youngest child in my family. Now I'm eleven, with a six-month-old little sister named Avery. In that span, I've already reached stage four cultivation. My path is that of a fighter—not because it's the best, but because it's the most familiar. It was my path as a hero once before.
I draw another arrow of mana, release it, and watch it shatter the wooden target on impact. Marcus and Lina stand nearby, each at stage three now, teaching the other children in my place. Most of our students are our age, but since they only began serious training recently, the gap shows. Even the most diligent of them have just broken into stage two. Still, the villagers' support has changed everything. What began as a clearing has become a proper dojo, with a training ground, equipment, and even a roof to shield us from the rain.
The children push themselves harder with every session, driven by competition as much as by pride.
Meanwhile, the so-called hero still sleeps in my brother's old room. Lucas's body is healthy, but his mind remains locked away. Perhaps it's the trauma. As far as he knows, every child in his orphanage died that night. He doesn't realize that many of them survived. I believe he'll wake when he's ready.
No one has asked me to protect him, or to train him for the role he was born into. But I know it's inevitable. A new hero always means a new threat. Whether it's a vampire king, an undead king, a werewolf king—or something far worse—it will come.
Back in my days as a hero, goblins, trolls, and orcs didn't exist. I never once fought them, never even heard stories of them. They must have appeared only after my time—perhaps a hundred years ago, perhaps two. The exact point doesn't matter. What matters is what their existence means.
They are the spawn of a denser world. The thicker mana of this age breeds stronger, more terrifying creatures. And the stronger the creatures, the stronger humanity must become to survive.
It explains the gap between eras. In my time, the first hero could only reach stage four cultivation—and so did I. Now, cultivators can push to stage six. The ceiling of power itself has risen, pulled upward by the growing weight of the world's mana.
And yet, even now, no one has reached beyond stage six. People whisper of ten stages, but to me that always sounded more like blind faith than truth. Where did such certainty come from? I believe the answer is simple. The techniques we use to cultivate were not invented by us, but given to our ancestors by the will of the world itself. If that same will tells us of ten stages, then it must be real—just not yet within reach.
Why would the world bestow such power on humans? Not for our sake alone. The will of the world seeks to protect itself. If beings like a vampire king, an undead king, or worse were left unchecked, their mana would spread like poison, twisting the land as it has in the barren wastes. If they triumphed, not only humanity but all living things would wither and die. The seas would dry, the soil would rot, and the world itself would perish.
That, I believe, is why humans were chosen—to be its sword and shield.
I turn my attention back to the present. The children finish their drills—basic fighter stances and weapon creation under Marcus's watchful eye, mana circulation and spell conjuration under Lina's. Sweat drips down their faces, but there's pride in their posture.
"Gather around," I call. They form a loose circle, eyes bright, waiting for whatever lesson comes next.
"There's something important I need to tell you." I pause, letting their focus settle on me. "The armor technique I've taught you—forming it with mana—turns out to be stronger than what's taught at the academies, the knight apprenticeships, or even the adventurer's guild. Which means it's dangerous knowledge. For your own safety, don't share it with anyone you don't trust."
A few of them exchange nervous glances. Others nod solemnly. I can't tell if they truly grasp the weight of my warning, or if they're only pretending to. I hope it's the former. For their sake, it has to be.