My mother and father—Grace and Nicholas Veyren—seemed to be good people. Hell, possibly even the best. My mother in particular… I half-suspected she might be an angel masquerading as a mortal. I'd never encountered anyone so effortlessly warm, so endlessly kind. She had a way of smiling that made the air feel lighter, and though I lacked the vocabulary to articulate it, I knew she carried a gravity that drew people in.
She often carried me on her back in what she called a cradle strap—a simple sling of sturdy cloth that held me snug against her while freeing her arms. To me, it felt like a throne, my own high seat from which to survey the world. Our journeys almost always ended in Ashwick—the town of my birth. Town was the generous word for it. Outpost seemed closer to the truth. No proud stone walls, no paved roads—only a wide dirt trail beaten down by wagon wheels and countless boots, hemmed in by tents, sagging lean-tos, and the occasional wooden stall patched together from mismatched planks.
The place smelled of dust and smoke, the sun beat down mercilessly, heat shimmering off the packed dirt while wagon wheels creaked like groaning bones. undercut by sharp notes of sweat, leather, and cooking grease. Merchants barked their prices at passersby in voices rough from overuse, hawking everything from chipped tools to battered armor that looked more polished for display than tested in battle. Wooden crates overflowed with dried herbs, roots, and spices that perfumed the air with earthy bitterness. Nearby, barrels of dried fish exuded a pungency so aggressive it curled my nose, while suspicious vials of liquid medicine glinted in the sun—tinted glass disguising whether they contained cures or poisons. But most fascinating of all were the stones. Not mere quartz or shiny pebbles, but crystals that seemed to trap light inside them, glowing faintly as though alive. They pulsed, rhythmic and quiet, like the heartbeat of the earth itself.
Whether out of love or cunning, my mother treated each errand as a lesson. She spoke constantly, never letting silence linger long enough for me to retreat into idle thought. She'd point to a loaf of bread, name it clearly, repeat the word, and wait until I produced some sound of recognition. She did this with patience that bordered on saintly, as if every stumble of my infant tongue was cause for celebration. Between her little lectures, she exchanged pleasantries with townsfolk—weathered farmers with faces carved by sun and toil, leatherworkers whose hands bore the stains of their trade, and robed figures whose lingering gazes on me carried a weight I did not like.
Ashwick might have looked unimpressive at first glance, but beneath the dust and patched canvas hummed an unspoken tension. I noticed that certain stalls carried far more blades than bread, and that the patrols weaving through the crowd walked with the confidence of soldiers rather than village watchmen. Their armor bore scars of real combat, not ceremonial shine. This was no sleepy market town. This was a frontier—balanced on the edge of something larger, sharper, and more dangerous.
Of course, all these grand revelations never lasted long. My treacherous infant body, still ruled by biology rather than willpower, always won in the end. My eyelids grew heavy, my head lolled forward, and before I could scold myself for weakness, darkness claimed me once more.
I awoke in my mother's lap, her hand absently stroking my head while her eyes were locked on my father. He stood a short distance away, voice low but steady as he recited something that sounded like a prayer. It was rhythmic, deliberate—too structured to be casual speech.
Curiosity prickled at me. I leaned forward, nearly pitching off my living seat, eager to see what this ritual would summon. An earthquake? A hulking stone golem? Perhaps the ground swallowing our enemies whole? After a minute, the dirt in front of him rippled then broke apart as tiny fragments of rock burst upward. A spray of pebbles shot through the air—whizzing with enough speed to rattle the branches of a nearby tree.
And then… nothing.
That was it. Three minutes of dramatic chanting and utmost concentration… for a handful of airborne gravel. No earth-shaking tremor, no colossal guardian of stone—just pebbles skipping through the air like a bored child at a pond. I'd seen drunk nobles produce more impressive fireworks with a sneeze.
I flailed my arms in what I fully intended as a gesture of incredulous disappointment. My father, of course, misread it entirely. "Your daddy is awesome, isn't he?" he declared, flashing a grin so wide it could have lit the whole yard.
My mother, less impressed, patted me on my head with exaggerated patience. "Are you watching your father? For goodness' sake, Nicholas—you've ruined the front yard again."
To be fair, if brute force was the measure, he was impressive. When he donned his iron gauntlets, even I having fought some of the finest warriors in my previous life—had to admit his technique was solid. His bulk belied his speed; his punches carried enough force to shatter stone and topple small trees, yet each movement flowed into the next with no wasted motion. In my former kingdom, he'd have been considered a high-tier fighter, perhaps even commanding a unit of royal guards. But to me, he was just my father—the same man who tried to get a newborn to say "dada" on day one.
It was through him that I first learned the word augmenter. That was what he was—someone who channeled mana into his body, enhancing strength, speed, and resilience beyond natural limits. Watching him fling rocks with the solemnity of a priest and then split trees with his fists, I couldn't help but wonder… what would I be when my mana core finally awakened?
Then, with a sharp exhale, my father leapt—iron gauntlets flashing in the light—and brought his fists down in a brutal arc. The tree splintered under the impact, groaning as it cracked apart and crashed to the ground in two neat halves. He dusted his hands off as if he'd merely chopped kindling, utterly unbothered by the fact he'd just ruined yet another piece of the yard.
That was my father in a nutshell: strength to rival monsters, restraint that occasionally failed him. Still, this particular session wasn't just for practice.
Once he finished training, he would be heading out—not to rejoin them for good, but to lend his old party, the Iron Fangs, a hand on a mission for the Adventurers' Guild. Just one job, he'd promised. A quick favour for old comrades before returning home. My mother said it casually, but I noticed the way her hand lingered on his arm, the way her eyes softened when she thought I wasn't watching.
That fragile peace cracked the moment my father strapped on his gauntlets with finality, kissed my mother on the brow, and departed down the dirt road to meet the Iron Fangs once more.
The days that followed passed in quiet rhythm. I drank in every detail of life around me, piecing together the cadence of this world's language from overheard conversations, memorizing how words bent and clipped, and testing them on my uncooperative tongue. My eyes tracked everything—the way farmers hunched with work, the grip soldiers used when resting on their weapons, the faint shimmer that clung to certain objects, betraying enchantments woven into them.
Meanwhile, my traitorous body began to obey me again, little by little. My fingers curled with intent rather than reflex. My legs pushed against the floor, building strength with every kick. My head, once doomed to flop uselessly, learned to hold itself upright for longer stretches of time. Progress was slow, agonizingly so compared to the warrior I had once been, but it was progress nonetheless. Reclaiming even the smallest motor function felt like winning a battle.
It became a routine—wake, observe, train this fragile shell, and drift into sleep to repeat it all again. And for a time, I was content. It was not the life of a king, nor the march of a soldier, but it was stability. A rhythm I could almost grow comfortable in.
But as I learned in my first life, routines never last. That comfortable regimen soon changed.
My father returned home, gauntlets slung over his shoulder, clothes dusted from travel, and a grin stretched wide across his face. The moment he stepped through the door, my mother was already moving toward him, relief softening her features as she wrapped him in a quick embrace. He laughed, low and warm, before scooping me up with arms that still smelled faintly of iron and sweat.
"Well, would you look at that," he rumbled, holding me aloft as though I'd somehow doubled in size during his absence. "Didn't I tell you, Grace? He's gotten bigger already. Stronger too—look at those little fists."
I babbled something incoherent, which he of course interpreted as agreement. My mother rolled her eyes, muttering about how he was dirtying my clothes, but the way she lingered close betrayed her own happiness at his safe return.
For a man who could split trees and level stone, he cradled me with surprising gentleness. His grin softened into something smaller, more private, as he pressed his forehead briefly against mine.
It was a simple scene—dust, sweat, laughter, and warmth…but after days of quiet routine, it felt like a victory all its own—a rare one, in a life that had once known nothing but battles.