Four years had passed since the night Ernest Aldery first opened his infant eyes to this world.
Four years of silence. Of watching. Of learning.
Most children were bundles of chaos, all tears, laughter, and foolish curiosity. But Ernest was not like them. From the moment he could stand, he walked with an unnerving steadiness. From the moment he could speak, his words were clear, deliberate, and far too sharp for his age. Servants whispered that he was a genius child, touched by fate. Some even whispered that he was unnatural.
They weren't wrong.
At four years old, Ernest had already tested the limits of his gift.
The Voice of God.
A command, spoken with his will, could bend the world. He had made servants sleep, animals bow, even the very flame of a torch flicker at his word. The first time, he had felt exhilaration unlike anything on Earth. It was proof that his power was real. That this world truly belonged to him.
But soon exhilaration gave way to frustration.
Because The Voice was not absolute.
"Extinguish," he had once ordered the torch. Instead of going dark, the fire had roared to life, flaring so hot it nearly consumed the drapes. Ernest had been forced to shout again, pouring mana into his words: "Obey!"
The flame died, leaving him in silence, heart racing.
He had succeeded, but barely.
Infinite mana was useless without control. He could feel it always, an endless ocean beneath his skin, begging to be shaped. But he had no vessel fine enough to channel it. Each command was like carving runes into stone with a blunt chisel—powerful, yes, but crude and dangerous.
He scowled at the memory even now, sitting alone in the Aldery library with a book far too heavy for his small frame propped open before him. The pages detailed the basics of mana circulation, exercises used to strengthen a child's magical core. Simple techniques. He had mastered them within weeks. Yet they were still not enough.
This body is gifted, he thought, watching faint threads of mana curl around his fingers. But raw talent will not conquer gods. Precision will.
"Master Ernest?"
The voice of a maid broke his concentration. She stood at the doorway, bowing low. "The Duke requests your presence in the training yard."
Ernest closed the book with deliberate calm. His father, Reinhardt Aldery, was a man of steel and thunder. Even at four years old, Ernest could sense the weight of his father's gaze, the iron in his voice. He was a man used to commanding armies, and yet Ernest felt no fear of him. Respect, yes. But not fear.
"Very well," Ernest said. His childish voice carried none of the stammering tone expected of his age. The maid flinched slightly at his calmness, then hurried away.
The training yard was a vast expanse of stone and sand, ringed by racks of weapons and lined with armored knights. Ernest's father stood at the center, his massive frame a mountain of muscle, his armor gleaming.
"Ernest," Reinhardt said, his voice like a drum. "A man must be strong. Blood alone does not secure the Aldery legacy. Power does."
Ernest bowed his head slightly, playing the role of dutiful heir. Inside, however, he mused coldly. Strength without intellect is nothing but a beast with a blade.
His father placed a wooden practice sword in his tiny hands. It was heavy, unwieldy, and Ernest nearly toppled forward before catching his balance. Laughter rippled through the knights, quickly silenced by Reinhardt's glare.
"Do not mock him. He is my son."
Ernest gripped the sword tighter. His body was still that of a child; no amount of intellect could change that. But one day, it wouldn't matter.
One day, they would kneel.
That night, Ernest lay awake in his chamber, the echoes of clashing swords still fresh in his mind. Training with his father was useful, but limited. Swinging sticks at straw dummies taught him little.
What he needed was real resistance.
I cannot sharpen my Voice on servants. They are too fragile. Too… human.
Then he remembered the conversation he had overheard earlier that day. Two knights had spoken in hushed tones near the stables, unaware that young Ernest lingered nearby.
"…damn forest again. Wolves, goblins, worse. Farmers won't even bring their herds near the edge anymore."
"Should send a squad to clear them out. But the Duke wants us stationed in the north—bandits gathering again."
Wolves. Goblins. Monsters.
Creatures that killed without hesitation. Creatures no one would miss.
Perfect.
The moon was high when Ernest slipped from his bed. His small frame moved silently through the manor halls, past guards too confident to suspect a four-year-old heir would sneak out. He had studied the estate's routines for weeks, noting the gaps in patrols, the timing of lanterns being lit and extinguished.
At the outer wall, he whispered a single word.
"Climb."
His legs moved with unnatural strength, his small hands gripping the stone as if pulled upward by unseen threads. He scaled the wall with a fluidity that no child should possess, his mana propelling him upward. At the top, he perched for a moment, staring into the forest beyond.
Dark. Silent. Endless.
Most children would have quaked at the thought of entering such a place. Ernest felt only anticipation.
He dropped down, landing lightly on the grass, and slipped into the trees.
The forest was alive with sound—rustling leaves, distant howls, the hoot of an owl overhead. Ernest moved carefully, his small frame blending into the shadows. Mana swirled faintly around him, a veil that dulled the sound of his steps.
Minutes passed. Then he heard it: a low growl.
Yellow eyes glowed in the darkness, followed by the sleek form of a wolf emerging from the brush. Its fangs bared, saliva dripping as it stalked toward him.
Ernest met its gaze, unflinching.
"Bow."
The Voice rang out, clear and sharp despite his child's body. Power surged, invisible threads snapping tight around the beast. The wolf froze mid-step, its legs trembling, then collapsed to its belly with a whine.
Ernest's lips curved into a cold smile.
"Rise."
The wolf staggered upright.
"Turn."
It spun in place, confusion and terror warring in its glowing eyes.
"Sleep."
The beast crumpled silently to the ground.
Ernest stood over it, chest rising and falling. He felt the drain of mana, but the Endless Veil refilled him instantly, bottomless and infinite. He clenched his fists, exhilarated.
Yes. This is the crucible I need. Here, in the forest, I will hone my command. Here, monsters will be my tools.
From deeper within the woods came another sound. A shriek—high-pitched, inhuman. Then another.
Ernest turned his gaze toward the darkness, eyes gleaming with cold resolve.
"Come, then."
His voice was quiet, but it carried, sinking into the night.
"If I am to master my Voice… let this forest be my choir."
The shadows stirred. Shapes moved between the trees. The hunt had only just begun.