The boy was three years old when he first spoke in complete sentences.
"Grandfather, the axe is dull. May I use the whetstone?"
Garan nearly dropped the firewood he was carrying. He turned to stare at the small child standing in the doorway of their cottage, dark eyes calm and focused. Most children that age could barely string two words together. His grandson spoke like a village elder.
"You... you want to sharpen it yourself?" Old Man asked slowly.
"Yes. I've been watching you. The angle should be fifteen to twenty degrees, consistent pressure, circular motion. I can do it."
The old hunter set down the wood and scratched his graying beard. He'd raised Leon since birth after the boy's parents—his own daughter and her husband—had died from fever. The child had always been strange. Quiet. Observant. Never cried unless hurt, never demanded attention, never threw tantrums like other children.
But this was different.
"Alright," Garan said carefully. "Show me."
Leon picked up the whetstone with both small hands and sat cross-legged on the ground. He laid the axe across his lap, positioned the stone at the correct angle, and began working with slow, deliberate movements. The motions were clumsy—his hands were too small, his strength insufficient—but the understanding was there.
Garan watched in silence. After a long moment, he knelt beside the boy.
"How do you know this?"
Leon paused. He didn't know how to answer. The knowledge simply appeared in his mind, unbidden. Like remembering something he'd always known but had temporarily forgotten.
"I just do," he said finally.
said nothing. He simply placed his weathered hand over Leon's smaller one and guided the motion, correcting the angle, showing him how to compensate for his lack of strength.
They worked together in silence until the axe was sharp.
---
At five, Leon asked to help with the hunting.
"You're too young," Garan said, checking his bow.
"I can carry things. Watch for signs. Be quiet."
The old man looked down at the boy. Leon stared back with those unsettling calm eyes. No pleading, no excitement. Just patient expectation.
"Fine. But you stay close and do exactly what I say."
"I will."
In the forest, Garan learned that his grandson's promise was absolute. Leon moved through the undergrowth without snapping a single twig. When told to stop, he froze instantly. When told to crouch, he became as still as stone. The boy watched everything—the direction of the wind, the patterns of broken twigs, the freshness of animal tracks.
"There," Leon whispered, pointing.
Garan followed the gesture. A deer, barely visible through the trees, grazing in a small clearing. The shot was difficult—partly obscured, at the limit of his range. He drew the bow, took aim, released.
The arrow struck true. The deer bolted three steps before collapsing.
"Good shot," Leon said quietly.
"How did you see it?" Garan asked. "I almost missed it myself."
Leon tilted his head slightly. "The light was different there. Trees cast shadows at an angle, but that space was brighter. Something was blocking lower sun from that direction."
Garan stared at his grandson for a long moment, then shook his head. "You think like a hunter three times your age."
"Is that bad?"
"No, boy. Just.. strange." The old man ruffled Leon's hair—one of the few affectionate gestures he allowed himself. "Come on. Help me carry this back."
---
At six, Leon set his first trap.
He'd been watching Garan for over a year, studying every detail. The placement, the bait, the trigger mechanism. Trapping was about understanding animal behavior—their patterns, their instincts, their predictable responses to stimulus.
That night, Leon dreamed.
In the dream, he was older—much older. His hands were weathered and strong, moving through a complex series of motions. Not trapping, but something similar. Anticipating movement. Reading patterns. Setting up scenarios where the opponent had no choice but to move exactly where he wanted.
He woke with the knowledge still fresh in his mind.
The next day, he chose a game trail near the river, a path rabbits used regularly. The trap was simple—a snare made from cordage, positioned at exactly the right height, hidden with leaves and grass. He used berries for bait, placed just beyond the trigger point.
The next morning, a rabbit hung struggling in the snare.
Leon approached slowly, murmuring soft sounds to calm the animal. Its eyes were wide with fear, heart racing. He understood that fear. Life clinging to itself, fighting against the inevitable.
"Thank you," he whispered, and ended it quickly with a knife to the base of the skull. No suffering. The rabbit went limp immediately.
When he brought it home, Garan examined both the catch and the trap with a critical eye.
"Who taught you to tie this knot?"
"No one. I watched you."
"This is a running bowline variant. I've been using it for forty years, and you copied it perfectly after watching a few times?"
Leon nodded.
Garan sat down heavily on the bench outside their cottage. "Boy, I need you to be honest with me. Are you...?"
Leon considered the question. The dreams were becoming more frequent. Flashes of knowledge, skills he shouldn't possess, understanding that appeared without explanation. "I don't know. "
"No," Garan said bluntly. "But I don't think that's bad. You're sharp. Too sharp for your age. But you're a good child. You work hard, you don't complain, and you've never lied to me." He paused. "Whatever you are, wherever this knowledge comes from, you're my grandson. That's what matters."
Something loosened in Leon's chest—a tension he hadn't realized he was carrying. "Thank you, Grandfather."
"Don't thank me yet. If you're going to be a hunter, you'll work like one. No special treatment because you're clever. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Now skin that rabbit. Let's see if your knife work is as strange as everything else."
It was.
---
At nine, everything changed.
Garan had been coughing for weeks, but he insisted it was nothing. Just the winter cold, he said. It would pass. But Leon watched the old man grow weaker day by day, saw the way he struggled to catch his breath, noticed the slight tremor in his hands.
One morning, Garan didn't get out of bed.
"Grandfather?" Leon stood in the doorway, breakfast already prepared.
"Just tired, boy. I'll rest today."
But one day became three, became a week, became a month. The cough grew worse, wet and rattling. Garan's skin took on a grayish pallor. He could barely sit up without help.
Leon took over everything.
He hunted before dawn, checking traps and tracking game with the efficiency of someone twice his age. He foraged for herbs, experimenting with different combinations to ease his grandfather's breathing. He cooked, cleaned, maintained their tools and cottage. At night, he sat beside Garan's bed and read from the old man's few books by candlelight.
"You shouldn't have to do this," Garan wheezed one evening. "You're just a child."
"I'm capable," Leon said simply. "Rest, Grandfather."
"Stubborn like your grandmother." A weak smile. "She'd have liked you."
Leon said nothing, but his hand found Garan's. The old hunter's grip was weak, trembling.
"Listen to me, boy. When I'm gone—"
"You'll recover."
"When I'm gone," Garan continued firmly, "you have choices. The village will take you in. They'll find a place for you." He paused to catch his breath. "Or you can stay here. Live alone. You've got the skills for it."
Leon looked at his grandfather's weathered face. That night, he dreamed of sitting beside another bed. An old master, breathing his last, surrounded by students. The memory was hazy, incomplete, but the emotion was clear—acceptance. Death was part of the cycle.
"I'll stay," Leon said. "This is home."
"You're sure? It's a hard life, boy. Lonely."
"I'm sure."
Garan nodded slowly. "There's money hidden in the floor under my bed. Not much, but enough. And my tools are yours. Take care of them."
"I will."
"You're a good boy, Leon." The old man's eyes drifted closed. "Your parents would be proud."
Leon sat with him through the night. By morning, Garan was gone.
---
At ten, Leon stood alone beside a river.
He'd chosen this spot carefully—a place where a large tree grew near the water's edge, its roots drinking deep. Something about it felt right, though he couldn't say why.
The burial had taken most of the morning. Leon had dug the grave himself, lowered his grandfather's body wrapped in the old man's best hunting cloak, and filled it again. Now he stood in silence, hands clasped, head bowed.
"Thank you for raising me," he said quietly to the fresh grave. "Thank you for accepting me. Thank you for teaching me to survive."
The wind rustled through the tree's branches. Birds sang in the distance. The river flowed past, indifferent to human grief.
Leon stood for a long moment, then turned away. There was work to do. Traps to check, food to prepare, tools to maintain. Life continued regardless of loss.
He walked back toward the cottage, small and alone against the vast forest.
But not helpless. Never helpless.
---
The years that followed settled into rhythm.
Leon hunted at dawn, moving through the forest like a shadow. His skills grew sharper with each passing season—his aim more precise, his traps more efficient, his understanding of animal behavior deeper. He traded pelts and meat to the village, speaking little, accepting payment, departing quickly.
The villagers called him strange but reliable. The quiet boy who lived alone in the hunter's cottage. Some pitied him. Others respected him. None truly knew him.
But the dreams continued.
Sometimes he dreamed of training—endless repetitions of movements his young body couldn't yet perform. Sometimes he dreamed of reading, texts in languages he didn't recognize but somehow understood. Sometimes he dreamed of fighting, though the opponents' faces were always blurred.
Each morning, he woke with new knowledge. A different way to position his feet. A more efficient way to draw a bow. An understanding of angles and leverage that went beyond what Garan had taught him.
At night, Leon began practicing what the dreams showed him. Slowly, carefully, in the privacy of his cottage. The movements felt natural, like his body was remembering rather than learning.
At thirteen, his body began to change—growing taller, stronger, more coordinated. The movements became easier, more natural. The gap between what he knew and what he could do narrowed.
At fourteen, he started experimenting with something he could only call energy. In his dreams, he saw himself directing invisible currents through his body, strengthening strikes, quickening movements. When he tried to replicate it while awake, he felt something—faint, barely perceptible, but real.
At sixteen, Leon stood in the forest clearing behind his cottage and executed a perfect kata. His body moved with absolute precision, every motion controlled, every transition seamless. It matched the movements from his dreams exactly.
He was beginning to understand. These weren't just random knowledge appearing in his sleep. They were memories. His memories, from a life he'd lived before this one.
But they were still fragmented. Incomplete. Like trying to read a book with half the pages missing.
---
At seventeen, everything changed.
It started on a cold autumn night. Leon had spent the day hunting deep in the forest, returning home exhausted. He ate a simple meal, maintained his equipment, and fell into bed as the sun set.
The dream that came was different.
He stood beside a lake, ancient and weathered. His reflection in the water showed a face lined with age—eighty years of life etched into every wrinkle. He knew this face. He *was* this face.
The memory unfolded with perfect clarity.
He saw himself training as a youth, traveling as a young man, teaching as an adult. He saw tournaments won, students taught, wisdom earned through decades of discipline. He saw the books he'd read, the philosophies he'd studied, the understanding he'd cultivated.
He saw the Bodhi tree. The storm. The lightning.
And he understood.
Leon Fury. Master martial artist. Tactical genius. The Sage of Stillness. He had lived eighty years, achieved the peak of human capability, and died in perfect meditation.
And somehow, impossibly, he had been reborn.
When Leon woke, dawn light was streaming through his window. He sat up slowly, his young hands trembling.
For the first time since birth, he remembered everything.
Every teacher. Every lesson. Every book, every fight, every moment of meditation. Eighty years of accumulated wisdom, compressed into seventeen years of new life. The fragmented knowledge that had been appearing in dreams—it was all there now, complete and accessible.
He stood and walked outside. The forest looked the same, but everything felt different. He wasn't just Leon the hunter anymore. He was Leon the master, wearing the skin of a youth, standing at the beginning of a journey he'd already completed once before.
His hands moved through a form—*White Crane Spreads Wings*. The movement was perfect, decades of muscle memory translating seamlessly to his younger body.
He closed his eyes and felt the energy in the air. Not quite qi, not quite prana, but similar enough. In his past life, he'd spent forty years learning to perceive and direct such forces. Now, with full memory restored, that knowledge was his to use.
A smile touched his lips.
For six years, he'd lived in this village, slowly building skills without understanding why. Now he knew. It had been preparation—giving his young body time to grow, allowing the memories to integrate naturally rather than overwhelming him all at once.
But that period was ending.
Leon looked toward the horizon. Somewhere beyond the forest, past the hills and valleys, lay a city called Orario. A place where gods walked among mortals. Where dungeons spawned monsters. Where adventurers wrote legends.
In his previous life, he had mastered everything the mortal world could offer. He had reached the absolute peak of human capability and found it wanting. That restlessness, that sense of something missing, had driven him to seek harmony—the perfect integration of body, mind, and spirit.
He had touched it, in those final moments beneath the Bodhi tree.
But he had never truly achieved it.
This world was different. Here, gods bestowed power directly. Here, magic and monsters were real. Here, there were heights he had never imagined, challenges he had never faced.
A new journey. A second chance. An opportunity to pursue mastery beyond mortal limits.
"Soon," Leon said quietly to the empty forest.
But this time, he knew exactly what he was preparing for.
Over the following months, Leon's training intensified. With his full memories restored, he could finally practice properly. The forms that had felt incomplete before now flowed naturally. The energy work that had been guesswork became precise manipulation.
Every morning, he trained his body. Every afternoon, he hunted and maintained his skills. Every evening, he meditated, refining his control over the subtle energies he could now perceive clearly.
The villagers noticed the change. The quiet boy had become even quieter, more focused. When he came to trade, there was something different in his eyes—a depth that hadn't been there before.
Leon didn't care what they thought. He had work to do.
By the time winter arrived, he had made his decision. When spring came, he would leave Torren Village. He would travel to Orario, join a Familia, receive Falna from a deity, and see what happened when eighty years of mortal mastery met divine blessing.
The night before his eighteenth birthday, Leon stood beside his grandfather's grave.
"I'm leaving soon," he said to the tree above the burial site. "Thank you for giving me time to grow. Time to remember. Time to prepare."
The wind rustled through the branches.
"I don't know what I'll find in Orario. But I know what I'm looking for." He paused. "The same thing I've always been looking for. Harmony. Completion. The perfect balance between what I was and what I can become."
He bowed once, deeply, then turned and walked back toward the cottage.
Behind him, the tree stood silent and strong, watching over the grave of the man who had raised a master without ever knowing it.