The days that followed felt longer than years of war. Arsus rose before dawn each morning, when fog covered the valley and even the birds hesitated to sing. He would step outside barefoot, the cold biting his skin, and face the same ritual.
Balance. Breathing. Control.
He had once taught armies these same lessons. Now, he whispered them to a child's body that barely obeyed.
"Strength starts here," he murmured, closing his eyes. "In the spine, in the breath, not the sword."
At first, even standing still was hard. His small muscles shook from the effort of holding a stance. His lungs burned after only a few minutes. But he did not stop. Each morning, he lasted a little longer.
Mira often watched from the doorway. She didn't understand what her son was doing, but she saw the quiet fire in his eyes and couldn't bring herself to stop him.
One morning she approached him as he rested by the fence, drenched in sweat. "You've been out here every day," she said. "Are you trying to get sick again?"
He smiled faintly. "Trying to avoid it."
She sighed. "The village will think I'm raising a strange child."
"They wouldn't be wrong," he said softly, looking out at the rising sun.
Later that week, he started physical drills. Simple pushups, stretches, and runs across the hill. The villagers laughed at first. The "weak boy" of Alder trying to train? It was a sight they found amusing. But as days passed, amusement turned to curiosity.
They saw him fall and rise again. They saw him tremble, collapse, and still return the next dawn.
Even the local farmer, Daren, began leaving a mug of goat milk by his fence every morning. "For the hero in training," he said with a grin.
Arsus would nod politely. He didn't need praise. He needed progress.
When his body grew stronger, he began meditating by the stream again. The water reflected his calm face as he focused on his breathing. Deep within, he searched for the energy he once commanded—the flow of aura that once shattered mountains.
For days, nothing happened. The silence of his soul mocked him. But on the seventh morning, as he sat unmoving beneath the cold spray of the stream, he felt something stir.
A flicker. A pulse of warmth inside his chest.
His eyes opened. The air around him rippled faintly, bending light for a heartbeat. Then it was gone.
A slow smile spread across his face. "So you're still there."
That night, while Mira slept, he tested it again. He pressed his palms together, drew in breath, and whispered an old incantation from his past life. The air trembled slightly, like a memory trying to surface. A faint spark of blue light flashed between his fingers, then faded.
"Barely a spark," he muttered. "But even a candle starts from nothing."
He lay down and stared at the wooden ceiling. His mind filled with names long forgotten—students he had trained, comrades he had buried. He had spent a lifetime teaching others strength but had never known peace.
Now, in this frail body, he began to understand it.
The next day, Mira handed him a small pouch of coins. "Take this to the market," she said. "Buy flour and oil. And no detours."
He smiled faintly. "Yes, mother."
The market was noisy. Merchants shouted, children ran, and the smell of baked bread filled the air. Arsus walked through the crowd, observing everything—the flow of people, the rhythm of life, the subtle traces of mana drifting between objects.
In his old world, he had seen magic everywhere. Here, it was faint, like a world that had forgotten how to believe.
He stopped by an old stall selling used weapons. Most were junk, but one caught his eye—a short wooden staff wrapped in worn leather.
"How much?" Arsus asked.
The merchant squinted. "For you, boy? Two silver."
Arsus handed over the coins. It wasn't a sword, but it would serve.
He spent the next week using it to retrain his form. Every strike, every step, every breath. He moved behind the hut so Mira wouldn't see. The sound of the staff slicing air filled the quiet valley.
By the tenth day, his movements grew smoother.
By the twentieth, sharper.
By the thirtieth, he could complete his old Sword Form Three without collapsing.
His body ached constantly, but he welcomed it. Pain meant progress.
One afternoon, as he practiced near the stream, a small shadow appeared behind him. A young girl, maybe his age, holding a basket of flowers. She watched in silence until he noticed.
He turned. "You're quiet for a spy."
She blinked. "You move strange."
He grinned. "That's because I move right."
She frowned. "You're that sick boy, right? Lio?"
He nodded. "Used to be."
She tilted her head. "You're weird."
"Thank you."
She left, confused but curious.
That night, Arsus sat by the fire again. His body was weak, but his spirit was steady. He placed his hand over his heart, feeling that faint spark of aura again.
He whispered, "In my past life, I chased strength. In this one, I'll build it."
The flame in his hand flared slightly, glowing faint blue. It lingered for a few seconds before vanishing.
A slow smile formed. "Good. We're learning."
When dawn came again, he was already outside, stance firm, eyes sharp.
The villagers watched him from afar. The boy once too frail to lift a bucket now moved like a shadow under sunlight.
Arsus didn't notice their stares. He was lost in rhythm. Strike, breathe, recover.
This was no longer training. It was rebirth.
The weak boy of Alder Village was gone.
What remained was the beginning of something far greater.
And though the world didn't know it yet, a forgotten hero was waking once more.