On my fourth birthday, I was handed a sword and told that my early childhood had come to an end.
I didn't ask many questions, but my responsibilities doubled overnight. Now I had to start attending school—not because it was necessary at this age, but because, in their words, as the heir to the house and a so-called prodigy, I needed to be prepared on all fronts. Ironically, I was still only four years old... Yet they insisted I should also learn swordsmanship.
Thinking it over, maybe it wasn't such an absurd notion after all. Humans in this world seemed to develop faster... at least physically. My eight-year-old cousin looked about twelve, though she still acted her age.
"Except for my case," of course. I had an adult mind trapped in a child's body.
But something nagged at me. When I watched Lord Gregor execute thrusts or cleave through training dummies, I felt a strong sense of déjà vu.
Why did this feel so familiar?
It wasn't just intuition. Every fiber of my being felt as though I'd held a sword before... Yes, kendo. That must be it.
I tried to name this phenomenon... Muscle memory might not make sense, but soul memory—or essence memory—that would make sense.
"Boy." He snapped his fingers, pulling me from my thoughts. "Wake up, training continues."
Yes, I complied.
I took the basic stance. Knees bent, right foot forward, left foot back, slightly tilted. In theory, a stable position. In practice... my body trembled, nearly losing balance.
I hadn't done this for far too long. At least not in this life.
"Your stance is good, Darian... very good. For your age. In fact, it's unnervingly good."
"But you need to relax. Don't be so rigid. Think like bamboo."
"Bamboo?" I asked, tilting my head.
"Yes. Do you know why it can withstand strong winds despite growing so tall?"
He didn't wait for my answer.
"Because it doesn't fight the wind. It lets it pass through. It bends, flows... and stands back up." He demonstrated the concept with a movement. "Do the same. Accept the force and respond without breaking. Rigidity will kill you before your enemy's sword does."
I see... that makes sense.
Brute force certainly works. But what if your enemy is faster, lighter, more flexible than you?
You can't win using methods that don't reach your opponent's style.
But if you change how you move... if you flow, if you yield at the right moment...
You become equal.
And so began my sword training... as well as my first day as a "student." That's an exaggeration, really—I was just learning from a private tutor in one of the house's rooms.
The new teacher never smiled. In fact, he was more rigid than a marble statue. His hands trembled slightly when organizing his parchments, and he avoided looking directly at me, as if terrified of committing an unforgivable error.
He's nervous. He's frightened.
I didn't need to ask why. In this world, educating the heir of a powerful house was like walking through a minefield. One mistake, one wrong word, could ruin a life. Or worse. It was the same in my previous life, though not quite this extreme.
The lessons proceeded normally. Kingdom history, basic geography, mathematical concepts. Honestly, it was all material I already knew from books.
When the teacher finished that day's lesson and began putting away his materials with trembling hands, I decided to do something. Partly out of kindness, but also because I wouldn't learn anything useful if this man couldn't relax.
"Teacher," I called out in a gentle voice.
"Yes, Lord Darian?"
"Please relax." I took a breath. "Your teaching is very good. You explain things clearly and patiently. I'll tell my parents you're doing an excellent job. A good recommendation from House Stonehall always opens doors."
The man blinked several times.
"I... Lord Darian, I don't know what to say. Thank you. But... I feel I'm not doing my best. I'm so nervous, worried I might make some mistake..."
"No. You're sufficient. And sometimes, that's exactly what's needed. You don't have to be perfect all the time. Just be honest and dedicated."
"You're... remarkably mature for your age, Lord Darian."
"Old soul, you know." I always used this method. It seemed to function as an excuse whenever I did something "extraordinary" that wasn't appropriate for my age.
"Indeed," he said with a smile.
─────────────────────────────
A few hours later, I was in the garden, lying by the fountain, letting my hair get slightly damp.
Did I really deserve this life?
Anyone would rejoice at being reincarnated into a wealthy family with their memories intact. It's literally an impossible dream. But I... I didn't know if I deserved it. I didn't know what I'd done in my previous life to earn this second chance.
A second chance.
I had wanted a second chance. To become a child running around without a care. And I'd forgotten that.
What I knew for certain was that I'd never been interested in status or money. What I truly treasured were the small moments that all the world's wealth couldn't buy. Like when my mother made me hot chocolate. That kind of attention, that pure devotion without expectations... I cherished it like treasure, though I was reluctant to admit it.
Maybe I'd been too hard on her. Sometimes I didn't return her embraces. Sometimes I didn't know how to smile back. Not because I didn't want to... but because something inside me blocked it.
I had to try harder. If I'd truly wanted a second chance... I had to really live it.
I exhaled deeply and stood up with renewed resolve.
I had to start somewhere.
────
I returned to the kitchen.
"Mom, the teacher is very good. I really enjoy learning with him," I said, affecting the joyful tone of a young child. I hoped it sounded natural. It wasn't entirely a lie. From my heart, I wanted her to know I appreciated her efforts to give me the best education.
"Really, son? I'm so glad to hear that. Hiring him was a good decision," she said while finishing two cups of hot chocolate. "I'll recommend him in our house's name. Do you want one, my dear?"
Of course I wanted one. I needed it right now.
But the words stuck in my throat. The simplest syllables in the world—"yes, I want one"—felt monumentally difficult.
It's absurd.
I scolded myself internally. I was four years old. Nobody expected emotional restraint from me. Shouting "Yes, give me chocolate!" would be completely appropriate for my age.
Yet here I was, struggling internally over the simple act of accepting my mother's love.
Why is this so hard?
"Yes..." I finally managed to say. "I want one."
Mother hugged me tightly.
"Thank you for being born, my dear. You're the best thing I've done in this life. My greatest pride and joy."
"No... thank you... for giving me this opportunity..."
The opportunity to exist. To live. To be loved.
I returned the embrace. She deserved it.
"Opportunity, my dear? You gave me the opportunity to be a mother. To experience this pure love."
She didn't understand the true weight of my words. She couldn't. To her, I was just her precocious, philosophical son. But she kissed my forehead.
Maybe this was fine. Maybe she didn't need to understand. As long as I could feel this...
At that moment, Father came home looking more tired than usual.
He had dark circles under his eyes, and comically enough, he hadn't noticed a piece of paper stuck to his shoulder.
"Honey, you have paper on your shoulder!" Mother pointed out, laughing.
"Really?"
He plucked it off with two fingers and examined it as if it were an alien object.
"How long have I been wandering around the mansion like this?"
He stared at the document.
"Just like my father. He'd always walk around with papers stuck to him without noticing. The servants enjoyed betting on how long it would take him to realize."
I could sense the nostalgia in his voice.
Apparently it was a family tradition—absentmindedness.
I used this relaxed moment to ask a question that had been bothering me ever since my cousin mentioned Durgheim.
"Father... what is our house's relationship with Durgheim?"
I saw his expression shift through surprise, confusion, thoughtfulness, until he finally opened his mouth.
"Well... I didn't think you'd know that name already."
He leaned against the kitchen counter.
"I suppose it's time you knew. This is an important story for our house."
He took a breath.
"About four hundred years ago, our ancestor Aldric Stonehall learned that the dwarves of Durgheim were suffering a catastrophic famine. Their agricultural tunnels had collapsed, and mountains aren't suitable places for cultivation. They were dying, Darian. Hundreds of dwarves."
"Aldric didn't hesitate. He sent an entire ship loaded with rice, wheat, bread, preserved meat, and all the food that could be gathered. He literally emptied the warehouses. Many in the family called him mad. They said he'd go bankrupt, that it was pointless, that the dwarves would never repay the debt."
"So what happened?" I asked with genuine interest.
"Aldric asked for nothing in return. Nothing at all. No gold, no political favors, no commercial contracts. He just did it. Because he believed that if someone needs help and you can give it, you should. It's that simple. No expectations, no ulterior motives."
"The dwarves were deeply moved and did something unprecedented in their thousand-year history. They opened their markets exclusively to our house. But only to us, Darian. Only to House Stonehall. No other noble house, no kingdom, no empire can trade directly with them. Only us. From that day on, it became a sacred and unshakable tradition in Durgheim."
I see...
"Furthermore, son, you must understand something. Dwarves live much longer than we humans do. Aldric died four centuries ago, but there are still dwarves in Durgheim who personally remember that good deed. They don't forget. Neither debts of gratitude nor insults. Their memory is long, and their honor is unshakable."
He said no more, but the message was clear. That alliance was one of the fundamental pillars of House Stonehall's power and influence.
And what was interesting was everything he chose not to say. He could have overwhelmed me with economic figures, specific commercial advantages, political implications. But he didn't. He chose to tell the story in terms of honor, humanity, and selfless compassion.
He's a good man. Father is truly a good man.
(...)
Wait.
He said... dwarves?
Dwarves?
Those dwarves? Long beards, legendary smithing, cities under mountains, lifespans spanning centuries?
Or was it just a refined term for short humans, as fantasy sometimes does?
No... absolutely not. The way Father mentioned it, the naturalness mixed with respect, the seriousness in his tone, and especially that crucial line: "they live much longer than we do."
Father spoke of them as a completely different race. As an ancient civilization with its own culture, supernatural longevity, a society completely separate from human society.
And I... hadn't seen a single dwarf since my reincarnation. In four years, not one had visited the mansion. Not even at the large family celebrations attended by nobles from across the kingdom. Well, of course. There's still plenty of time.
Do dwarves truly exist in this world? Long-lived races, underground kingdoms, stories stretching back thousands of years...?
This world was far more vast—and potentially dangerous—than I'd assumed.
(...)
"Darian?"
Oh right, I wasn't alone...
"Are you alright, my dear? You're so quiet, and your expression is... strange."
I just shook my head.
"Ah, yes, Mom. I'm fine. I was just... thinking about the dwarves. Wondering what they're like."
Father smiled.
"Someday, when you've grown and you're ready, I'll take you personally. It's fundamentally important that you know our oldest and most valuable allies. That you understand the importance of that relationship."
"I'd really like that..."
Because now, more than ever, I needed to understand this world. Its rules, its races, its hidden dangers. I needed to know what kind of reality I'd been reincarnated into, and what role I was expected to play within it.