By the time I turned four, my life had settled into something like normal.
Normal, in this world, meant waking up early, helping around the house just enough to get praise, and spending the rest of the day either outside or asking questions that made adults pause before answering.
I grew taller, and a little bit stronger.
Between the ages of two and four, I experimented with my system whenever I could, quietly, carefully, and preferably where no one was watching.
It didn't shout instructions at me or flood my vision with numbers.
It was polite.
Subtle.
More like a ledger than a guide.
I learned a few important things early on:
First, skills wouldn't evolve on their own. They improved through use, understanding, and efficiency. Swinging my arms wildly did nothing. Repeating controlled movements did.
Second, merging skills came with a cost. Even thinking about combining two gave me a dull pressure behind my eyes, like my body warning me not to be foolish.
Third
The system didn't protect me.
If I made a bad decision, I'd still get hurt.
That alone kept me grounded.
By the time I was five, my parents trusted me enough to let me wander a little, as long as I stayed near the village.
Near was flexible.
The woods bordering the fields were familiar territory. I'd been there dozens of times with other kids, collecting firewood or chasing bugs.
Alone, it felt different.
Quieter.
Not dangerous—just alert.
I liked it.
I learned the paths, the way roots twisted under leaves, where the ground dipped after rain, which sounds belonged to birds, and which didn't.
That was why, the first time I saw the boar, I froze.
It stood between two trees about thirty paces away.
Large. Broad. Dark bristled hair catching the light.
Its tusks were unmistakable.
"…Nope," I whispered.
The boar snorted.
I ran.
I didn't scream. I didn't panic.
I just turned and ran like my life depended on it.
Because it did.
Branches slapped at my face as I bolted downhill, heart pounding hard enough to drown out everything else. I didn't stop until I could see the edge of the fields again.
Only then did I bend over, hands on my knees, breathing hard.
"That," I muttered, "was a terrible idea."
Boars weren't monsters—but they might as well have been to a child.
Strong. Fast. Mean.
And yet…
I couldn't stop thinking about it.
I didn't mention it to my parents.
I spent the night thinking.
In my previous life, I'd never hunted anything larger than supermarket meat. But I understood physics, leverage, and traps.
And I knew one thing for certain:
I couldn't fight a boar head-on with my current strength.
So I wouldn't.
The next day, I returned to the woods—carefully.
I tracked it.
Not like a hunter. More like a nervous child following disturbed earth and snapped twigs.
The boar favored a path near a shallow ravine. Muddy. Sloped.
Perfect.
I spent hours working.
Digging with a stick. Sharpening stakes with a borrowed knife I definitely wasn't supposed to have. Covering the pit with branches and leaves.
My arms ached.
[Minor Endurance- Rank D]
worked overtime.
By the time I was done, I was exhausted.
And terrified.
I didn't wait long.
The boar returned in the late afternoon, snorting as it rooted through the underbrush.
I stayed hidden.
Heart pounding.
"Okay," I whispered. "Just like planned."
I threw a stone.
It bounced off a tree.
The boar snapped its head up.
Then it charged.
I ran.
Not away—from it.
Toward the ravine.
Every step felt wrong. Every instinct screamed at me to keep going.
But I trusted the plan.
At the last second, I leapt aside.
The boar didn't.
The ground gave way beneath it with a sickening crunch.
It screamed.
I didn't cheer.
I grabbed the spear I'd made and moved—hands shaking, breath ragged.
The boar thrashed, wounded but not dead.
I slipped once, fell hard, pain exploding through my shoulder.
"Get up," I hissed.
I thrust downward with everything I had.
Once.
Twice.
The third time, it stopped moving.
I sat there for a long time.
Shaking.
Bleeding.
Alive.
When I finally stood, my legs nearly gave out.
Getting home was worse.
My mother was the first to see me.
Her scream cut through the village.
"What happened?!" she cried, pulling me into her arms. "You're hurt!"
"I fell," I said quickly. "In the woods."
That wasn't a lie.
Not exactly.
She didn't scold me.
She cried.
And that hurt worse than the wound.
Elsewhere
Near the ravine, three figures stood over the carcass of a dead boar.
"This thing was killed clean," one said, crouching.
"Too clean," another replied. "No beast did this."
The third frowned.
"…There are footprints."
Small ones...