The transition was jarring. To Kael—or the man who used to be Skane—the world felt like it was made of glass and feathers. His new limbs were short, weak, and frustratingly soft. He hated them. But more than that, he hated the hunger. Not just the hunger for food, which his parents barely had enough of, but the hunger for the weight of an axe.
By age five, Kael had become the talk of the village. Not because he was "slow" anymore, but because he was... strange.
"Look at him," the village blacksmith whispered, leaning against his anvil as Kael walked past. "He doesn't run. He stalks."
Kael didn't play tag with the other children. He didn't chase the village dogs. Instead, he spent his hours at the edge of the woods with a heavy branch in each hand.
To the villagers, he was a child playing "Warrior."
To Kael, it was a brutal reclamation of his former self.
One. Two. Pivot. He swung the heavy wooden branch. In his mind, he wasn't five. He was six-foot-four, standing on a blood-slicked deck. His muscles screamed—this child's body didn't have the "engine" to run the "operating system" of a Viking Chief. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Again.
He swung. The branch snapped against a tree trunk. The vibration rattled his small bones, but Kael didn't flinch. He just looked at the broken wood with cold, calculating eyes.
"You're holding it wrong, kid."
Kael froze. His instincts—honed through a thousand raids—told him someone was behind him long before the voice spoke. He didn't jump like a child. He turned slowly, eyes narrowed.
A man sat on a mossy boulder. He wore leather armor reinforced with beast-scales that shimmered like oil on water. A long, notched sword was strapped to his back, and he was currently nursing a bandaged leg. An adventurer. A Hunter.
"You've got the spirit," the man said, tossing a small apple to Kael. "But that stick is too top-heavy. You'll ruin your wrists before you're ten."
Kael caught the apple with one hand—a reflex so fast the adventurer raised an eyebrow. Kael didn't eat it. He just stared. "The balance is fine. The wood is weak."
The adventurer, a silver-ranked wanderer named Silas, chuckled. "The wood is weak? Kid, you're barely tall enough to reach my belt. Who taught you to move like that? To step into the strike instead of swinging from the shoulder?"
"I taught myself," Kael lied. He couldn't exactly say I learned it while cutting the heads off Kings.
Silas stood up, wincing as he put weight on his injured leg. He had seen "talented" kids before. He had seen noble brats with expensive tutors. But he had never seen a pair of eyes like Kael's. They weren't the eyes of a boy looking for adventure. They were the eyes of a predator looking for his lost teeth.
"There's a hunt coming up," Silas said, more to himself than the boy. "The Academy in the capital is looking for 'sparks.' Kids who have the mana-flow to bond with a Spirit Beast."
"Spirit Beast?" Kael asked.
"Your soul-partner," Silas explained. "A monster you bond with. It grows as you grow. Without one, you're just a man with a sword. With one... you're a legend."
Kael looked down at his small, calloused hands. In his old world, he relied only on his own strength. Here, strength came from a bond.
If I am to kill a King, Kael thought, I will need more than just steel. I will need the monsters of this world at my heel.
"Show me," Kael said.
"Show you what?"
"How a real Hunter fights."
Silas grinned, drawing a short training dagger. "Alright, kid. Try to hit me with that stick. If you can even touch my cloak, I'll go talk to your parents about your future."
Kael didn't hesitate. He didn't roar like a Viking—not yet. He simply dropped into a low crouch, his handsome face turning into a mask of pure, murderous focus.
He didn't move like a child. He moved like a shadow.