"Mmm~" Romian groaned in his sleep, hugging his blanket as he tossed and turned.
He'd been having a pleasant dream, but the faint rays of dawn sunlight soon roused him.
"Ugh… Morning already? Can't even finish a nice dream… Whatever." He stretched lazily, still groggy from yesterday's frustrations.
No practical magic ability? Maybe because I'm still a child. But Mother isn't just some ordinary mage—she's reached a level most talented folks won't achieve even in their twenties. Two more ranks, and she'd be at the pinnacle of magical mastery in this land. And let's not forget—Avalon's the only continent here. Wow, living in a utopia! King Arthur, where are you?
But he brushed aside the existential musings. His dream had been far more intriguing—a vision of a normal, happy life with a wife and child. Who was she?
,,Doesn't matter. This age regression's going to complicate things…''
Later…
"Alright, start with horizontal slashes. Too much at once will overwhelm me. How many swings can I manage in an hour? Maybe 200? But precision's key—way harder than drunkenly flailing a sword around."
Romian swung his blade under the mild morning sun, grudgingly pushing through the hour-long drill. It was tedious, but necessary for his long-term goals. What's my connection to this sword, anyway?
"Hmm—the sword offers infinite paths. Maybe I should study sword theory tonight? Yeah, that's smart. But… how many 'paths' are there? I'll figure it out later." Sweat dripped as he pondered, then a nagging question resurfaced.
,,Am I even talented with a sword?''
He paused, realizing he had no answer. He'd only learned basics—no advanced skills yet.
"Should I try it?" he muttered, halting mid-swing.
What was he trying?
To replicate a sword skill he'd seen from a mysterious figure. Romian mimicked the stance, muscles relaxed at first, then strained to their limit.
Crack!
"Damn—this is too much!"
His feet pivoted too fast, muscles screaming as they neared tearing point. Excruciating pain shot through him—not just from his muscles, but his skin stretching and fraying under the stress.
What skill was he even trying to copy?
He'd tried to replicate a skill that allowed the user to teleport almost behind an enemy and strike vertically or diagonally. But he wasn't ready—not even close. He doubted he'd ever master it.
"ARGHHH!" Romian screamed, unable to endure the pain. Blood gushed from his legs like a river.
His ankles were nearly shattered, bone fragments visible. Both Achilles tendons were torn, and his joints were mangled. His hands weren't spared either—torn ligaments in both wrists, tendons in his forearms shredded. The reckless attempt to mimic the skill had pushed his body beyond its limits. His arms swelled grotesquely, fingers twitching uselessly, muscle fibers torn. He'd aimed to outflank an imaginary foe with lightning speed, but his body now screamed its fragility.
The cry echoed, drawing someone outside.
"Young master!" Phillia rushed over, horror-stricken, her face pale as if she'd witnessed a gruesome scene.
She sprinted to Romian, gripping his shoulders to steady him.
"What happened?!"
Romian, overwhelmed by shock and pain, couldn't respond.
"It hurts… too much…" He gritted his teeth, tears streaming as agony consumed him.
Blood pooled around him, the once-green grass now stained wine-red. Sunlight dimmed behind thickening clouds, casting a grim shadow over the scene.
With his parents away in the village, only Phillia remained.
"Hold on—I'll use healing magic!" She fought panic, forcing clarity.
Healing magic always came at a cost. Basic spells drained mana; advanced ones risked worse side effects. Phillia's skills were limited, but she channeled what she could, mending enough to stabilize him.
As the spell took effect, Romian's awareness sharpened. The weight of his recklessness hit him.
"Ha… How stupid—trying that blindly," he muttered, laughing bitterly.
Blood loss soon overwhelmed him, and he collapsed. Phillia, too, neared her limit—healing had sapped her mana, leaving her dizzy and sharing phantom echoes of his pain.
"I can't… disappoint them… This is… nothing…" She hauled him toward her room, closer than his own.
Her vision blurred, legs trembling. "Just… a little further…"
Every step felt like miles. Her voice hoarse, she staggered forward, refusing to fall.
Romian lay in her arms. The bleeding had stopped, and the bone that had protruded was no longer visible—but that didn't mean everything was healed.
The injuries still needed time. Phillia had only accelerated the healing process—the bone had partially reconnected but wasn't fully mended, and the muscle fibers were halfway restored. She'd need to heal him once or twice more to fully repair the damage.
She couldn't drop him now, no matter what.
Sweaty and deathly pale, she managed to nudge the door open with her elbow. Spotting the bed, she lurched toward it with the last of her strength. Her eyes were wide, breaths ragged, body trembling—but she made it, collapsing onto the mattress with Romian still cradled in her arms.
She tried to steady herself with deep breaths, forcing a weak smile before mana exhaustion dragged her into unconsciousness.
An hour later…
Romian's parents, Paul and Letizia, returned home after finishing their errands in the village. They hurried, wary of the looming rain.
"Sweetheart, should we open an umbrella?" Paul asked, glancing at the darkening sky.
"Better safe than soaked," Letizia replied, quickening her pace.
As they bid farewell to the villagers and turned to leave, a voice echoed from a shadowed alley.
"Betrayal, god, system, suffering, oblivion, supreme deity, names, door, no, joker… Tell your son Romian."
A cloaked figure leaned against the wall, face hidden. Both froze. Paul instinctively reached for his sword—but he'd left it behind. Letizia tried to summon magic, but her mana flickered and died, as if snuffed out by an invisible force.
"Who are you?!" Paul demanded, stepping forward. "What do you want with our son? Why should we tell him this?"
The figure tilted its head. "Who I am doesn't matter. I mean him no harm. This message… will aid him in the future."
"Aid him? How?" Letizia's voice sharpened.
The stranger pushed off the wall, white hair glinting faintly. The same man Romian had glimpsed training from afar.
"Guard yourselves… and watch out for the 'heroes.' They are foes. The goddess, too—" He paused, then added softly, "—but at least you're safe… for now."
With a cryptic wave, he vanished into the alley's shadows.
The mysterious figure's final words were too faint to decipher.
As if nothing had happened, everything returned to normal—Paul's sword reappeared at his side, and Letizia's mana surged back. But shaken, they sprinted home, hearts pounding with dread for Romian and Phillia.
Paul's nose twitched. "I—smell blood!" He bolted ahead, bursting into the house to find a small pool of blood staining the grass.
The door hung open, the rooms eerily silent. Paul charged to Phillia's bedroom and found them both asleep, curled up like children.
"Thank the gods…" Paul slumped to the floor, wiping sweat from his brow. Letizia arrived moments later, equally relieved but baffled.
"If they're unharmed, where did the blood come from?" she whispered.
"No idea. Why are they sleeping together? And why is Phillia… herself again?" Paul muttered, unease lingering.
They retraced the cryptic message: Betrayal. God. System. Suffering. Oblivion. Supreme Deity. Names. Door. No. Joker.
"None of this makes sense," Letizia hissed, a dark aura tightening around her as thunder rumbled overhead, amplifying the tension.
Paul paced, raking hands through his hair. "What does this have to do with Romian? Why that strange cloak? Why target our son? ARGH! It's all a tangled mess!"
"Calm down. We'll question them later," Letizia said, though her voice trembled.
But Paul's fury wasn't just about the mystery. That figure—he could've killed us all. No aura, no magic, yet his presence alone felt divine… and suffocating. A being beyond their world, draped in sorrow—or something darker.
Paul clenched his fists. Powerless. Again.
Furious at his own weakness, Paul knew even a lifetime of training wouldn't bring him close to that stranger's power—not even to the level of their fingernail.
Letizia sensed his turmoil and whispered gently, "It's okay. He was on our side. You're already strong enough."
Paul flinched, stammering, "W-what if h-he hadn't been?"
"What-ifs don't matter. Only what did happen does," she replied, steady.
He wrestled with the thought but eventually relented.
They spent hours scrubbing the bloodstain, then stored their village purchases in silence, both lost in thought.
Later, in their bedroom, Paul abruptly broke the quiet:
"What do you think about Phillia and Romian? Do you think she's… told him yet?" He crossed his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
Letizia blinked, baffled. "Told him what? Romian's only four!"
"No! Not that!" Paul sat up, fumbling. "I mean… they've grown close. Too close. Romian's nothing like other kids. Take Jered's boy—eight years old, plays with friends, acts his age. But Romian? He reads advanced books, avoids people, and acts like a tiny adult. Even Phillia's more 'childish' than him!"
Letizia narrowed her eyes. "Paul, he's different, but he's our son. Shouldn't we be proud he's so curious? The only issue is his socialization. Otherwise, he's brilliant—already grasping complex magic!"
Paul hesitated, biting back darker doubts.
"But—he's weak! He can't even handle the regular wooden swords Philia uses, so—" Paul fumbled, nibbling his lip as he struggled to articulate his concerns.
"Are you saying Romian isn't a good child because he can't swing a heavy wood sword?" Letizia's voice flattened, her gaze sharp with disappointment.
Paul recoiled, backtracking like a champion rower before he got banished to the couch. "N-no! That's not what I meant! I just—he's still young, inexperienced, and his refusal to socialize makes us look bad…" He forced a strained smile, sweat beading on his temples.
"Maybe it'll come with age," she snapped, turning away to sleep.
"If you say so," Paul muttered, surrendering.
A few days later…
The sun hung low in the afternoon sky, but one person still hadn't stirred.
Phillia entered the room, placing a hand on Romian's forehead. "Young master, please wake up already…"
His parents had grown uneasy. Days had passed, yet he remained unconscious despite her healing efforts.
Then—