Wake up. Run. Train. Study. Run again. Train again.
Wake up. Run. Train. Study. Run again. Train again.
Wake up. Run. Train. Study. Run again. Train again.
Day after day. On repeat.
In the first few years, it felt like I was drifting through a dream. My consciousness would rise and sink, memory blending with sleep, then bleeding into reality, and then sleep again. Back then, nothing had structure. I couldn't do anything except cry, sleep, and drink milk.
Then, like coming out of a fog, I started snapping back into myself, scraps of a past life surfacing in my mind. That went on for the first five years. And maybe that's the only reason I didn't go insane from waking up in a child's body. Maybe that's why I managed to adapt to this world so easily—why it started to feel like mine.
But now that I'm fully settled in this body and the past is just a fading blur, I've realized something: I'm dying of boredom.
For months now, I've been stuck in the same routine, like some machine programmed to become the perfect model of self-improvement.
At first, I didn't mind. Every day felt like a step forward. I was getting stronger, faster, more resilient. Progress was obvious. But here's the thing—do anything long enough, and it stops mattering. Up or down, it all blurs into the same pointless loop.
By month three, I started asking myself: have I turned into some kind of trained animal? Seriously. I used to waste my life in regret and laziness—now it's strict discipline and endless... monotony.
Training? Sure, I get that it's important. But when you're getting knocked into the dirt every day by your dad and his wooden sword, it starts to feel less like discipline and more like he's just trying to beat the stupid out of you.
Studying? I wouldn't mind learning something actually useful—like magic. But no. Instead, I sit with Lilia and memorize the crests of noble houses. Oh yes, exactly what I need to survive in life. Because obviously, if I ever mix up House Boreas and House Notos, the whole world will collapse!
Gods, I hate noble traditions. Especially all that pompous, stuck-up bullshit.
But the worst part isn't even that. It's the fact that there's nothing to do here.
Back in my old life, I could at least turn on the TV, read some manga, play a game, waste time online… Here, the only entertainment is watching Paul swing his sword around. Or listening to Lilia drone on about family lineages I couldn't care less about.
Books? Sure—if you can actually find any. And even that's a damn quest.
There aren't many books in the house. Or rather, there are, but most are either kiddie fairy tales I'm already sick of or medical tomes that Zenith reads like they're divine scripture. The only halfway decent find is a grimoire I snuck out of her room. Problem is, I can't understand a word of it.
Turns out, magic needs a special language. And not just one—two. There's the magical one used in grimoires, and then there's the church's version for their holy texts.
Magical language is a closed system. You can't just guess your way through it. If you haven't studied it beforehand, the words mean nothing. Which means one thing: Zenith was right. I can't learn magic on my own. Not unless I get a teacher.
...Great. Just what I needed to hear.
I'd love to say magic was my one ray of hope in this world—but even that's out of reach now. Another wall. Another dead end.
I let out a long sigh, staring at the ceiling. Looks like I wasn't just brought back to life—I was dumped in some elite warrior monastery. Or maybe it's just one long, drawn-out joke at my expense.
***
"This one?"
"Arbalest…"
"No. Rudeus, focus."
"Dorian?"
"Still wrong. Again."
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Best lesson of my life.
I was slumped over the table, arms folded, eyes glazed over as I stared into nothing. Dead behind the eyes. We'd been over this hundreds of times. Crests, mottos, who lives where, who sired whom… I didn't care.
Lilia was once again trying to pound Asuran noble house history into my skull. Why? Why did any of this matter? Oh sure—perfect way to kill time. Way better than learning something useful, like magic, for example.
"Aunt Lilia, I don't care where these houses are, what their mottos are, or who's in charge of them. We've been over this a hundred times. Can I just—"
She didn't even look up. Just a twitch of her eyebrows.
I stared at her, trying to read her next move. She waited too. The silence stretched. One minute. Two…
"If we've gone over this a hundred times, then you must remember it well. Repeat it."
Of course. I rolled my eyes.
"Ugh… House Greyman. Guardians of the North. Defenders of the northern lands against barbarians, monsters, and magical anomalies…"
The words spilled out on autopilot. Another sigh. Another groan. Damn Northern Watchers, Asura, I hate all of it. Why do I even need to know this?! I didn't know the history of my own country in my last life, and now I have to memorize the bloodlines of some bearded sword swingers?!
"It'd be better if you taught me something useful… Like the magical language."
"Rudeus is too young for that. Stay on topic."
I wanted to slam my head against the table. Seriously? Magic exists in this world, I know it does. But no one's teaching me a damn thing. Like it's some secret society and I'm not invited.
Well, what do you expect from village life? At least no one's yelling on the street about who slept with whom. There's that.
"House head: Lothar Greyman."
It's been half a year since they started teaching me whatever they thought was important. Swordplay, social customs—you name it. Paul's "training," as he proudly calls it, is part of my daily routine now. I never miss a session.
But these lessons…
I tried to sneak away every time. Lilia always found me.
Always.
It was getting on my nerves.
"Silver wolf on a navy shield. We stand where others fall."
"Good. This one?"
I closed my eyes, trying to suppress the urge to scream.
"..."
"Rudeus?"
"House Boreas. Guardians of the Wildlands. Our region."
"Renowned swordsmen. The crest?"
"...Hmm…"
"Rudeus… memory loss?"
"I didn't forget anything. Red lion on a black field. Head of house: Sauros. The lion bows to no one."
"Excellent. Let's repeat it once more…"
I groaned. Died inside. Resurrected. Died again.
This would never end.
***
Zenith watched in silence, a faint smirk flickering across her face.
Rudy reminded her more of herself than of Paul, though everyone said otherwise. Even when Lilia dragged him out of the river to continue lessons, he didn't complain—just slumped, wrung out his clothes, and went back to his seat.
At first she thought he was just lucky to have a good memory. But later she saw it wasn't that—he thought. He absorbed information, picked it apart, made connections. Once, during a story, he suddenly asked:
"If that king was so smart, why didn't he get rid of the ministers who betrayed him?"
She froze. Kids didn't ask questions like that. They took fairy tales at face value. But Rudy looked at her with a squint, like an adult testing someone else's logic.
When Paul suggested starting sword training, she thought it was a joke. But Rudy was getting stronger—physically and mentally. He didn't fear falling. His stamina grew daily. Still, that wasn't what bothered her most.
He lived by a schedule he built himself. Run, study, train. Repeat.
And when he had free time, he didn't play with other kids. He'd just sit on the porch and stare into space. Sometimes kicked a handmade ball without any aim. Sometimes walked in circles, like he didn't know what to do with himself.
That wasn't right.
She had to talk to Paul.
A minute passed. Two. Three. Ten. Then the door creaked open. Paul walked in without a word, headed straight for the pot, filled a bowl with stew, sat down, and stretched out his legs.
She watched him quietly as he chewed, eyes fixed on his food.
Paul muttered, "Hrm… rough day. Animals acting weird lately. Rowls says they've been trying to get into the village."
"Oh please," Zenith scoffed. "Bet you just used that as an excuse to wander around while Rowls did the real work."
Paul smirked. "That hurts. I'm not the one skipping out on chores to drink tea and gossip with his beloved wife."
"Oh, sorry. Next time I'll invite you too—so you can finally experience what a normal life smells like instead of endless training with wooden sticks."
"I prefer to smell like sweat and glory, not boiled cabbage."
"Of course you do…" she drawled.
They ate in silence for a moment, but Zenith had something she'd been sitting on for a while.
"Paul," she said, voice softer now—serious.
He gave her a wary glance. "What now?"
"You're pushing Rudy too hard."
Paul raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean? He's not complaining."
"Of course not. You don't leave him the energy to. Do you even see what he does all day?"
Paul shrugged. "He runs. He studies. He trains. Sounds like a solid routine for a future man."
Zenith sighed. "For a man, sure. But he's still a child."
"He's handling it," Paul said confidently.
"He's handling it. But he's not living."
Paul went quiet, his gaze sharpening on her.
"Have you even seen who he plays with?" she went on. "Who he talks to? Who he runs around the village with?"
Paul paused. He saw Rudy every day—but not with other kids…
Today's image surfaced: Rudy, sitting alone on the porch, staring at the sky. Waiting to train. Or slowly kicking a ball he made himself. Not playing. Just… passing time.
"He has no friends, Paul. From morning till night, he's training or studying. I don't even know if he wants to, or if he just doesn't know what else to do."
Paul leaned back in his chair, frowning.
"You want me to stop his training?"
"No," she shook her head. "I want you to give him space. Time to just be a child."
He said nothing. Everything she said… was true. But he didn't know what to do about it.
"…Alright," he said eventually, rubbing his chin. "I'll take him fishing tomorrow."
Zenith smiled—then couldn't help adding, "Just try not to turn it into another training session."
"Well… if the fish starts swinging a sword, that's on her," Paul grinned.