I didn’t waste any time. If this second life had taught me anything so far, it was the value of preparation. With the book Maren gave me clutched tightly in my small hands, I approached my parents, determined to push my plans forward without hesitation.

  As in my first life, their reaction was neither angry nor alarmed. They were used to my curiosity, even if it sometimes led me into mischief. My mother raised an eyebrow as I placed the old leather-bound tome on the table in front of them, the weight of its significance entirely lost on her.

  “Magic, Ronan?” she asked with a mixture of amusement and mild concern. “Where did you get this?”

  “Maren gave it to me,” I said matter-of-factly. “She’s teaching me about mana. I thought you should know.”

  My father frowned, but there was no anger in his expression—just the protective instinct of a parent. “Maren’s a good woman, but magic can be dangerous, son. You’re far too young to be meddling with such things.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I promised. “I just want to learn.”

  They exchanged a glance, one of those silent conversations parents often had, before my mother sighed. “Just don’t push yourself too hard, Ronan. You’re still a child.”

  My father added, “And if anything feels wrong, you come to us immediately. Understand?”

  I nodded eagerly, relief flooding through me. They hadn’t forbidden me from learning, which was all I needed. But I had no intention of stopping there. The next phase of my plan required a bit more finesse. I knew I couldn’t simply announce my intention to learn swordsmanship at my age—it would raise too many questions. So, I approached the subject carefully.

  One evening, as my father relaxed in his chair by the fire, I asked him about his past. “Dad,” I said, my voice as innocent as I could manage, “did you really used to be a knight?”

  He chuckled, clearly caught off guard by the question. “I did, a long time ago. Why do you ask?”

  “I heard some of the villagers talking about you,” I lied, though it wasn’t far from the truth. “They said you were really good with a sword.”

  He smiled, a touch of pride lighting up his face. “I suppose I was, once. Those days are behind me now, though.”

  “Can you show me?” I asked, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. “I want to learn!”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “You’re too young for swords, Ronan. Maybe when you’re older.”

  “But what if I start small?” I pressed, adopting the wide-eyed innocence that only a child could pull off. “Just with a stick, maybe? I want to be strong, like you.”

  That did it. My father’s expression softened, and he let out a resigned sigh. “All right,” he said. “But only if you promise to listen and not do anything reckless. Swordsmanship is about discipline, not just strength.”

  I nodded fervently, hiding my grin. Over the next month, I worked tirelessly. During the day, I trained with my father, pretending to struggle as I slowly picked up the basics of swordsmanship. But when he wasn’t looking, I pushed myself further, practicing the forms and techniques I already knew from my first life. By the end of the month, I had reclaimed my previous skills as an Expert-tier swordsman. My father had no idea, of course—I made sure to hide my true progress, feigning clumsiness when he was around. After all, it would be almost absurd for a three-year-old to wield a sword with such precision.

  At the same time, I poured myself into magic. The book Maren gave me became my constant companion, and I devoted every spare moment to relearning the spells I had mastered in my first life. Fire, stone—each element came back to me more quickly than I had expected, my older mind making the process far smoother than it had been the first time.

  I also read the book more carefully. There was a part that talked about the mana and mana reserves of each individual. Apparently, a person’s mana supply has no natural limit, or at least not so small. The more mana you use, the more the reserve expands. If you don’t use mana for a period of time, the reserve decreases. I also read a part that said every spell has a cost. The more powerful the spell, the more mana it consumes.

  In fact, in my previous life I never paid attention to it and used mana endlessly. I must have unintentionally enlarged my reserve. I didn’t tell Maren about my progress. She still thought I was struggling to sense mana, and I saw no reason to correct her. The advantage of secrecy was too valuable.

  By the time my fourth birthday approached, I had achieved everything I had in my previous life—and with four years to spare. I was a prodigy, though no one truly knew the extent of it.

  My son has been acting a bit... nervous lately. It’s nothing overt—just little things. The way he hastily excuses himself after our morning training sessions, or how he tries to avoid my gaze when I catch him sneaking off with that book Maren gave him. He doesn’t want me to watch over him during his “personal training,” as he calls it. He insists it’s nothing, but I can’t help but wonder.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Could he be sneaking off to see that new girl in the village? It wouldn’t be a surprise. She’s about his age, and if he’s anything like I was at his age, well... he might be a heartbreaker in the making. The thought makes me chuckle. Perhaps my son is already carrying on the family legacy in his own way.

  He makes me so proud. At only three years old, he’s already showing such remarkable focus and dedication. His curiosity about magic doesn’t bother me as much as I let on. In truth, I’ve seen glimpses of his talent—accidental sparks of brilliance that he doesn’t think I notice. And his progress with the sword? It’s almost unnatural how quickly he’s picking things up. A little genius, I’d say.

  Eleonore, my wife, is a bit more worried. She has always been the more cautious one, especially when it comes to Ronan’s ambitions. “If he draws too much attention,” she says, her voice tinged with concern, “it could bring trouble.”

  I know what she’s thinking. Her family, with their old grudges and tangled history... better not to think about that. I’ll keep it buried. For now, we’ll just smile at the son we’ve raised so well.

  Lately, I’ve caught myself watching Ronan during our sessions, trying to puzzle him out. He doesn’t realize how transparent he can be at times. The way his little hands grip the wooden training sword with a precision far beyond his years, or the spark in his eyes when he talks about his “ideas” for the future—it’s uncanny.

  Still, he’s careful to downplay his abilities when I’m around. I can’t decide if it’s because he doesn’t want to embarrass me or if he’s hiding something. Either way, I let him have his secrets. He’s earned them, as far as I’m concerned.

  In the evenings, when he disappears into the woods or the far edges of the field, I tell myself not to follow. A boy needs his independence, after all. But sometimes, I can’t help but wonder what he’s up to. Is it the book? Magic? Or is it something else entirely?

  One thing’s for sure: Ronan isn’t just any child. There’s a fire in him, a drive I can’t quite place. He reminds me of myself in some ways, but there’s something more to him—something almost... otherworldly.

  Whatever it is, I’ll protect him with everything I have. That’s what fathers do.

  Having reclaimed my skills and knowledge from my previous life, I started setting up plans for the future. I wasn’t content to merely live through this second chance; I wanted to change things, correct the mistakes of the past, and protect the people I’d lost.

  The first goal was clear: save Maren from the illness that had claimed her life in my previous timeline. Maren had been like a second mother to me—a guiding light when I was lost. I couldn’t let her fall to that disease again, not when I had the knowledge and ability to stop it. I’d already begun studying magic more deeply, focusing on healing spells and the finer workings of mana flow. If I could unlock the secrets of advanced healing, I might be able to save her.

  The second goal... Miquella.

  She had been the first real friend I’d made in my last life. Bright and kind, with a mischievous spark in her eyes, Miquella had been the kind of person who could turn even the darkest day into something bearable. But she’d been taken away by the Cult of Aeris because she carried the Priest Factor, a rare gift that allowed her to rule the cult.

  In my previous life, I had met her for the first time when I was four years old. She told me she’d been living in Brustel for a year at that point, which meant that right now, she must have just moved here. If I acted quickly, I could meet her earlier than I had before—and this time, I could prepare. I could have more time to stop the Cult of Aeris from taking her away.

  The thought of Miquella being snatched away again filled me with a quiet determination. I remembered the look on her face the day the cultists came for her, how she’d tried to be brave but couldn’t hide her fear. I wouldn’t let it happen again.

  With that in mind, I started observing the village more carefully. Brustel wasn’t large, and news of newcomers spread quickly. I asked my parents about new families in the area, keeping my questions casual to avoid suspicion.

  It didn’t take long to hear the name I was waiting for.

  “Yeah, a new family settled here” my mother mentioned one evening as she kneaded dough for bread. “I met the old woman earlier today—lovely person. She’s got a little girl, about your age. Maybe you two could play together.”

  I kept my excitement in check, nodding like it was no big deal. “What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, not looking up from her work “maybe you could ask it to her yourself?

  I smiled to myself. The pieces were falling into place.

  The next morning, I “casually” wandered toward the house I knew, pretending to chase after a bird I’d seen from the window. In truth, I was scouting, trying to figure out the best way to introduce myself without coming across as... well, as a weirdly determined three-year-old.

  The house was modest, its yard still cluttered with crates and barrels from the move. And there, sitting on the edge of the porch, was Miquella.

  She looked different than I remembered her—short, wispy blonde hair that barely brushed her shoulders, but the same wide green eyes that sparkled with curiosity. She was humming to herself, swinging her legs as she played with a wooden doll.

  For a moment, I just stood there, overwhelmed by the sight of her. She was so small, so innocent. I’d known her as a brave, determined young girl who fought against the odds. Seeing her like this, before the cult had taken her, made my resolve even stronger.

  Taking a deep breath, I stepped forward. “Hi!” I called, waving with the enthusiasm of a child.

  She looked up, startled, then smiled shyly. “Hi,” she said, clutching the doll to her chest.

  “I’m Ronan,” I said, stopping a few feet away. “I live over there.” I pointed toward my house, then added, “My mom said your family just moved here.”

  She nodded, her grip on the doll loosening slightly. “I’m Miquella.”

  “Wanna play?” I asked, keeping my tone light and cheerful.

  She hesitated for a moment, then smiled again. “Okay.”