At three years old, Kael began his swordsmanship training.
His weapon was a small, wooden blade—no longer than his arm, smoothed to avoid splinters and weighted just enough to challenge him. Yet to Kael, it was far more than a toy. In his past life, he had fought with scavenged iron, shattered bone, and crystal-fused shards torn from Veyrith husks. Blades humming with chaos. Rage. Desperation.
But this?
This felt like a beginning.
He met her beneath the red-leaf arbor, where sunlight filtered through branches like molten glass.
"You're gripping it wrong," came a voice above him—warm and calm, with a playful edge that carried no mockery.
Kael turned.
She stood tall, silver-haired, her eyes like polished steel warmed by firelight. Her armor bore no ornament, only the wear of battles fought and survived. Twin swords rested across her back like the wings of a hawk mid-fold.
"I'm Selene Ardyn, Eleventh," she said, kneeling. "We haven't been properly introduced."
Kael stared. Eleventh… He'd heard of her. Slayer of Rift-born. Commander of the Storm Vanguards. The ghost in the lightning.
She reached forward, gently adjusting his grip on the sword. Her fingers were calloused but sure.
"There. Control before strength. Always."
The touch startled him.
It had been a long time—two lifetimes—since someone touched him with that kind of care.
"I'll train you," she said, as if the decision had already been made. "If you want."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
Selene tilted her head. "Because you remind me of someone."
She didn't say who.
He met the other one the next day.
The training courtyard was carved from pale stone, etched with glyphs that dampened gravity and regulated temperature. Ward-golems stood along the perimeter, watching in silence.
And at the center stood a man.
Bare-chested. Arms folded. Blade floating beside him, untouched by hand. He radiated pressure—not of sound or mana, but of presence. Like a storm sealed in flesh.
Lucien Ardyn. Thirdborn.
The Quiet Fang.
He didn't speak. Didn't bow. Just glanced at Kael, then turned away.
Dismissal, plain and simple.
Prove you belong, that look said. Or be forgotten.
And so began the loop.
Day One.Kael stumbled. His sword dragged. His stance faltered. He fell—twice.Selene helped him up each time, correcting his grip, his posture.Lucien watched, then walked away.
Kael muttered, "I've killed before, dammit…"—but the courtyard heard only the voice of a determined toddler.
Day Four.He blocked one of Selene's slower strikes. Just once.She smiled like it meant more than it seemed.Lucien paused before leaving. Ten seconds longer than usual.
Day Twelve.Kael tried channeling a mana-thread to redirect her blow—a trick from his past.But the mana here was too refined, too calm. No chaos to grip.His technique failed.
Lucien, from across the court, threw a second wooden sword toward him.Kael caught it, barely.Lucien's lips moved.
"Again."
Day Nineteen.Selene increased the tempo. Kael bled from a split lip but didn't falter.Lucien entered the ring for the first time.He drew his training blade.
"Show me your spine," he said.
Kael grinned.
Day after day.
Fall. Rise. Strike. Bleed. Endure.
The echoes of his former self flickered behind his eyes. But this was a different world. A different Kael.
No Veyrith. No panic-driven evolution. No broken allies dying beside him.
This time… he had time.
And for the first time in either life, Kael Ardyn wasn't just surviving.
He was learning.