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A few weeks passed in the blink of an eye.
My body had already undergone a dramatic transformation. What once looked frail and neglected had now become lean, solid, and capable—built through effort and refined with magic. Daily survival, workouts, hunting, and the steady rhythm of life in the forest had molded this body into something reliable.
This body… I had underestimated it. Good genetics? Possibly. But more than that, it was healthy. Strong bones, decent recovery rate, and a surprising amount of adaptability. Honestly, if he had just moved around more instead of staying inside all day… he might not have been bullied like that.
Well, that doesn't matter now.
Over time, I upgraded my campsite—replacing makeshift tools with better-crafted ones, organizing resources, and creating systems for food, water, and defense. A small underground storage pit, an overhead shelter reinforced with bark and branches, and simple traps placed around the perimeter. Nothing extravagant, but efficient enough for survival.
Now that life had become easier, it was time to move on to the next phase: combat.
I began with the basics—movements burned into my mind from my past life. Boxing. Muay Thai. The martial arts I once trained in. Not to become a fighter, but for discipline, health, and self-defense.
I cleared an open space near the river, flattened the ground, and began shadowboxing.
Jabs. Straights. Hooks. Elbows. Knees. Footwork drills. Balance control.
I moved slowly at first, retraining my muscles, correcting the body's natural posture. This wasn't Earth anymore. Here, a fight could mean life or death. Knowing how to throw a punch wasn't enough—I had to understand how to move, how to react, how to fight smart.
My workouts were intense, but I had an edge—healing magic.
Each time I pushed my muscles to failure, I'd rest for a short while, then cast Heal. It didn't just ease the soreness—it accelerated the recovery process dramatically. It was almost like cheat-code level regeneration, but it had its limits. I couldn't spam it endlessly, and each cast burned mana. Still, I could manage a full-body workout every day and recover within hours.
And the best part?
Training while mana is abundant in the forest… amplifies it.
This forest was rich with ambient mana, increasing recovery and making each session more efficient. I could feel it—like subtle energy constantly soaking into my core.
Not everyone valued healing magic. In this world, it was seen as a utility—reserved for clerics or support types. But they were wrong. Heal could be a weapon—a way to accelerate growth, train harder, and survive longer.
---
My goal for now was simple: survive.
No grand ambitions. No rushing toward power or glory. Just one thing at a time.
Train my body. Learn how to fight. Build a foundation for self-defense.
And if I'm lucky… expand my mana circulation along the way.
I really liked boxing back in my old life. Something about the rhythm, the precision, the power behind a clean punch—it just clicked with me.
So even without a gym, a ring, or even gloves… I trained.
Footwork first. Balance. Movement.
Then the punches—jab, cross, hook, uppercut.
But something was strange.
> "This body… it remembers things I didn't even memorize that well before."
Combinations I watched once or twice came back like muscle memory.
Techniques I forgot… now played clearly in my mind.
Piece by piece…
> I was creating my own martial art.
Not flashy. Not traditional.
But efficient. Fast. Brutal when needed.
I called it nothing. I wasn't ready to name something that still kept evolving.
But it was mine.
And in a world of swords, magic, and monsters—
this strange blend of martial arts and instinct might just keep me alive.
---
Three weeks passed.
My body had grown flexible. My movements sharper.
But… something else had changed, too.
> "Ugh… I stink."
Even after bathing in the river daily, the stench wouldn't go away.
It clung to me like guilt. Like shame.
I sniffed my arm and instantly regretted it.
> "I miss soap… even the cheap ones."
And clothes.
My ragged shirt barely covered me now, torn and faded under the sun and rain.
I looked like a lost beggar from a war-torn village.
But complaining wouldn't change anything.
I needed food.
The fish I caught from the river? Tasted like nothing now. Bland. Dry.
Even roasting it over fire didn't help anymore.
> "Damn it… I want meat. Real meat."
Sniffling from both hunger and frustration, I wiped my face and stood.
My stomach growled in agreement.
Time to hunt.
In my hand was a makeshift spear, something I'd crafted a few days ago.
A sharpened stone tied to a carved stick with jungle vines. Primitive, but better than bare hands.
I moved quietly through the undergrowth.
Eyes scanning. Ears alert.
If I could catch a boar…
Or even a wild pig…
> That would be heaven.
My mouth watered at the thought of juicy meat.
Even without seasoning, I just wanted something different.
Something that made me feel human again.
> "I really want meat," I muttered under my breath, the words lost to the quiet rustling of leaves and the low gurgle of the nearby stream.
I leaned back against the rough bark of the tree behind me, the half-cooked fish on my makeshift spit already cooling. I wasn't ungrateful—food was food—but after days of the same bland meals, my body ached for something rich, juicy… satisfying.
But it wasn't just the hunger gnawing at me.
Something else stirred beneath my skin—a quiet energy, like a gentle current beneath calm waters.
Mana.
My body, once sluggish and unresponsive, had begun to change. Weeks of practicing healing magic—on blisters, scrapes, sore limbs—had done more than just keep me alive. It had forced my mana into motion, pushed it through places it hadn't flowed before. I could feel it now: faint, but real. Circulating.
I was ready to learn real magic.
The question was... what kind?
Everyone in this world was born with a natural affinity. Fire was common, especially in this body's bloodline. The original Aiden—if I could still call him that—was surrounded by it. His father, a skilled flame-user. His mother, able to boil a pot with a flick of her hand. Even his younger brother had sparked fire at the age of seven.
But this body held none of that heat. No embers in the veins, no warmth in the core.
Instead, there was something else.
Something… fluid.
Whenever I approached water, it calmed me.
When it rained, I listened.
When I bathed, I stayed longer than necessary.
When I fished, I felt strangely focused—like the world slowed down just enough for me to catch my breath.
I thought back to the first time I'd jumped into the river near this forest, half-starved and desperate for food. I should've panicked, thrashed—drowned.
But the water welcomed me. Wrapped around me like an old friend.
Back then, I thought I was lucky.
> Maybe this body's affinity… is water.
---
I closed my eyes.
Back in the capital, there had been a renowned instructor who taught the elites—children of nobles and prodigies alike. They said he could wield every element: earth, wind, fire, water, even lightning and ice. Not through flashy chants or long incantations… but through clarity.
He taught that magic wasn't just about power—it was about understanding.
> "To control the elements, you must first become one with their nature,"
he once told a class, or so the rumors said.
"See it. Feel it. Let it become a part of you."
He didn't wave his hands or shout dramatic phrases.
He simply envisioned.
Fire, he said, was not just heat—it was hunger, chaos, movement.
To conjure it, you needed to think like fire. Breathe like it. Rage like it.
Earth was stillness, patience, foundation.
Wind was freedom—an ever-shifting, formless spirit.
And Water...
Water was flow. Adaptability. Calm and fury, both.
I opened my eyes and looked down at the stream beside me. It sparkled under the slanted sun, weaving around rocks, never fighting, just moving. Constant.
I dipped my hand in.
The water was cold, but gentle. It welcomed my touch like it recognized me.
> "I don't know if I'm doing this right," I muttered, "but I'll try."
I focused.
I pictured the stream—how it curved, how it slipped through cracks, how it carved mountains over time. I imagined that motion inside me, the same rhythm I felt when I healed my cuts or washed fish in the river. That quiet, steady presence in my chest. My core.
Breathe in. Flow in.
Breathe out. Flow out.
A tingling sensation ran up my arm.
I didn't force it—I followed it, like drifting downstream.
Then I spoke, not with words, but with will.
> Come.
Not with fire's roar, but with water's whisper.
And something answered.
A single droplet floated above my palm—shivering, trembling in the air like it didn't know whether to fall or dance.
My heart skipped.
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