The first few weeks were pure, unadulterated torture.
My mind—a high-performance system built for code and combat analysis—was trapped in a body that couldn't lift its own head. Information flooded in, but I had zero output. The Cognitive Array worked flawlessly, recording everything with sterile precision.
[DATA LOG: ENTRY 1]
· Subject: Primary Caregiver. Designation: Mother.
· Visual: Female, approx. late 20s. Pale complexion, chestnut hair, green eyes with pronounced fatigue markers. Expression matrix: 70% tenderness, 30% profound sadness.
· Auditory: Voice frequency soft, often humming melodic patterns in minor key. Lullaby identified: "Stormwind's Lullaby," a traditional piece from the Northern Marches of the Aethelgard Human Coalition.
· Tactile: Touch patterns gentle but hesitant. Grip strength low, indicating either physical weakness or psychological reservation.
· Conclusion: Designate "Mother" (Elara Vance) exhibits signs of postpartum depression compounded by external stressors. Financial? Social? Log for further investigation.
Hunger was a system-critical alert that overrode all other processes. A soiled linen was a catastrophic environmental hazard. It was maddening.
The Legacy's Embrace was a constant, silent scream in my nerves. I knew—knew with the certainty of a thousand repetitions—how to shift my hips to generate power for a Muay Thai knee strike. But my legs were uncoordinated meat tubes. The intricate footwork of boxing, the leverage points of Jiu-Jitsu—they were all there, etched into my soul, mocking me.
My only solace was analysis.
Father—Lord Alistair Vance—was a puzzle. He was a mountain of a man, built like a frontline knight, not a minor noble. His hands, when he rarely held me, were a map of old sword calluses. But his eyes, the same sharp green as my own, were galaxies away. He looked at me not with a father's joy, but with the grim assessment of a general inspecting a new recruit. Data suggested either disappointment (was I not the heir he wanted?) or preoccupation with a severe external threat.
The manor itself told a story. The nursery was spacious, with a high, vaulted ceiling. The stones were cold. The fireplace smoked. There were echoes where there should have been the sounds of many servants. I estimated a staff deficit of at least 60% for a dwelling of this size. The Vance family was clinging to a cliff's edge by its fingernails.
By month four, I had achieved basic locomotion. I didn't toddle; I executed controlled, wobbly deployments. My first steps weren't toward a parent with outstretched arms, but toward a sunbeam on the rug, analyzing its angle to determine the time of day and the orientation of the room.
It was during one of these "reconnaissance missions" near my first birthday that I saw it.
A shadow in the corner of the nursery, by the old oaken wardrobe. It was wrong. It didn't move with the shifting sun. It was too deep, too concentrated. And for a fraction of a second, as I focused my infant vision on it, I saw two pinpricks of amber light within it, looking directly at me.
A cold that had nothing to do with the drafty room shot through me.
My Cognitive Array fired.
· Hypothesis 1: Optical illusion. Infantile visual cortex error. Probability: 35%.
· Hypothesis 2: Native phenomenon of Aethelgard. ("Fae," "Sprite," "Lesser Shadow.") Probability: 50%.
· Hypothesis 3: Manifestation related to Void-Tether (Mythic+). Probability: 15%.
I didn't cry. I stared. The shadow seemed to ripple, surprised by my lack of fear. Then, from the hallway, came the solid, booted footsteps of my father.
The shadow flowed. It didn't slide or scamper; it poured like ink up the wall and across the ceiling, disappearing into a crack in the mortar near the window.
Lord Alistair entered, his presence filling the doorway. His eyes, sharp as ever, scanned the room. They lingered on the crack where the shadow had vanished. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
"Elara," his voice was a low rumble. "Has the child been… unsettled?"
My mother, who had been sewing by the window, looked up. "No, dear. Quiet as a mouse. Why?"
He didn't answer. He walked over to the crack, running a thick finger over the stone. He muttered something too low for even my enhanced focus to catch. It sounded like a word… a name. "Sil'ashen?"
He looked down at me, sitting calmly on the rug. Our eyes met. His gaze was no longer distant. It was probing, intense, and for the first time, held a flicker of something besides burden.
Curiosity.
He knelt, a surprisingly graceful movement for such a large man. He didn't smile. He just studied me.
"You see things, don't you, boy?" he whispered, so only I could hear. "The cracks in the world. The things that watch from them."
I couldn't answer. I just stared back, my face an infant's blank slate. But inside, my mind was racing.
He knows. He knows about the shadow. The word 'Sil'ashen'—log it. Potential threat? Potential ally?
He reached out a calloused hand and gently patted my head. The gesture was awkward, unpracticed. "Good," he grunted. "See them. Remember them. But never show them you're afraid. Fear is a scent. It draws them closer."
He stood and left without another word, leaving me more bewildered—and infinitely more intrigued—than before.
The incident with the shadow was a catalyst. My world was not just one of faded nobility and financial struggle. It was layered. There were things hidden in the cracks, both literal and metaphorical. And my father, the grim, silent knight, was aware of at least one layer.
My training began in earnest after that. Not formal training—I was a one-year-old—but the conscious, daily activation of Legacy's Embrace.
Naptime was for isometric exercises. I would lie in my crib, clenching and releasing muscle groups in the precise sequences of a boxer's stance. I practiced diaphragmatic breathing, slowing my heart rate—a foundational skill for any martial artist or assassin.
Playtime was mobility and balance drills. Stacking blocks wasn't a game; it was a exercise in fine motor control and kinetic chain awareness. Crawling through a makeshift blanket fort was an exercise in tactical movement and spatial reasoning.
My parents saw a quiet, observant, strangely coordinated child. They didn't see the relentless programming happening underneath.
The Void-Tether remained silent, a dormant, cold spot in my soul. I could feel it sometimes, in the deepest part of the night—a faint, gravitational pull towards nothing at all.
When I was two, I decided to test a theory.
My mother was in her small, sunlit solar, tending to a few hardy potted herbs—a noblewoman's pitiful attempt at gardening. A heavy copper watering can, ornate but tarnished, sat beside her.
I walked over, my steps now steady and deliberate. I looked at the can. I didn't just see an object; my Cognitive Array calculated its weight (approx. 3.5 kg), its center of mass, the grip required.
The memory from my past life was clear: the Kobushi no Kamae—the basic fist formation of Karate. The alignment of wrist, knuckles, and forearm for maximum structural integrity.
I wasn't strong. I was a two-year-old. But strength wasn't the point. Form was. Efficiency was.
I adjusted my tiny stance, squared my hips as much as my body allowed, rotated my shoulder, and drove my fist forward in a straight line, connecting with the sturdy side of the can.
THUNK.
It wasn't a loud sound. But in the quiet room, it was unmistakable. A solid, hollow, metallic thunk.
The can rocked on its base, a quarter-turn.
My mother jumped, her shears clattering to the floor. She stared at the can, then at my tiny, still-clenched fist. Her face cycled through shock, confusion, and a dawning, bewildered awe.
"Kaelen? How…?"
I looked up at her, blinked my big green eyes, and pointed at the can. "Bang," I said, my voice carefully mimicking a child's imitation of a drum.
I let the tension melt from my body, allowing a slight, off-balance wobble. The perfect picture of a toddler who got lucky.
She let out a breathless laugh, scooping me up. "You're so strong! My little knight!" She hugged me, the sadness in her eyes momentarily eclipsed by pride.
But over her shoulder, I saw my father standing in the doorway. He hadn't made a sound. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable. He hadn't seen the punch, but he'd heard it. He'd seen the can move.
His eyes met mine. There was no pride in his gaze. No childish delight.
There was recognition.
He gave a single, slow, almost imperceptible nod.
The message was clear: I see you. Continue.
That night, as I lay in my crib, I accessed the silent, pulsating menu in my mind—the queued remnant of the Karmic Wheel.
[[ Spins Remaining: 6. Activate? Y/N ]]
No.
It was too soon. I was too weak. The spins were my capital, my emergency fund. I would not spend them out of curiosity or impatience.
I had my Legacy. I had my Mind. I had a father who knew about shadows and recognized discipline. And I had a world of cracks to explore.
The academy, the System Awakening at twelve—that was the distant, official gate.
But my real training, my true understanding of Aethelgard, had already begun in this quiet, crumbling manor, under the watchful eyes of a grim lord and things that hid in the walls.
[System Status: Unawakened. Body Development: 8% of viable baseline. Spins Available: 6.]
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A/N: And so Kaelen's second childhood begins! The foundations are being laid—not just of his power, but of the mysteries surrounding his family and this world. The pace will be deliberate, building his skills and the plot brick by brick. What did you think of the shadow and Lord Vance's reaction? Let me know in the comments! Your support fuels the story. Please add to your library and vote if you're enjoying the journey!