"To face giant monsters.. we made our own."
~ Anonymous source to those who know...
Everyone believes a life occurs when the baby is born. It's mostly true- as infants cannot remember the time spent growing. They cannot fathom how a formed soul is shaped, molded into a second life. Enduring a minute of that painful existence took Connor a near millenia. His mind slowed by impossible measurements, each secret of the universe ready to wipe him clean. Nine months later Connor opened his eyes. The process of birth mostly escaped his attention, as physical pain felt relieving on the soul.
A bright environment greeted Connor's vision. The warm glow of magic powered lampshades introduced Connor to his new dimension. Two servants held up his mother's legs, a pool of blood covering both Connor and the bedsheets where he emerged. A squat man who Connor assumed to be his new father looked away in guilt. He wore the most sophisticated outfit, and the nauseous expression Connor could feel deep down. The emotions of his mother cut his soul deeper than the universe itself. Connor needed no introduction, but two guards responded either way.
"It's a boy. Take more care with your family next time, Baron Sartor. Rebels cannot run free.." They explained before slamming a steel halberd across her neck. It barely made a mark. She grunted in pain, but the mask on her face allowed one muffled scream. Connor flinched again and again as the guards repeated painful swings. Their metal halberds glowed, covered with blue light he understood must've been magic power. Over an hour passed before she exhaled her last breath. Confused and still in shock over the millenia of enduring death itself, Connor could do nothing but cry.
The squat man rushed to grab Connor's small body once the guards retreated from the room. "I'm so sorry.. It's not your fault! Don't cry, please!" He pleaded in tears, gripping Connor close to his chest, where the heart should've been. Connor agreed for the most part. No matter how strong the resolve, a mere infant was powerless against adults. The man who bore his child allowed unspeakable torture upon his wife. To call this man a father.. Connor could not. The fault of his mother's death remained the ignorant man clutching his son between thick arms.
…..
Months passed for Connor before he realized. One plain colored carriage arrived to escort newborn Connor, and the father he learned to be "Baron Sartor." The clopping rhythm of horse shoes blended with the creaking wheels of the wooden carriage. A red velvet of cotton cushion supported his father who sat opposite of a short nanny. She carried the baby between her arms, offering a false sense of comfort Connor secretly despised. The vast expanse of flat plains and untapped farmland heavily contrasted the industrial world he knew called Earth.
Their unguarded convoy reached a somber village. Each house remained in ruins, a smoldering skeleton of what used to be. War ravaged this territory, leaving no bodies in its wake. The only people present were alive, shocked, or shedding unending tears. Connor snuck as many glances as possible. A young toddler shouted for her missing parents, her poor mind unable to accept the two pools of blood for their bodies. One father choked up bile and tears as he buried a small severed arm in the shallow ash of his former home.
After being so closely intertwined with death, Connor assumed little might spook him. By the stench of copper scented blood wafting like common wind- he learned otherwise. Indiscriminate slaughter dwarfed any kind of greedy suffering he endured in hopes to keep his memories intact. The atrocities his mother must have suffered remained a mere statistic of the missing and deceased. Unsurprisingly however, Baron Sartor's stone castle lacked the horrific scars of war. Blood stained the iron casted gate which allowed his welcome entry. It creaked from rust and exhausted slave workers, who tirelessly hoisted the metal up using a chained winch.
Foul words and reasonable insults met Connor's mouth. His tongue twisted desperately to ask the Baron for answers. The castle walls surrounded a larger perimeter than the village itself. Pristine fields of golden wheat stood defiantly where citizens could have fled. Small mud-dried abodes provided lacking hovels for peasants who had begun to harvest the tall strands of barley. Old men and women separated grains from stems, painted with hard expressions upon their faces. Each one held their stomach in pain- informing Connor they lacked proper meals.
When Connor reached Baron Sartor's manor he found little strength from which to insult or shout. The sheer absurdity over the level of violence drained every resolve Connor brewed deep inside. "Welcome back, my Lord. Sorry for your loss.." One man dressed in full plate armor expressed with a bowed head. The Baron flinched over the knight's solemn words. Connor tried to scoff, but the noise came away as one small sneeze. Baron Sartor seemed more upset by his guards' sincere condolences than the death of his wife. For the worst moment Connor believed they blamed their Lord for her death, but believed nothing more could be done somehow.
Life inside the manor consisted of a long, boring schedule. Around 7 am the nanny would feed Connor his breakfast, bathe him, and change his clothing. A new person arrived often enough for Connor to lose track of their names. He grouped the servants under a blanket term of "nanny," although he felt wrong describing them like so. Each one teared up ever so slightly upon meeting him- like Connor's small life remained the last fragment of their long lost family. Every time Connor grit his barely formed teeth, and continued breathing in and out.
The one benefit a boring schedule provided was accidental monotony. Connor remembered the sight of those halberds, coated in magic material. He flinched every time he closed his eyes. Traumatic images and sounds haunted his sleep enough for Connor to desperately search for the magic himself. The blazing glow from cruel weaponry slammed again and again into solid flesh, taking away a millimeter each swing. Recurring imagery allowed Connor the easy memory to discover mana itself. Four weeks later Connor quietly formed a small mana core, the size of a small rice grain.
Cruelty aside, Connor trusted the Baron would provide solid connections for mana training. He just needed to wait until he reached a proper age to learn techniques- he believed. One year passed with boring repetition, the only change in 300 days being his palette. Nannies stopped providing milk and switched to soupy stews and liquified meals. Week-by-week Connor received the same three meals on repeat. Tasting three unique meals brightened his days to a certain degree, as eight months of drinking milk started to eat away at Connor's patience.
The mana core inside Connor's chest grew in bounds, to the size of a walnut, before the servants instructed Connor through basic language lessons. Foreign language always troubled Connor who lived a basic life in the United States of America. Universities preferred students learn professional crafts instead of second languages, and high school offered little in terms of usefulness. So the next four years in Connor's life piled up as he vigorously poured his attention to his studies on the language named "common." Night after night passed where the dim candle light illuminated sheet after sheet of tree-pressed paper, interrupted by the shadow of his thin ink-feather.
Five years later Connor answered a knock on his door. The servants long since discovered Connor's responsible nature during his studies, and happily took the chance to leave the young boy to his own devices. His reliable behavior supplied the servants with the first break they encountered in years. So, being five years old Connor felt accustomed answering the door for servants like a full grown adult. The knock itself appeared plain enough, aside from the metal-plated knight who opened the door. Connor jumped down from his wooden chair, the average height still too tall for his young age.
"May I help you?" Connor asked in his best common accent. The first emperor founded the language to help unite his newborn nation under one mother tongue. Common reminded Connor about his vain interests over ancient Latin, where word roots combined with endings. Word-endings provided this world's version of "I and you." It replaced apostrophes for possession, and replaced the spoken version of "L" with the sound of "V." After four years of constant learning Connor reached an absurd understanding of the language. The baffled praise from common servants kept his studies patient.
"Young Master.. The Lord is requesting your presence." Bowed the armored knight whose metal plates shuffled beneath his motion. Connor froze in place. He barely contained a short scoff from leaving his throat. Baron Sartor, his biological father in a second life, disappeared from Connor's presence entirely for years. The man avoided all contact with Connor since bringing him home to the manor. In other words, the man probably wished for his son to forget all the transgressions.
"... understood." Connor returned a slight bow to convey compliance. Frustration aside, Connor owed his cowardly father a visit. The heavy plated knight marched step after step down hallways unfamiliar to Connor's memory. A seamless velvet carpet boasted red, yellow and green colors. Hundreds of servants inhabited the single hallway- explaining to Connor how they kept every surface spotless. Room after room created spaces for storage, bedding, and other life necessities. After the seven minute walk Connor rolled his eyes.
Baron Sartor's main office sat guarded by twenty armored knights. Each one gripped seven foot halberds in one cupped palm, covered in heavy silver plating. Connor gulped for just the moment. Dealing with the Baron alone involved more strength than he could fathom. The leading knight knocked twice on heavy double doors that sectioned off Mr. Sartor's main office. Behind those doors revealed a stainless, vintage administrative room, designed for the Baron's many logistical tasks. Sat under a maple-wooden desk was Connor's father from his second life.
"Connor-! So good to meet you at last." Greeted the plump man whose round face glanced once above his paperwork. The man gained plenty more weight than five years ago. Connor wanted to laugh, smirk, or mock the change. Unfortunately, his future lay in the hands of this man, who looked up again. "I'm.. sorry we haven't spoken to each other before. You'll be enrolled in the royal academy, effective tomorrow. Focus on your studies while you're gone." Baron Sartor cleared his throat- the absurd request for a child without parenthood noticed by even himself. Just three sentences altered Connor's life path by years in one go.
"Understood.." Connor replied with his head bowed. Having been ready for a simple response, two knights slowly closed the double doors between him and the Baron. Connor scarcely had the chance to see inside the office. His brief conversation only allowed for a slight peek, not enough time for Connor to walk forward. For once Connor allowed the snarky click of his tongue to escape his throat. On his right the escort knight picked up on Connor's angry remark. The armored man's wavy blonde hair ran down one side plump, with a fade cut on the sides of his hair. For better or worse the knight pursed his lips over unspoken guilt.
"I'm sorry. Your father greatly values his work. Perhaps in time you'll earn the right to meet him." Explained the knight who nearly twisted his tongue. The forced reaction calmed Connor's nerves much better than he realized. The sight of this knight working for Baron Sartor quietly acknowledging the injustice remedied his anger more than sincere empathy. He followed the knight in complete silence before deciding on how to respond. Common as a language made enough sense written on paper. Speaking it aloud proved difficult, as written practice only took Connor so far.
"It's not your fault, Sir.." Replied Connor, using common. The long pause between conversation allowed him the chance to compose his emotions, and respond formally. Regardless of noble blood, this knight's age greatly dwarfed his own. The servants preferred Connor speak using informal grammar due to his status, but he still preferred to speak like their distant friend. "It's your job.. Thank you for guiding me." Connor attempted his best formal accent. The knight flinched over the response he assumed came directly from a child. Hopeful admiration brewed behind the man's baffled grin.
"Of course, my Lord." Responded the knight who barely contained his smile. "Work hard. Perhaps the Sartor Barony has given birth to a bright future.." Explained the blonde knight who directed Connor towards an open wooden carriage. He exhaled a solemn sigh when Connor bowed in response to his escort's own bow. Concepts such as formal speech and paying respects through bowing never existed in the United States, Connor's home country. The small act of leaning forwards proved more difficult than speaking for self-conscious Connor.
Forget packing supplies for a long journey, five hundred servants were hand picked in advance. Twenty assorted wagons and armored personnel carried everything a medieval travel could need. Connor watched the servants complete their final checks- plenty of familiar faces rushing efficiently between armored guards. One brief glance helped Connor assume their convoy's relative size. The guessed number of five hundred servants quickly elevated to eight hundred, seemingly growing at every pair of running footsteps.
Connor climbed inside the luxury carriage. A servant closed the door behind him, peeking a quick smile inside, then left Connor alone. He took a moment to congratulate himself on the strategy he adopted for mana control. Without a doubt Connor assumed the Manor kept track of his latent potential. Practical concepts like martial arts or magic would attract unwanted attention, so Connor opted for mental arts instead. His main strategy for utilizing mana was through the art of memory. By overclocking and enhancing his brain with the strange power, Connor trained himself to memorize numbers by the thousands.
So, despite all the servants falling under a stereotype of "nanny," Connor remembered each name and face without fail. Other concepts like learning the language common from scratch were only made possible through his odd mana technique. It lacked any combat ability whatsoever, with clear downsides such as mental exhaustion, but allowed Connor to memorize information like no other. His reaction time sped up depending on which parts of the brain Connor stimulated using magic. Rebelling against the lord for his crimes became a viable possibility.
The soft sound of a knight's armored knock interrupted Connor's racing thoughts. "Our trip will last for ten days, Young Lord. Please inform us about any issues you may be feeling.." Explained the familiar face. His luscious blonde hair and blue eyes made Connor slightly jealous, when his brown hair and brown eyes remained the same from his past life. The convoy shook into motion soon after. Above surprising suspension systems, Connor's noble carriage avoided all kinds of jostling terrain. The level of civilian technology always concerned the young man inside a noble's body.
Luxury products often stood one level above the civilian counterpart. So, Connor assumed the normal carriage lacked the convenient spring design he felt beneath his feet. Modern conveniences like advanced plumbing scarcely existed as far as he could tell. The servants of the manor utilized discreet outhouses designed to keep smells away from their noble lords. Consequently Connor found himself invested in the commoners' technology. His modern life demanded research on electricity and heating. Seeing his subordinates surrounded by noble inconvenience annoyed Connor deeply.
Annoyance however changed topics when their day's journey neared its end. Without the presence of an ink and feather, Connor lacked the tools to fight his boredom. He started to battle against the impatience- his boredom pleading for Connor to start developing a practical magic technique. Eight hours of nonstop travel revealed the sheer scale of the empty plains surrounding Baron Sartor's territory. New terrain would have given Connor a change in monotony, but faced with repetition Connor broke. A single night sleeping inside the hard wooden carriage snapped his final resolve.
Whether his escort could be trusted remained an impossible risk. Connor still feared the potential dangers in alerting his caretakers to the presence of mana. This world's technology matched medieval Europe. All kinds of superstitions surrounded the servant gossip. Small myths about dropping silverware relating to love stories made for spicy topics. Calling a child the wrathful ghost of a traitor would be easier than disposing of the kid himself. Regardless Connor grumbled in boredom. 'Becoming strong enough to defend myself in any situation requires a little gambling. Maybe being reborn as a child helped me more than hurt me.'
Unlike a full adult with recognized habits, Connor's main difficulties lay behind time management. Nobody judged the mannerisms of a child. His mature nature convinced the manor's professors that he scarcely needed a judgement on character.