Turning four was a quiet affair, marked by a modest celebration with my family and a small cake baked by my mother. My friendship with Miquella had grown quickly over the past year, becoming a bright spot in my life. She was just as lively and clever as I remembered her, and we spent hours exploring the village, inventing games, and sharing secrets. Her laughter felt like a gift, a reminder of what I was fighting to protect.

  She didn’t know it, of course—not yet. To her, I was just another playmate. But deep down, I was determined to keep her safe from the Cult of Aeris. The day they had taken her in my first life haunted me, and though I was stronger now than I had been back then, it didn’t feel like enough. I needed more power, more skills, more preparation. I refused to let history repeat itself.

  One afternoon, restless and unable to focus on my training, I wandered near the village inn. It was a place I didn’t visit often, as the patrons were usually rowdy adventurers and mercenaries passing through. My father had warned me to stay away, but curiosity had gotten the better of me.

  The muffled sounds of laughter and shouting spilled out from the inn, and I was about to turn away when the doors burst open with a crash. A man came flying through the air, landing with a surprisingly graceful roll right in front of me. I blinked, startled. “Are you... okay?”

  The man groaned, sitting up slowly. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with scruffy dark hair and a face that looked like it had seen one too many bar brawls. He reeked of alcohol, the sharp scent making my nose wrinkle. “Yeah, kid,” he muttered, brushing the dust off his battered leather armor. “Happens all the time.”

  What an alcoholic, I thought, wrinkling my nose further.

  Before I could say anything else, the inn’s doors swung open again, and a group of angry-looking men stormed out. They were all adventurers too, judging by their mismatched armor and well-worn weapons.

  “Wes!” one of them snarled, pointing a finger at the man on the ground. “You cheating bastard! You think you can swindle us and just walk away?”

  The man—Wes, apparently—sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “I didn’t cheat,” he said, though he sounded far too tired to be convincing. “You just don’t know how to play cards.”

  “Oh, we know how to play,” another adventurer growled, cracking his knuckles. “And we know how to deal with liars.”

  I watched the exchange, piecing together the situation. It seemed like a classic scenario: Wes was probably a gambler, and these men were the unlucky victims of his tricks. Or maybe he really hadn’t cheated—who could say? Either way, I could see the tension escalating, and I had no intention of getting caught in the middle.

  “Hey, kid,” Wes muttered, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “You might want to step back. Things are about to get... messy.”

  Instead of retreating, I folded my arms and frowned at him. “You smell like beer.”

  He blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What?”

  “And you don’t look very strong,” I added bluntly. “Are you even an adventurer?”

  The adventurers behind him burst out laughing, and Wes’s face turned red. “Of course I’m an adventurer!” he snapped, sounding more offended than I’d expected. “I’ve been doing this for years, kid!”

  “You don’t look like it,” I said, unimpressed.

  Before he could respond, one of the angry adventurers lunged at him. Wes rolled out of the way with surprising agility, springing to his feet in one smooth motion. Despite his drunken state, his movements were fluid and precise—signs of a seasoned fighter.

  “Hold on, hold on!” Wes said, raising his hands. “There’s no need for violence. Let’s be reasonable adults about this.”

  “You can be reasonable after we teach you a lesson!”

  The adventurers advanced on him, and I sighed, already knowing how this would end. Wes might be a mess of a man, but he was clearly skilled. The way he dodged and countered their attacks was almost effortless, as though he were toying with them. I couldn’t help but feel a spark of curiosity. Despite his obvious flaws—his drinking, his gambling, his general lack of discipline—there was something intriguing about Wes. He had potential, buried under all that mess. And perhaps, just perhaps, he could teach me something.

  As Wes knocked the last adventurer to the ground with a well-placed kick, he turned to me with a triumphant grin. “See? Told you I’m an adventurer.”

  I tilted my head, considering him carefully. “You’re not very impressive,” I said, ignoring the way his face fell. “But you’re not bad, either. Maybe you could help me.”

  “Help you?” he repeated, looking genuinely confused.

  “Yes,” I said firmly. “I want to get stronger. Teach me how to fight.”

  For a moment, Wes just stared at me, as though he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or take me seriously. Then he chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re a weird kid, you know that?”

  “So, will you teach me?”

  He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know, kid. Teaching isn’t really my thing.”

  “I’ll pay you,” I said quickly.

  “With what? Candies?”

  “My dad’s a former knight,” I said. “If I tell him you’re a good teacher, maybe he’ll give you a job. Or food. Or... whatever it is you want.”

  Wes’s eyes lit up at the mention of food, and I knew I had him. “All right, kid,” he said with a sigh. “You’ve got yourself a deal. But don’t blame me if you regret it later.”

  "Oh, and what's your name?"

  "Ronan, Ronan Grimstone."

  "Well, Ronan, I'm Wes Larkspur. It's nice to meet you."

  That afternoon, I sat my parents down in the small kitchen to explain my plan. “I found someone who can teach me how to fight,” I said as confidently as I could. “His name is Wes, and he’s an adventurer.”

  My father raised an eyebrow, and my mother stopped peeling the potatoes in her hands, giving me her full attention. “An adventurer?” she echoed. “Where exactly did you meet this person?”

  “Near the inn,” I said honestly, knowing there was no point in lying.

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  “That’s a hard no,” my father said immediately, his tone leaving no room for debate. “Ronan, those people are trouble. You’re far too young to be mingling with the kind of adventurers who spend their time drinking and gambling.”

  “But he’s good at fighting!” I protested. “I saw him take on a group of men by himself. He could really help me get stronger.”

  “We don’t even know this man,” my mother said gently. “And even if we did, we can’t afford to bring someone else into our home right now. Food is already tight this season.”

  I paused at that, the weight of her words sinking in. Thinking about it, I realized the fields around the village had been quieter lately, the crops sparse as the colder months crept in. While snow didn’t fall in Brustel, the air had turned icy, and it was clear that this world’s winter brought its own set of challenges. Perhaps the harvest hadn’t been enough to sustain us through the season. That was what my parents meant—they didn’t have enough food to spare, not even for an extra teacher.

  I slumped in my chair, disappointed. “So that’s it, then? No tutor?”

  My father’s expression softened, but he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ronan. Maybe when spring comes and things are better, we can talk about it again.”

  I knew there was no point in arguing further, so I nodded and left the house, my spirits low. Wes was leaning against a tree near the edge of the yard, his arms crossed as he waited for me.

  “Well?” he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

  “They said no,” I admitted. “We don’t have enough food to feed you through the winter.”

  Wes scratched his chin thoughtfully. “No food, no lessons,” he said simply, shrugging as if it didn’t matter. “Sorry, kid, but I’ve got to look out for myself first.”

  I frowned, watching as he turned to leave. Something in me refused to let this be the end of it. I needed his help, and I wasn’t going to give up so easily. Before I could think better of it, I stretched out my hand and whispered the incantation for a Novice-tier Stone spell.

  “[Solid Wall].”

  The ground rumbled slightly, and a thick wall of solid stone erupted in Wes’s path, blocking his way forward.

  He froze, staring at the wall with wide eyes. Slowly, he turned to look at me, his jaw hanging open. “You just—did you—was that magic?”

  I nodded, crossing my arms. “Yes. I’m Novice-tier in both Fire and Stone.”

  Wes blinked at me, utterly dumbfounded. “You’re what?”

  “Novice-tier,” I repeated. “In two elements.”

  For a moment, Wes just stood there, gaping at me like I’d grown a second head. Then he let out a low whistle, running a hand through his messy hair. “You’re kidding. How old are you?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?” I said flatly. “I’m four.”

  He took a step closer, studying me like I was some kind of rare artifact. “You’re telling me you’re a four-year-old kid who can cast magic like that? What kind of freak are you?”

  I bristled at the word “freak” but decided to let it slide. “Are you going to teach me or not?” I asked instead.

  Wes scratched the back of his neck, clearly torn. “I don’t know, kid. This is a lot to process. You’re a magic prodigy or something, and you want me to teach you how to fight? You’re probably better off finding some big-shot mage or a proper knight.”

  “I don’t need a big-shot mage,” I said firmly. “I need someone who knows how to handle themselves in a fight. You’re good, even if you’re... kind of a mess.”

  “Gee, thanks,” he muttered, though he didn’t look offended. He stared at the stone wall for another long moment before letting out a resigned sigh. “All right, fine. I’ll teach you. But don’t expect me to do it for free, kid. If there’s no food, you’d better find something else to offer.”

  “I’ll figure it out,” I promised, relief washing over me.

  Wes shook his head, a bemused grin on his face. “You’re something else, Ronan Grimstone. All right, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  The days passed quickly as my training with Wes began. True to his word, he started teaching me everything he knew about swordsmanship, though he made it clear from the start that his expertise lay in one particular style.

  “I’m a Master-Tier Swordsman in the Night Style,” he told me one morning as we practiced in a clearing near the edge of the village. His movements were fluid and precise, each strike calculated to exploit an opponent’s weakness. “It’s not a style for brute strength—it’s about precision, subtlety, and striking when the moment is right.”

  I nodded, absorbing his words. My own skill in swordsmanship came from the Human Style, a method taught by my father. I was an Expert-tier swordsman in that style, which was direct, efficient, and well-suited for most combat scenarios. It emphasized straightforward attacks and a solid defense, a style born from practicality and battlefield experience.

  But Night Style was different. Watching Wes move, I realized it was more about finesse, almost like a dance. Every step, every swing of his blade, seemed to flow seamlessly into the next. It was a style that prioritized strategy over sheer force, and I found it fascinating.

  In return for his lessons, I began teaching him what I knew about magic. Our deal was simple: he would teach me Night Style, and I would teach him the spells and techniques I’d mastered. While I was Novice-tier in both Fire and Stone magic, Wes was a complete beginner. Watching him struggle with even the simplest incantations was, admittedly, a little amusing.

  “Focus, Wes,” I said one afternoon as he fumbled through the gestures for a basic Fire spell. “You’re overthinking it. Magic isn’t just about the words—it’s about intent. You have to feel the fire.”

  “Feel the fire,” he muttered, squinting at the tiny spark hovering over his palm. “Easier said than done, kid.”

  Despite his struggles, Wes was a quick learner when it came to the sword. Within two weeks, I had reached Novice-tier in Night Style, and I could feel my technique improving with every session. The fluidity and precision of the style complemented my existing skills, and I began to see how blending the two could make me a more versatile fighter.

  One evening, as we sat by the hearth in the small shack Wes had claimed as his own, he leaned back with a thoughtful expression. The firelight flickered across his face, casting shadows that made him look older and wearier than usual.

  “Hey, Ronan,” he said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. “Do you know about the Four Pillars of the world?”

  I looked up from the blade I was polishing. “The Four Pillars?” I repeated, frowning. “No. What are they?”

  “They’re the strongest fighters in the world,” he said, his tone reverent. “At least, that’s what the stories say. They’re supposed to be on a level far beyond anything most people can imagine—practically untouchable.”

  I leaned forward, intrigued. “Do you know what they look like?”

  Wes shook his head. “Nah, no one does. They’re more like legends than actual people. But their titles are well-known, and each one represents a different kind of power.” He held up a hand, ticking off the names on his fingers. “There’s the War Titan, the Nature Titan, the Wrath Titan, and the Sea Titan.”

  I repeated the names under my breath, trying to commit them to memory. “What do you know about them?”

  “Not much,” he admitted, scratching his chin. “The War Titan is supposed to be the greatest strategist who ever lived, unmatched in battles. The Nature Titan is said to have control over the forces of life and the earth itself. The Wrath Titan... well, they say his rage is like a storm—unstoppable and destructive. And the Sea Titan rules the oceans, capable of summoning tidal waves and storms with a single gesture.”

  I stared into the fire, my mind racing. If these Pillars were real, they must have been unimaginably powerful. “Do you think they’re still alive?” I asked.

  “Who knows?” Wes said with a shrug. “The stories have been around for centuries, but no one’s ever confirmed whether they’re real or just myths. Some people think they’re immortal. Others say they’re just titles passed down through generations.”

  “Have you ever met anyone who claims to have seen them?” I pressed.

  He shook his head. “No, but I’ve heard plenty of tales. Some say the Wrath Titan’s blade can cleave mountains. Others swear the Sea Titan controls the tides. It’s hard to separate fact from fiction.”

  I leaned back, lost in thought. The idea of these legendary figures was both daunting and inspiring. If they were real, what kind of training and power would it take to stand on their level? And more importantly, what role did they play in the world?

  As if sensing my thoughts, Wes chuckled. “Don’t get any ideas, kid. You’re strong for your age, sure, but the Pillars are a whole different league.”

  I met his gaze, determination burning in my chest. “Maybe. But if they’re the strongest, then one day I want to stand among them.”

  Wes stared at me for a moment before breaking into a grin. “You’re a crazy kid. But I like your spirit.”