Paul woke to bright sunlight slipping through the cracks in the curtains.
Blinking, he slowly opened his eyes. The room was bathed in morning light, and the scent of last night still lingered faintly in the air. He reached up, running his fingers through his messy hair, brushing away the remnants of sleep. The world looked a little blurry, like the line between dream and reality hadn't fully settled. For Paul Greyrat, the night had passed without dreams.
He sat up, rolling his shoulders. His body responded with a faint stiffness. Rising, he stepped over to the narrow window and cracked it open. A breeze rushed in, carrying the smell of damp grass and a distant campfire. Paul closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and let the breath out. Something flickered in his mind—a thought, a memory on the edge of recall. He reached for it, but it slipped away.
Well, guess it wasn't that important, he decided with a shrug.
After a few minutes at the window, Paul made his way to the kitchen. The room was bright and spacious, with high ceilings and wide windows.
Zenith was already there, unaware of his presence. She stood in front of a mirror, humming softly to herself as she brushed her long hair. Watching her from behind, Paul couldn't help but admire the graceful way she moved. His gaze lingered, taking in the elegant curve of her neck, the smooth line of her shoulders, the slender shape of her waist. Even in such a simple act, she radiated an effortless kind of beauty.
Paul smiled. He loved seeing her like this—calm, graceful, carefree. Unable to resist, he closed the distance between them in a heartbeat. The strength of a seasoned swordsman like him went far beyond that of ordinary men, and Zenith had no chance to react in time.
In one swift motion, his hand cupped her breast, the other grabbing a firm handful of her ass. Zenith yelped, flinching from the surprise.
"Paul!" she snapped, whirling around and jabbing an elbow into his side. He just laughed.
"What? I was saying good morning."
"Good morning?" Zenith narrowed her eyes. "Are you even capable of waking up without pulling something like this?"
Paul answered with a low groan, his hands still firmly on her chest.
"Not sure. Haven't tested that. But if you're curious… we could find out together."
Zenith sighed, but a hint of a smile tugged at her lips.
"Paul, darling, you're incredible in a fight," she drawled, "but in bed... Oh, forgive me, but sometimes I think you're swinging the wrong kind of 'sword.'"
He squinted at her.
"You weren't complaining last night," he said quietly, a smug undertone in his voice.
"Well, you know… I'm just too kindhearted. Didn't want to bruise your fragile ego."
Paul gripped her waist, nudging her forward a bit.
"So I'll have to prove you wrong?"
She tilted her head as if giving it genuine thought.
"Hm... Not sure. After last time, I'm seriously considering praying to the goddess of patience."
"Don't worry, sweetheart. You won't need patience this morning."
"We'll see, dear. Just don't expect me to hold back if your 'attack' lacks impact."
He leaned in for a kiss, but at the last second, Zenith ducked away and slipped into a chair.
"That's enough for today. You've got more important things to do."
Paul sighed, shrugging.
"You make everything so complicated. I could've given you another unforgettable morning…"
Zenith took a sip from her cup, pretending not to hear. Her eyes drifted toward the door where Lilia had disappeared.
"Go wash up and take a seat. Breakfast is nearly ready."
Paul chuckled, settling lazily into a chair and glancing around.
"Rudy still sleeping? He's usually running circles around the house by now."
"Rudeus has been on the hilltop since five this morning," Lilia replied calmly, placing dishes on the table. "He might even skip breakfast—not willing to waste a single second of his 'great journey.'"
"Shall I go fetch him for you, Master Paul?"
Paul winced.
"Lilia, come on. What's with the 'master' stuff? We're not strangers."
Lilia didn't even glance at him as she continued setting the table with precise movements.
"You're the head of this household. I can't address you any other way."
Paul let out a heavy sigh.
"Lilia, we've known each other for years. What's with all this formality?"
She finally looked at him, but her tone didn't budge.
"Duty is duty, Master Paul."
He rolled his eyes and waved a hand in surrender.
"Alright, fine. Have it your way if you're that insistent."
Zenith, still lazily stirring her spoon through her cup, didn't even glance at Lilia. A faint smile played at her lips.
"No need to worry, dear," she said sweetly, raising the cup to her lips. "We have our hero-father right here—the same one who was preaching so passionately yesterday about the importance of training."
"Ah. Training. That's what I forgot." Paul froze.
Zenith turned to him, arching a brow as if something had just come back to her.
"Oh right, love, you said Rudy needs structure. Routine. Discipline…" She waved her hand vaguely, like trying to recall the details.
"And there he is, poor thing, probably still waiting for his wise mentor to finally show up."
She tilted her head and gave him a mischievous smile.
"Or were all those grand words just… words?"
Paul slowly looked up from his plate. His face said it all—he knew he'd been cornered.
"Mmgh," he grunted, standing up. "Fine, I'll go. But just so you know, Zenith—you're a terrible woman."
Completely unfazed, she lifted her wineglass and smirked.
"Of course. That's exactly why you love me."
Stepping outside, Paul drew in a deep breath of fresh air and headed down the path that led to Rudeus's favorite place—the hill.
***
"So… where should I start?" Paul scratched his chin, putting on a thoughtful face. "Nah, just messing with you. I remember everything."
He glanced around, trying to figure out where to actually begin. We were just a short walk from the house. Zenith's garden stretched along a sturdy fence—rows of flowers and herbs swaying in the breeze. Below us, a river wound its way through the land, mirroring the wide-open sky. Paul had decided yesterday to start training me, but he clearly had no real plan. Not that he'd ever admit it.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought stirred—wasn't it a bit weird to be teaching a five-year-old how to fight with a sword? In my past life, sports had felt like something distant, almost alien. And now, here I was: about to be trained in combat. Not for fitness. Not for defense. Just… because it was part of the culture here. Kids in this world grew up with blades in their hands.
"I started swinging a sword at six. You'll be fine," Paul said, waving it off like he'd read my mind.
"We'll begin with some history—"
"Seriously? You're gonna bore me to death before we even start?"
"Pipe down, kid," he shot back, pointing a finger at me. "First of all, history's important. Second, you need a foundation. You need to know why you're doing any of this."
"I feel like all I do is learn history with Aunt Lilia. Crests, mottos, banners…"
"Quit whining, you little brat. Listen to your father."
Paul's tone shifted—suddenly serious. That meant it was time to actually pay attention.
"Alright then. First, you need to understand one thing…"
Long ago, on a different continent, there was the Eternal Empire, ruled by the immortal Emperor Laplace. His armies stretched from one end of the land to the other. No one could stop him—because Laplace couldn't be killed.
As Paul launched into the story of Laplace, I had to fight back a yawn. Not because it wasn't interesting—okay, maybe a little—but mostly because I just wanted to get to the sword part. To feel like more than a kid. Like someone who could be a warrior.
"He was like a god to his enemies. No matter how hard they fought, no matter what tactics they used—he always won."
"How did he become immortal?" I asked, curious despite myself. "Was it magic or something else?"
"There are theories," Paul said with a shrug. "No one really knows. But eventually, they took him down. Four legendary heroes joined forces and managed it. One of them—Ars the Great, who became the first king of our kingdom—issued a decree called the Sword Act."
Didn't matter what kind of family you were born into—everyone was required to train in swordsmanship at the age of ten. Whether prince or street rat, the rule applied to all. Why did Ars create that law?
"Because the sword's strength saved the people of Asura."
He wanted everyone prepared—ready to face the next threat, whenever it came. That's how Asura became known for its swordsmen and its sword schools.
"Sword schools?" I echoed.
"Big cities host tournaments every year. The best fighters get scouted and become elite swordsmen," Paul said with a casual wave, like it wasn't anything special. "So even a farm boy can earn a name for himself."
I was about to say something else when a question popped into my head.
"Are there a lot of girls there?" I asked, turning my head.
In my old world, swordsmanship was still seen mostly as a guy thing. Sure, there were women in martial arts, but culturally it was more exception than rule. Here, it seemed different.
As soon as I asked, Paul's wooden sword tapped me squarely on the top of my head. Not hard—but I felt it.
"Ow! What was that for?!"
"You're thinking about the wrong things… though yeah, there are quite a few," he added, almost offhandedly.
Right. The wrong things. But that little "quite a few" lit a fire in me.
Quite a few, huh? I narrowed my eyes.
Strength wasn't a guarantee of anything. But if there was even a chance to stand out, to step out of the background... I wasn't going to waste it.
The past didn't matter anymore. Everything was different now.
My back straightened instinctively, something new stirring in my chest—warm, sharp, and restless.
"Well? What are we waiting for? Let's get started!"
Paul chuckled. There was something strange in his expression.
"What's with the sudden enthusiasm?" he said lazily—and then, in one smooth motion, he drew a wooden sword.
Fast. Very fast. I didn't even have time to blink. One second, he was my laid-back father. The next—he was a fighter. A real one.
"Today, you learn how to block," Paul said, voice calm and level. "If you mess it up, I'm smacking you in the head."
Great. History lesson's over—time for the real work.
And for some reason, I had a feeling my head was going to take a lot of hits in the near future.
***
"Come on—defend yourself!"
Paul moved with ease, almost playfully. He wasn't training a son—he was toying with a sparring partner. His wooden sword cut the air cleanly and struck with a sharp thwack, knocking the weapon out of Rudy's small hands.
Rudy staggered back, teeth clenched.
"You're locking your elbows again!" Paul's tone was calm, but firm. "A sword's an extension of your arm—not a stick for hanging laundry!"
He took a step back, giving the boy space to recover.
Up on the terrace, Zenith gently swirled her wine, watching dark ribbons coil around the glass. From the grass below came soft, rhythmic thuds—wood against wood.
"Again."
Rudy huffed but obeyed. He gripped the sword tighter, stepped back into stance. Paul moved in immediately, testing him. Their blades met once more.
"Move," Paul said. "Think ahead!"
"But you'll just hit me anyway…" Rudy muttered.
"Exactly. Don't wait—make me defend."
Rudy lunged. Paul parried effortlessly. Zenith's lips twitched in a restrained smile. Her husband was taking this far too seriously. Not raising a child—shaping a soldier.
Rudy's hands trembled from the strain, his breath growing heavier, but he didn't stop.
Zenith sipped her wine, letting the warmth spread through her chest.
"More wine, my lady?" came a quiet voice.
She turned—Lilia stood beside her, composed as ever. Her eyes, though, drifted now and then to the field below.
"This is fine, dear. Thank you." Zenith offered her a soft smile before returning her gaze to her son. "Funny, isn't it?"
"It has educational value," Lilia answered evenly.
Zenith let out a small hum, tilting her glass lazily.
"Oh? So you think Paul's right—teaching swordplay at that age?"
"Some start at three."
"Mm. I suppose some parents just need a hobby," Zenith murmured, watching Rudy grip the sword again.
"Perhaps. But the sooner they start, the better their chances of survival. Master Paul simply wishes to give the young master an edge." Lilia's tone was neutral. Just fact.
She fell silent again, eyes following Rudy as he pushed himself to his feet once more. Her lips thinned.
"And besides," she added, softer now, "the young master isn't like other children. He was reading at three. Most don't even know the alphabet at that age. Where does that kind of mind come from?"
Zenith didn't answer right away. She just kept watching her son below, silently tracking the way he adjusted his grip on the sword again.
"I don't know," she said at last.
She clearly meant to leave it there, but Lilia didn't let the silence settle.
"Sometimes he acts… off," she said. "He'll sit still for minutes. Staring. As if his thoughts are somewhere else entirely."
Zenith tilted her glass, watching the wine lap quietly near the rim. Her voice came light, almost amused.
"Maybe he's a demon. A very patient one. Just waiting for the right moment to… do something awful in our sleep."
She smirked, but Lilia didn't even blink. No hint of a smile in return.
"Please don't say things like that, my lady," she said softly. "Sometimes I truly wonder… if he's even like other children at all."
Zenith glanced at her, brow lifting. Her fingers tightened slightly around the glass stem.
"You remember how he was born, Lilia?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
The maid went still.
"I…"
"He didn't breathe. Didn't move. Didn't cry."
Lilia looked away. Her hands clenched at the hem of her dress.
"Some babies don't cry right away," she said gently. "It happens."
Zenith tilted her head, a narrow, strained smile at her lips.
"It does…" she murmured. She took a sip, not lifting her eyes. "But he didn't breathe for a long time. Much longer than 'it happens.' And when he opened his eyes…"
She fell quiet. The moment hung.
"…It didn't feel like I was looking at a newborn."
Lilia said nothing. Her grip on the fabric only tightened.
"But he did start breathing," she whispered. "It was… a miracle."
Zenith gave a faint laugh and closed her eyes.
"A miracle?" She tilted the glass again, following the red trail sliding down its side. "Or maybe not a blessing at all. Maybe… Laplace's Factor."
Lilia's head snapped up.
"My lady, please—"
"They say it's a gift. Something that can change fate." Zenith's tone was neutral now. Measured. "But I've heard the other version too."
Lilia didn't respond.
"A curse," Zenith said, the word quiet, bitter. "The mark of a dead god. They say Laplace never truly died. That he's waiting—for his blood to stir in the children of this world. Changing them. Making them his. So that one day… he can return."
Lilia had gone pale. Her shoulders had drawn tight.
Zenith looked back down again. Rudy was rising to his feet, sword once more in hand.
That isn't how a child looks at the world.
She set her glass on the table.
"Call them in," she said softly. "The food's getting cold."
Lilia bowed without a word and turned to go.