Birthdays.

  Yeah… here we go again.

  I didn’t know why, but birthdays always felt like something I didn’t want to remember. Like an echo of something I’d buried deep — not because it hurt, but because digging it up meant asking questions I never liked answering.

  Am I becoming the person I’m supposed to be... or just getting better at pretending to be one?

  That’s the kind of thought birthdays dragged out of you.

  Still—waking up without a cat smacking you in the face for once? Not the worst way to start the day. No claws. No passive-aggressive meowing.

  And I was up early again. No screaming muscles, no tail-flicking tyrant ordering punishment drills. Just stillness. Which was weirdly nice.

  Funny how this whole training-from-hell routine managed to fix my sleep schedule. Knocked me out earlier than I used to pass out during all-nighters back in my old life. Now I was waking up with the sun. Rise early, conquer the day, blah blah blah.

  God, I sounded like one of those self-help freaks. Next thing I knew I’d be talking about “aligning with my purpose” and journaling my gratitude.

  Time to shut up and move.

  I rolled out of bed, pulled on whatever wasn’t still damp with sweat, and stepped outside.

  No Randall in the kitchen. No old-man humming. Not even a whiff of breakfast smoke in the air.

  Weird.

  I walked out front, expecting to find him puttering around, maybe chopping wood or muttering to himself like he usually did. Nothing. Just silence. So I kept going. Into the trees.

  His work area wasn’t far — tucked near a riverbank, hidden by thick tree cover. The kind of place where the air always felt a few degrees colder, even when the sun was up.

  The whole scene looked like it was from a movie — damp earth, mist rising off the water, branches curling. It had that quiet beauty, the kind that made you stop and forget what you were even looking for.

  But then I saw him.

  Randall. Bent over the chunk of wood he’d been working on. A wooden sword.

  My wooden sword.

  He was almost done.

  I stood there, not saying anything, because something about it felt... sacred. As if I’d stepped into someone’s private ritual. Had he even slept? His shoulders were hunched, movements slow but steady — like he’d just kept going long after the rest of the world clocked out.

  Was it a bad idea to ask for the sword?

  Maybe. Probably.

  God, what kind of weirdo gets excited about a stick shaped weapon? Should’ve just told Randall I didn’t want anything. Played it cool. Kept expectations low.

  But still... he made it for his grandson. Probably spent hours shaping it, sanding the edges down. So yeah—I owed the guy a little appreciation.

  After training.

  First, I had a date with a very specific, fur-covered demon. I could already imagine Ricusoss’s face when he saw me show up early. He’d act annoyed, obviously. Try to hide it with insults.

  But deep down?

  I know he loved me.

  So much that I wanted to wrap my arms around his smug little neck and squeeze—tight. Like a best-friend hug. The kind that might also be a mild murder attempt.

  I cut through the trees on the way back. The training ground was on the other side—wide open, flat, and mostly clear of debris. Probably designed that way so I didn’t kill myself tripping over a root and cracking my skull.

  As expected, Ricusoss was already there. Sitting on a branch. Right on schedule.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  I started my usual warm-up—stretching, pacing, easing into the movements we’d drilled for days now.

  And of course, he watched.

  Then jumped down without warning, landing with that unnerving cat-grace. Not even a sound.

  “What exactly are you doing, Gawn?” he asked, tone clipped and eyes narrowing.

  I blinked at him. “Uh… warming up?”

  “We’re not doing physical training today, idiot.” His voice sharpened. “Did your tiny brain already forget what I told you yesterday?”

  I stared at him.

  Oh no.

  No.

  He wasn’t serious.

  He wasn’t serious.

  …

  He was absolutely serious.

  “I forgot,” I muttered, already bracing for impact.

  Ricusoss didn’t flinch. Just settled in front of me, tail flicking. “Since you actually showed up, I guess we’re starting earlier than you thought.”

  Right.

  Magic.

  That’s what today was.

  That’s why I’d actually been excited when I woke up. That rare jolt of energy in my chest? That spark? That was it. And somehow I still forgot. What the hell was wrong with me?

  So there we were—me standing in the clearing, half-stretching, half-regretting existence—while the smug magical furball prepared to dump knowledge on me before I could even rub the sleep out of my eyes.

  And gods, he talked.

  Not just talked—lectured. Like one of those teachers who thought their voice was the cure to ignorance.

  I tried to focus. I really did. But if you’ve ever been barely awake and someone starts dropping lore bombs with terms like “leylines” and “mana convergence zones,” you’ll understand why my brain tapped out at least three times.

  Still… I’m glad I listened.

  Apparently, magic in this world wasn’t just sparkles and shouting words with flair. It had roots—literal ones. Underground, there were invisible rivers of raw energy called leylines. Rivers of mana. Ricusoss described them like veins in the earth, pulsing just beneath our feet.

  They converged at certain points—temples, sacred sites, nature-drenched areas. The closer you were to them, the easier it was to draw magic.

  But—and this part stuck—raw leylines could burn you alive if you weren’t trained. Like trying to drink lightning straight from the sky.

  Motivational, right?

  Then he laid out the foundation. Said there were Three Pillars of Magic. No shortcuts. No skipping steps.

  Will.

  The strength of your mind. Emotion. Focus. Clarity. The more stubborn you were, the cleaner the cast. Lose your grip—spell breaks, or worse, backfires.

  Language.

  Magic listens to words. Spoken. Written. Sometimes thought, but that’s high-tier stuff. Language gives form to power.

  Sacrifice.

  Magic always takes something. Energy. Time. Blood. Memories. Even lifespan. You don’t get something for nothing.

  Ricusoss lifted his paw dramatically, pausing. “So how does one even learn magic, anyway?” he said.

  We locked eyes.

  I didn’t answer.

  His paw hovered. Then lowered. Slowly.

  Then he threatened to smack me.

  “You ask me how,” he ordered.

  I swallowed hard. “Oh, hell…”

  “I’ll say it again,” he growled. “And you’re gonna ask like it’s the first time you ever heard it, bastard.”

  He paused. Let the moment hang in the air. Then, flatly: “How does one even learn magic?”

  “How,” I blurted, straightening as if I was in court. “How does one even learn magic?”

  “Alright, listen up, dumbass,” Ricusoss said. “There are types when it comes to learning magic, so try not to let your one working brain cell explode.”

  He flicked his tail, eyes narrowed.

  “First — Birthright. Fancy word for ‘born lucky.’ Magic runs in the blood. Noble families, bloodlines, all that pomp. Not you.”

  He didn’t even hide the disgust in his tone.

  “Second — Formal Study. Books, scrolls, institutions. Common sense. If that’s confusing, jump off a cliff and save us the trouble.”

  He barely paused before moving on.

  “Third — Apprenticeship. A master takes in a stray pup, teaches 'em the ropes. Rarer these days — most decent mages don’t like babysitting.”

  He leaned in slightly, voice dropping.

  “And lastly — Spiritual Awakening. That’s your case. You’re possessed by me — congratulations, you qualify by accident. So burn that into your soft little brain and stop asking stupid questions.”

  Yeah, I was listening—barely. My eyes were halfway to shutting down, and if Lord Riku said one more word that sounded like a backhanded insult, I might’ve just walked off.

  Okay, that’s a lie. I didn’t want to die. Again.

  “So, what’s my actual mission here?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.

  Ricusoss didn’t even pretend to hide his irritation. “Tch. Didn’t I already say that?”

  “You did, but it was vague as hell. Doesn’t kill you to clarify, right?” I said, pushing my luck.

  His ears flattened. “Alright, alright—shut it,” he hissed. “One more word and I’ll claw your throat out. I will.”

  He let that threat simmer in the air, then dropped his voice into that low, dangerous tone he saved for moments that actually mattered.

  “There are individuals—monsters wearing human faces—trying to burn this world to its bones. That’s why you’re learning magic. That’s why you’re learning to wield a blade. Because you’re going to need both.”

  He sat, calm again, tail curling. “But here’s the catch, kid. I gave you a second chance. Dragged your dying soul off a piss-stained road and stitched it into a new body. You think that came free?”

  I stayed silent.

  His eyes gleamed.

  “You’re going to find my nine fragments. All of them. Or this little deal of ours?” A small pause. “Ends. Permanently.”

  And there it was—my birthday gift from the universe: another soul-crushing task. One headache at a time, stacking as if it was an unpaid bills.

  First, mysterious psychos trying to torch the world. Now? Fetch quests for a grudge-holding demon cat.

  “Wait—nine fragments?” I asked, already regretting it.

  “Yes, my powers,” Ricusoss said, voice clipped. “Let me spell it out for that fogged-up excuse for a brain of yours—pieces of me were scattered all over this cursed world after I was betrayed.”

  His tail flicked, eyes gleaming.

  “By nobles, of course. Filthy bloodlines with shiny titles and knives behind their backs,” he spat. “You’re going to take them on. And you’re going to collect what’s mine... piece by piece.”

  “I’m not saying I’m ungrateful,” I muttered, barely lifting my head from the grass. “But if someone were watching this from a distance... I dunno, it might look a lot like you dragged me back from the brink just to turn me into your personal multitool.”

  He didn’t laugh.

  Didn’t roll his eyes.

  He just stared at me—stone-still, dead serious. The kind of look that made the air heavier, as if the trees themselves were listening.

  “I get it,” he said flatly. “You’re a mess. Self-loathing, stubborn, probably cracked open in all the wrong places.”

  A pause.

  Then he blinked. Slowly. Deliberately.

  “So?” he said. “What do you want, you miserable little bastard?”

  I flinched.

  Damn it.

  I didn’t think he’d actually ask. Not like that. Not that direct.

  Truth was, I didn’t know. Not really. I’d spent so long just trying to survive, trying to keep up, trying not to get buried under the weight of this second chance that I never stopped to want anything.

  He gave me life. Breath. And even magic. A shot at something bigger. But he didn’t ask if I wanted any of it. Now he was asking what I wanted in return. And the silence that followed was louder than anything he’d said.

  Powers?

  No..

  Knowledge?

  Maybe. But even that felt... shallow.

  I needed time. Space. A moment where I wasn’t just reacting to the world—where I could actually choose something.

  So I looked up at him and said the only thing that felt real.

  “Fine,” I said. “There’ll come a day I ask you for something. A favor. Whatever it is… you’ll do it. No questions.”

  He didn’t blink this time.

  Didn’t nod.

  Just stared—like he was trying to read what even I couldn’t see in myself yet.

  And honestly? I didn’t know what that thing would be.

  But I knew I’d ask. Eventually.

  A voice cut through the fog in my head.

  “Gawn!”

  I blinked, snapped back to reality. Was that... Randall?

  I turned, still half-lost in thought, and there he was.The old man stood a few paces off, framed by the trees, holding something high in both hands—a wooden sword. No, my wooden sword. And for a second, just one damn second, he didn’t look like the gruff woodcutter with the permanent frown.

  He looked like a kid.

  Eyes lit up, grin wide, waving the blade in the air.

  “Happy birthday!” he called out.

  “Right. Still my birthday.”