After testing every element, it was official—I had an affinity for water magic. And by “affinity,” I mean sweat. Literal. Hand-slicking. Sweat.

  Not even mystical mist or cool, aesthetic droplets. Just me, standing there with a wet palm. Honestly? I wasn’t mad. First tries are supposed to suck. What surprised me was that it worked at all.

  Ricusoss, naturally, had thoughts. A never-ending monologue of backhanded compliments wrapped in barbed sarcasm. Apparently, I was “technically competent” and “not the absolute worst” he'd seen. High praise.

  After his dramatic roast session, he finally moved on. Started rattling off the types of magic.

  Elemental magic. I'm a water type kind of guy.

  Spirit magic. Turns out I had a trace of that too. Let me talk to spirit beasts, nature entities, and maybe haunted mushrooms.

  Bloodline magic. Inherited stuff, mostly royal family nonsense..

  Arcane ritualism. Used for summoning large-scale magic.

  And necromancy.

  After the impromptu crash course in Magic for Morons, he finally let me rest.

  And gods—thank you. Because if I had to spend one more minute pretending I wasn’t ready to faceplant into the dirt, I might’ve hexed myself. This kid’s body... I was adjusting, slowly. It wasn’t what I had before, but at least it didn’t hurt every time I breathed. Because clearly there were no tumors.

  It was… freedom. In a weird, underpowered, underaged sort of way.

  “How’s that sword treatin’ you, kid?” Randall asked, grunting as he dropped down beside me, setting lunch on the table. “Still got all your fingers?”

  The wooden sword lay next to me. Not sharp enough to slice bread, let alone fingers. But I laughed anyway.

  On the table: coarse bread, a hard-boiled egg cracked in half, some jerky that tasted leather but filled your stomach. Basic. Barebones. But I’d gotten used to it. And today—birthday or not—it felt like enough for me.

  It felt like something I didn’t know I’d missed.

  “Barely,” I said. Then smirked. “Almost sliced my own ears off this morning, old man.”

  Randall burst into laughter. The kind that comes from the belly, from having seen too much and lived to laugh about it anyway.

  I joined him.

  After lunch, I headed back to the training ground—because clearly I hate myself—and found Ricusoss gnawing on a fish. It was fresh. Still steaming. Which meant he’d hunted it himself. First time I’d actually seen him eat. I’d offered him food before, back when I still believed in things like camaraderie and shared meals. He always turned me down with a sneer.

  I thought he was some kind of spirit beast, ethereal and mysterious. But I guess even smug, talking cats get hungry.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen you eat, Ricu,” I said, watching him mid-chew. “Huh….Ricu….Yeah, that works. I’m callin’ you that from now on.”

  He didn’t look up. “Tch. Back off, kid. Let me finish this before you start swingin’ that twig again. You’re killin’ my appetite.”

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  Right.

  I left him to his fish feast and wandered off. Ended up climbing a tree just to get away. Turns out this kid’s body had muscle memory for it—good balance, decent grip, actually I forgot he’d been doing it since eight. Which... wow. If I’d ever tried this in my old body, I’d have broken something in two seconds flat. Probably my hip. Maybe my skull.

  From up here, the world felt smaller. Calmer. The branch under my feet creaked once, but held so I let myself breathe. My eyes drifted back to Ricusoss. He was still eating, throwing the occasional side-eye, relax cat I wouldn't interrupt you again.

  Instead, my mind wandered. This kid. His life... I knew that Randall, he’d raised this kid since he was a baby, but—where were the parents? Dead? Gone? Abandoned?

  I haven't gotten answers. Just questions I hadn’t dared ask yet. Maybe I would. Eventually.

  “You can come down now,” Ricusoss called, tail flicking with just enough attitude to count as a challenge. “Unless you’re planning to grow roots up there.”

  “We could train up here,” I shot back. “Add some aerial flair to the training.”

  His eyes narrowed, bored to the point of menace. “Let me know when you're done spewing nonsense so we can start. Or should I come back in a century?”

  Eventually, I dropped down. Picked up the wooden sword. Swung it once.

  It looked clumsy. Felt worse.

  You don’t realize how heavy a sword is until it leaves your hand and actually moves. Lifting it? Easy. Swinging it? Whole different story. The momentum dragged at my shoulder, my wrist and my balance.

  “First thing you need to pound through that thick skull,” Ricusoss said, pacing lazily, “your enemy’s not gonna bow before sticking a blade in your gut.”

  He didn’t bother with warm-ups. There were no stretches and no drills. Honestly? I didn’t hate it.

  “I know you’ve got no clue what you’re doing,” he said, deadpan. “That’s fine. Swing it however your dumb instincts tell you.”

  He crouched low. “Now... block me.”

  A pause.

  “I’m coming from where you won’t see it.”

  Another pause.

  “And don’t cry when it hurts.”

  As if I’d cry from a punch by a ca—

  Woah.

  A blur. A hit of wind. Pain kissed the back of my neck before I even registered movement.

  Shit.

  I barely stumbled forward, eyes wide, heart hammering. How the hell did he move that fast? One second he was in front of me, tail flicking, and the next—he was behind me, claws aimed for my spine.

  “Well, that’s sudden,” I muttered, shifting my stance, eyes darting across the treeline. “Real subtle, furball.”

  Left? Right? Overhead?

  I couldn’t tell. His presence vanished and reappeared.

  Swish.

  From the right. A flash of fur and claws. I dodged just in time, but the speed made it feel like a real blade.

  “Hey, chill, Ricu,” I said, raising both hands thinking surrendering might save me. “I didn’t steal your damn fish.”

  His eyes stayed locked on me— it was calm, but freaking dead serious.

  “Your enemies won’t chill,” he said. “They’ll just kill you.”

  I gritted my teeth, my muscles tight, body wired to every twitch of wind.

  But then he struck again.

  Swish.

  Then again.

  Swish.

  Faster. Closer.

  No claws yet, but the threat of claws. That was enough to make me sweat all over.

  Fuck.

  I ducked low, sweat sliding down my back, trying not to blink, flinch, and fail. If this was just training... what the hell was real combat gonna look like?

  By the end of what Ricusoss lovingly called “first training,” I looked like an eggplant. Bruises bloomed across my skin in every shade of purple. A few spots were bleeding, slow and sticky. My arms were numb and useless. My knees kept threatening to buckle.

  And still, I was standing.

  Barely.

  If there was anything keeping me upright, it was this body’s raw instinct—the part that moved before I could think, the part that came from Ricusoss, or whatever weird thread of magic had rewired my soul into this child. Without that instinct, I’d be in pieces. Literally.

  Then came Constant Movement Footwork.

  Ricusoss didn’t give time to breathe, let alone complain. “You stop moving, I tap you,” he said. It wasn't even a tap that meant a friendly pat but claws slashing through sweat and skin.

  I moved.

  Sidesteps. Lunges. Quick crouches. Backsteps so fast I nearly tripped over myself. I couldn’t stop. Not for a second. He circled me, watching for hesitation—daring me to freeze.

  I hated every second of it.

  My calves caught fire first. Ankles screamed next. By the end, every step felt more punishing. Every breath tasted metal. I paused—just for a moment—hands on my knees, heart trying to chill for a moment.

  Then he said the next two words:

  “Blind reflex.”

  He blindfolded me, tight enough that the world vanished in one blink.

  I stood in the dark.

  “Ignore your eyes,” Ricusoss said smoothly. “Your ears see better.”

  Easy for him to say. He wasn't the one about to get murdered by a training partner with unresolved issues and retractable knives.

  I tried to listen. I wanted to focus. But then—

  Swish.

  The air moved.

  Shit.

  I couldn’t see a damn thing. But I could hear everything.

  Every shift of his weight. Every brush of paw against dirt. The air bending left, right—low. He came at me from all angles, a storm wrapped in silence, but somehow… I moved. Dodged. Slipped through his strikes.

  How?

  The kid’s hearing. Sharp as heck. Instinct was of a damn cat. It wasn’t mine, not really—but it was in me now. It felt as if I was just test-driving this body and finding out it had hidden upgrades.

  Then came the next hell: Three-Move Kill Sparring.

  Simple rules. Three moves, no more. Disarm. Disable. Win.

  “One to open. One to break. One to end,” Ricusoss repeated again and again.

  Every round, I came at him with that in mind. Every time, he batted me away easily. But I kept swinging. Kept trying.

  By the end, my wooden sword looked it’d survived a hundred winters. Splintered. Worn. Tired—like myself.

  I didn’t even want to look at Randall after this. The bruises covering my face would’ve scared livestock. My clothes? Ripped, stained, barely hanging on. The dirt owned me. My hands were raw, hard with new callouses that scraped tough when I touched them together.

  And my legs were gone. Dead weight. I couldn’t feel them anymore. I dropped flat on the ground and let the silence swallow me. Didn’t even notice the sky dimming.

  “Let me lie here a little longer,” I whispered to no one. My breath mixes with the air. My voice vanished with it.

  Ricusoss was already walking away, back toward the house.

  Didn’t even say a word.