Velgar’s fifth year in that magic-infused world was coming to an end. His elven body, though growing with the typical slowness of his new race, had finally reached a stage where fine motor control was no longer an unreachable dream. He could run without stumbling (if he wanted to), grasp objects with decent precision, and even climb the lower branches of trees in the garden—under the sometimes amused, sometimes worried gaze of Maelyra.

  But while his body gained autonomy, his mind—the mind of the Earth-born Emperor—had never stopped. He had spent the last years absorbing, analyzing, and cataloging every aspect of that world: its flora, fauna, language, customs, the social structure of the village of El’thera, and, most importantly, that strange omnipresent energy called mana. His theories about the nature of mana as a fundamental energy field, manipulable through precise albeit arcane laws, had only grown stronger with each observation. He had seen his mother use it to heal, his father to communicate with the forest. He had felt its fluctuations in the air, sensed its variable density near certain crystals or during specific lunar phases. It was time to move from theory to practical testing—but he needed a credible excuse.

  Another aspect also intrigued him deeply: the military capabilities of this civilization. On Earth, he had commanded armies of drones and androids, studied every form of human combat, from Renaissance fencing to the most esoteric martial arts, to cyber warfare. Here, he saw elves training with bows and swords. They looked elegant, yes—but efficient? What was their inherent martial-technological level? It was necessary to assess the local “ballistics” and “fencing,” not from a desire to fight—not yet—but from pure strategic analysis. He had to understand the capabilities and limits of this world to plan his long-term future. And the imminent start of the elven schooling path, which usually introduced children to the basics of their chosen arts, offered the perfect opportunity.

  One evening at dinner, Velgar set down his utensils with calculated slowness. He looked up at his parents, wearing the most childlike curious expression he could manage at nearly five years old.

  “Mom? Dad?” he began, in the small voice he had spent years perfecting to mask the deep, commanding tone of his soul.

  Maelyra turned to him, her usual sweet smile on her lips. “Yes, darling? Do you want more root stew?”

  Eluthien set down his cup of mead, observing him with paternal attention.

  “No, thank you, Mom,” Velgar replied. “I was just thinking… I’ll be starting school soon, right?”

  “Exactly,” confirmed Eluthien. “The next lunar cycle will mark your entrance into the first circle of learning.”

  “Well… I’ve seen the older elves training. With bows… and swords. It looks… interesting.” He paused, pretending a timid hesitation. “I was wondering… could you teach me a little? Just the basics, maybe? So I don’t look too clumsy when school starts.”

  A plausible, almost endearing motivation. The Emperor within him smirked at how easily his strategic mind could manipulate even the simplest interactions.

  Maelyra and Eluthien exchanged a pleased glance. Seeing their usually quiet and thoughtful son show interest in traditional elven arts filled them with pride.

  “Of course, Velgar!” Maelyra exclaimed, beaming. “That’s a wonderful idea! A bit of preparation will do you good. It’ll help you better understand yourself and the paths you might choose.”

  Eluthien nodded gravely, though his eyes sparkled. “You’re right, my son. Knowing the basics of combat and discipline is fundamental for any elf, even those who will choose the path of healing or study. We’ll start tomorrow morning. I’ll handle the bow and sword.”

  “And I,” added Maelyra, “could begin teaching you the very first basics of mana. How to feel it, how to listen to it. You’ll need it, whatever path you choose.”

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  “Thank you!” Velgar responded, putting on a smile he hoped looked genuinely grateful—not the satisfied grin of a general who had just gained access to the enemy’s strategic plans.

  The next morning, Eluthien led him to the small training ground at the edge of the village. The air was fresh, scented with pine and earth dampened by the night’s dew. His father handed him a small bow of pale wood, strung with braided plant fibers, and a quiver of blunted arrows made of hardened wood.

  “This is a beginner’s bow,” Eluthien explained patiently. “It’s light, easy to handle. In the beginning, it’s not about strength, but posture, breath, and focus.”

  Velgar weighed the bow. A toy compared to the plasma rifles or composite crossbows of his former life. Ballistics here depended on muscle power, the tension of wood, and the rudimentary aerodynamics of the arrow. No laser targeting systems, no gyroscopic stabilization, no computerized trajectory calculations. Centuries behind.

  “Now, watch me,” said Eluthien, taking a similar bow. He positioned himself sideways to the target—a simple circle painted on a tree trunk—feet firmly planted, back straight. He inhaled slowly, raised the bow, nocked an arrow, drew the string back to his cheek, held his breath a moment, then released. The arrow whistled through the air and struck near the center of the target. “See? Fluidity. Harmony. You must become one with the bow, the wind, and the target.”

  Velgar nodded, pretending admiration. Inside, he was calculating the arrow’s initial velocity, the shooting angle, the deviation due to the light wind, the air resistance coefficient. He could’ve hit the exact center blindfolded. But that wasn’t the goal.

  “Now your turn,” encouraged his father.

  Velgar mimicked the stance—but deliberately awkwardly. He pulled the bowstring too hard, then too weakly. The arrow flew off at the wrong angle, missing the tree entirely and disappearing into the bushes.

  “Oh…” he murmured, feigning disappointment.

  “Don’t worry,” Eluthien reassured him with a patient smile. “That’s normal at the beginning. The string is stiff, your arms need to adapt. Let’s try again. Focus on your breath.”

  For the next hour, Velgar continued his act. Some arrows hit the target but always off-center. Some missed by meters. He complained about the string’s stiffness, the bow’s weight, the sun in his eyes. Eluthien corrected him calmly, praising minor improvements, never suspecting his son was deliberately performing at 10% of his actual analytical ability. “Pathetic,” Velgar thought of the elven techniques, “but strategically necessary to appear so.”

  After the bow, they moved on to the sword. Eluthien gave him a short training sword, also wooden but well-balanced.

  “The elven sword is not brute force, Velgar. It’s an extension of the arm, it’s dance, it’s precision.” He demonstrated basic stances, simple cuts, essential parries.

  Velgar gripped the wooden sword. He remembered the endless hours spent on Earth studying historical fencing, kendo, melee combat techniques from every age and culture—later enhanced with the brutal training of the Caretaker/Belerion. These elven techniques, built on elegance and harmony, felt slow, predictable, full of defensive openings. Child’s play.

  But again, he played his part. He pretended to stumble, to lose balance, to miss his strikes against a straw dummy, to parry clumsily the slow blows his father demonstrated.

  “Keep your wrist steadier!”

  “Don’t anticipate—feel the movement!”

  “Lower your knees!”

  Eluthien kept correcting him, patient, unaware that his son could have disarmed and incapacitated him in under three seconds.

  In the afternoon, it was Maelyra’s turn with mana. They sat in the quiet garden behind the house, near a small stream.

  “Mana, Velgar,” she began softly, “is not something you command. It’s something you listen to. It’s the breath of the forest, the vital energy flowing through all things. Close your eyes. Breathe gently. Try to feel it.”

  Velgar closed his eyes, but his mind was far from empty. He had already theorized for years about the nature of mana. He perceived it clearly as a quantum energy field, with measurable frequencies, densities, and flows. His mother’s talk of “breathing” and “listening” was, to him, mere metaphor for neural tuning and mental focus necessary to interact with the field. Still, he had to pretend.

  “I feel… something?” he said uncertainly. “Like… a tingling?”

  “Exactly!” Maelyra smiled. “That’s the first contact. Now try to focus on that tingling. Imagine it’s a warm light in your chest. Try to make it spread a little, let it flow to your hands.”

  Velgar did so. Child’s play. He could feel mana responding to his will with absolute precision. He could modulate its intensity, direction, frequency. His theories were correct. He now knew he could master this energy as he had mastered nuclear fission. But he had to hide it.

  He made a very faint greenish glow appear in his palms, flickering, unstable. “L–like this?”

  Maelyra clapped softly. “Wonderful! It’s hard at first! See? You have a natural affinity!”

  They continued for another hour. Maelyra taught him to make a feather float (Velgar clumsily dropped it several times), to slightly warm a stone (his stayed almost cold), to sense the energy of a plant (he pretended to feel only vague warmth). He was a skilled actor.

  “You did well today, Velgar,” Maelyra told him at last, stroking his hair. “But remember, magic requires patience and heart.”

  “Yes, Mom,” he replied with his mask of childish obedience.

  That night, however, when the house was silent and the village lights dimmed, Velgar’s true nature emerged. He slipped out without a sound, heading to a small hidden clearing he had discovered earlier. There, under the cold light of Aelyndor’s two moons, the elven child vanished, replaced by the Emperor.

  He began to move. Not the clumsy dance of elven swordplay, but the precise, lethal forms of Earth’s Taijutsu, the lightning stances of Kenjutsu, the unarmed combat techniques that broke bones and wills. Though still young, his body responded with a fluidity and power that would have terrified any onlooker. Every muscle tensed, every move calculated for maximum destructive efficiency.

  Then he stopped, focusing on the mana. This time, without pretense. He drew from the ambient energy effortlessly, feeling it flow into him like a powerful river. He began

  shaping it into simple forms—with absolute control. He created a stable sphere of light and...