The small room assigned to me was… functional. That was the kindest word I could summon, and even that felt generous. Stark, grey stone walls, cold and slightly damp to the touch, met rough-hewn wooden floorboards, scarred and worn smooth in countless patches by the passage of unknown feet across untold years. The air hung thick with the faint, lingering scents of stale sweat, dust, and something vaguely antiseptic – the accumulated aroma of institutional living.

  Two narrow cots, skeletal metal frames supporting thin, suspiciously lumpy mattresses covered in coarse grey blankets, occupied opposite walls. The meager space between them felt less like a walkway and more like a trench. At the foot of each cot sat a small, battered wooden chest, its hinges rusted, its surface etched with the ghosts of previous occupants' carvings – the entirety of personal storage space allotted per resident.

  A single, grime-streaked window, taller than it was wide, looked out onto the bustling city street below. The sounds of Arcadia – the ceaseless murmur of voices, the rattle of cartwheels on cobblestones, the distant shouts of merchants hawking their wares – filtered up, a constant reminder of the world outside these walls, yet the dirty glass offered little actual light and even less privacy.

  This stark austerity was my new reality. A jarring, almost violent descent from the solitary, self-imposed isolation of my past life, a sterile counterpoint to the simple, cluttered warmth of the Nordhil home, and leagues away from the impossible, vibrant sanctuary Alina called her training ground.

  Champion to orphan roommate. The bitter irony wasn't lost on me, a silent mockery echoing in the bare, unwelcoming space.

  I chose the cot furthest from the door, mostly out of habit – always position yourself with awareness of exits and potential threats. I dropped my meager pack onto the thin mattress with a soft thud that barely disturbed the dust motes dancing in the weak afternoon light.

  My worldly possessions felt laughably few: a single change of simple wool trousers and tunic, identical to the ones I currently wore; the smooth silver ring Father had pressed into my hand, its unfamiliar runes a constant, cool weight against my skin. My eyes drifted to the other cot, empty, waiting. Kaelen. Mistress Vivian had offered the name with brisk efficiency, adding only that he was "disciplined." What kind of person awaited me? Another lost soul swept up by the orphanage's indifferent current, nursing hidden hurts and fragile hopes? Or someone… different? The image of the red-eyed girl in the courtyard flashed in my mind – her unsettling crimson eyes, the vast, unsettlingly potent energy signature churning silently beneath her still surface. This place, this seemingly mundane Children's Home, pulsed with undercurrents I hadn't anticipated. It held secrets, shadows, and unexpected concentrations of power.

  Don't get too comfy, Niko, Alina's voice, sharp with her usual cutting sarcasm, echoed directly in my mind. The telepathic link was still jarring, an intimate intrusion I hadn’t yet grown accustomed to. Sharing space isn't exactly your forte, is it? King Nobody in one life, lonely cabin boy in the next… Now look at you, bunking down like a common riff-raff. Quite the fall from grace.

  A pause, then her tone shifted, gaining a thoughtful edge. Let's hope this 'Kaelen' character isn't too bothersome. Though, Mistress Vivian seemed unusually deliberate when assigning you two together. Almost like she thought you might… get along. Or perhaps she just hoped you wouldn't immediately try to kill each other. Always entertaining, either way.

  Before I could formulate a suitably scathing mental retort – a skill I was rapidly developing in response to her constant needling – the door swung open. Not tentatively, not with a warning knock, but abruptly, decisively. It wasn't forced, just opened with an economy of motion that suggested the person entering saw no need for preamble or permission.

  Framed in the doorway stood a boy. He looked perhaps a year or two older than my current ten-year-old body, maybe twelve, but his build was solid, sturdy, carrying a grounded density that belied his youth. Broad shoulders strained the seams of the simple, earth-toned tunic he wore – clearly work clothes, smudged with dirt and faint streaks of something that looked like clay. His posture was perfectly straight, an ingrained discipline radiating from him even beneath the layer of grime accumulated from whatever chores he’d been assigned. He had long brown hair pulled back in a neat bun, and his round glasses perched on his nose. His brown eyes swept the room in a single, comprehensive glance, taking in the sparse furnishings, the cramped space, before landing squarely on me, seated on my cot. There was no surprise in his gaze, no flicker of curiosity, just direct, unblinking assessment. A faint, clean scent, like damp stone after a spring shower or freshly tilled earth, clung to him.

  He offered no greeting, no nod of acknowledgment beyond that initial, assessing glance. It was as if my presence was simply another data point, registered and filed away without comment. Ignoring me entirely, he moved with a practical, almost mechanical efficiency towards the unoccupied cot on the opposite side of the room. He knelt, placing a small, well-worn leather satchel – presumably holding his own meager possessions – into the battered wooden chest at its foot. Then, methodically, he began removing his heavy, dirt-caked work boots, placing them neatly side-by-side against the wall. Every movement was precise, economical, utterly devoid of wasted motion or superfluous gesture. He didn't fidget, didn't shift his weight. He simply acted, moving with a purposefulness that felt almost unnerving in its intensity.

  He must have felt my gaze lingering, analyzing his movements, the subtle but distinct aura of power he projected. His head turned slightly, those brown eyes meeting mine again across the narrow space. The gaze was still direct, unblinking, holding no warmth, but lacking overt hostility either.

  "This side's mine," he stated, his voice as level and uninflected as his gaze. It wasn’t a challenge, not an assertion of dominance. It was simply a statement of fact, a clear delineation of territory within our shared confinement.

  "Understood," I replied, keeping my own voice calm, neutral, matching his pragmatic lack of ceremony. I continued to observe him as he knelt again before his chest, pulling out a spare tunic and folding it with sharp, precise creases. My fighter's instincts were cataloging details: strong, grounded build; efficient, disciplined movements; stoic, perhaps stubborn demeanor. Direct. Uncomplicated, maybe? My Ki sense, a constant passive hum beneath my awareness now anchored by the new core, brushed against him again. Unlike the overwhelming, almost suffocating tide of power I'd felt from the red-eyed girl, Kaelen's personal Ki signature remained… shallow. Faint. Almost negligible for someone his apparent age and sturdy physique. But intertwined with that faint Ki, or perhaps causing a distinct displacement my senses picked up, pulsed an unmistakable thrum of another powerful energy – Mana. It was incredibly potent, dense, and felt focused with an almost unbelievable, absolute singularity. It lacked the volatile flow of my own Ki, or the airy lightness I associated with Father's wind magic; instead, it felt exceptionally stable, almost foundational, like a still reservoir of pure energy. What affinity could such uniquely characterized mana fuel once externalized?

  His gaze flickered towards me again, lingering for a fraction of a second longer this time. Those brown eyes seemed to pierce deeper than a casual glance from behind the round glasses. Could he sense my Ki, despite lacking the ability himself? Did he perceive the unnatural energy humming from my new core? Or was it simply the unsettling stillness, the coiled readiness of a seasoned warrior inhabiting a child’s body? Whatever he registered, his expression remained impassive, a mask of stoic neutrality. He simply filed the observation away, turned back to his chest, and continued meticulously arranging his few belongings – the folded tunic, a whetstone, a small, sturdy-looking utility knife.

  His mana signature... it's remarkably steady, isn't it? Alina's mental voice intruded again, this time with a clear note of analytical interest. No fluctuations, just a calm, deep well. That kind of stability often means singular focus... and significant control. A pause, then her tone shifted, gaining a thoughtful edge. Makes you wonder what he lacks elsewhere, though. Rigidity can be a weakness. Definitely one to watch, Niko. Could be a powerful ally… or a very stubborn obstacle.

  An awkward, heavy silence stretched within the confines of the small room, broken only by the distant city hum filtering through the grimy window and the soft, methodical rustle of Kaelen organizing his space. He worked with a quiet, intense focus, every item placed with deliberation, creating a small pocket of order within the room's general austerity.

  I remained seated on my cot, forcing my muscles into a state of outward relaxation while subtly circulating Ki through the newly awakened pathways. The energy flowed more smoothly now, anchored by the core, a steady hum replacing the wild river it had once been. I focused on the feeling, assessing the core's state – still rough, the 'Dull' tier Alina mentioned, powerful but inefficient. Smoothing it would require dedicated meditation, focused effort. I practiced minute control exercises, cycling the energy almost invisibly, feeling the pathways warm, trying to refine the flow without any outward manifestation.

  Once, Kaelen’s head twitched almost imperceptibly in my direction again, his head cocked slightly as if listening to something just beyond hearing. His senses were sharp; perhaps he could perceive the subtle energy shifts even without Ki sensitivity. Similar to how I could sense mana by observing the displaced ki. He registered it, his brown eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses, then dismissed it, returning to his silent organization.

  We existed like that for what felt like half an hour, two solitary predators warily sharing the same cramped den, acknowledging each other's presence, assessing each other's potential threat, but making no move to engage. The air was thick with unspoken observations, with the silent recognition of something unusual, something powerful, in the other. It wasn't hostile, not overtly, but it was charged with a wary, observant tension.

  Then, a loud, clanging bell reverberated through the building from downstairs, its harsh metallic summons echoing up the stairwell, cutting through the quiet standoff.

  Instantly, Kaelen straightened, closing his chest with a final, decisive click. His entire demeanor snapped into one of immediate compliance, adherence to the external structure. He turned towards the door, then glanced back at me, his expression still neutral, impassive. "Dinner. Rules are rules." He offered no further explanation, didn't wait for my acknowledgment, simply turned and walked out, his footsteps steady and measured on the wooden floorboards, confident I either knew the routine or possessed the basic intelligence to figure it out.

  I watched him go, a flicker of understanding – perhaps even grudging respect – passing through me. Structure. Discipline. Pragmatism. This Kaelen was carved from different stone than anyone I'd met in this life, yet there was a stark, uncompromising logic to him I could almost appreciate. He was focused, direct, powerful in his own singular way.

  A stark contrast to my own nature – the volatile, internal power of Ki, the adaptable, analytical mind of a fighter accustomed to assessing every angle, exploiting every opening. Two sides of the same coin, Alina had mused. Rock versus river. Both wielding potent force, both demanding immense discipline, but fundamentally different in their source and expression. I sensed a definite rival in him, someone whose focused power and unwavering discipline could pose a significant challenge. But maybe… maybe also someone whose sheer, unvarnished directness held a strange sort of appeal after years spent navigating the intricate deceptions of court politics and the performative bravado of the fighting world. He seemed solitary, self-contained, much like the red-eyed girl in the courtyard, much like myself in many ways. Another isolated soul adrift in this house of forgotten children, clinging to his own form of strength.

  Pushing myself off the cot, feeling the satisfying hum of the Ki core deep within my chest, a reservoir of potential waiting to be tapped and refined, I followed the sound of Kaelen's retreating footsteps down the narrow hallway. Dinner. Rules. The next stage of navigating this strange new chapter in the Arcadia Children's Home, sharing a cramped room with the boy made of earth and discipline.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  This coexistence, I had a strong feeling, was going to be far from boring.

  Later in the day, the communal dining hall of the Arcadia Children's Home buzzed with the low thrum of chatter and the clatter of wooden bowls against worn tables. Dinner had been a simple, unremarkable affair – a lumpy stew that tasted mostly of broth and root vegetables, served with dense, dry bread. It was sustenance, nothing more, a stark reminder of my current station. Children younger than me darted between tables, their shrill laughter echoing off the stone walls, while older residents moved with practiced efficiency, clearing dishes or heading off to evening chores. The routine felt ingrained, inescapable. I finished my portion quickly, the restless energy simmering beneath my skin making it difficult to sit still. The newly formed Ki core pulsed steadily in my chest, a contained sun radiating potential. It felt solid, real, a reservoir far deeper than the simple river of energy I’d commanded before. But the fight with the bandits, particularly the ice mage, and the subsequent confrontation with Alina’s constructs, had been a harsh lesson. Power without control was just another liability. The core was strong, yes, but rough – 'Dull tier,' Alina had called it with her characteristic disdain. It needed refinement, smoothing, understanding. The memory of my shattered arm, the burning agony of the lava burns – those were visceral reminders of the price of recklessness.

  Feeling antsy, Niko? Alina's voice, sharp and laced with amusement, echoed in my mind. Good. Sitting around digesting institutional gruel won't smooth that core out. The courtyard looked mostly empty when Kaelen dragged you down here. Perfect time to work out the kinks. Just try not to crack the foundation with your little energy bursts, alright? Mistress Vivian seems the type to notice.

  Ignoring her jab, I pushed back my bench and navigated through the lingering knots of children, heading towards the heavy wooden door that led to the courtyard. The evening air was cooler now, carrying the scent of damp earth and the distant, complex aroma of the Arcadian capital – woodsmoke, cooking food, horses, and something else, faintly metallic and sharp, that might have been raw mana lingering from the city's countless mages.

  As I stepped outside, my eyes immediately scanned the familiar space. The courtyard was indeed quieter now, the younger children presumably herded indoors. Long shadows stretched from the building's walls as the sun dipped below the city skyline. In the far corner, partially obscured by the thorny embrace of an overgrown rose bush, sat the girl. Her head was bent low over the thick book in her lap, her long, flowing black hair, stark against her pale skin, partly caught by a stray breeze, some strands obscuring a face that was still and carried a thoughtful, intense expression. Even from this distance, I could feel the unsettling stillness around her, the faint but undeniable presence of that immense, dormant power signature, a potent magical energy distinct from any I have encountered before. She seemed utterly lost in her reading, oblivious to the world around her, an island of intense quietude in the otherwise mundane setting. I filed her presence away – another anomaly in this place – and sought out my own patch of relative seclusion near the opposite wall.

  The ground here was hard-packed earth, scuffed and uneven, but it would suffice. I didn't need a pristine training hall, just space. Alina was right; the core demanded attention, demanded practice. I wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Power needed discipline; it needed mastery.

  I began not with explosive strikes or displays of Ki, but with the bedrock of my past life’s discipline – the fundamentals. The ghost of the champion stirred within me, guiding my movements. I sank into a low horse stance, weight perfectly distributed, knees bent, back straight. Holding it. Feeling the earth beneath my feet, feeling the subtle hum of Ki circulating from the new core, through the repurposed pathways, grounding me. The stillness itself was an exercise, demanding focus, control, perfect balance. Holding this stance for minutes would make a seasoned soldier tremble; for me, it was merely centering, finding the quiet eye of the storm within. Then, movement. Fluid, seamless transitions flowed one into the other. From the deep-rooted horse stance, I shifted weight, rising onto one leg into a crane stance, the other foot tucked high, arms poised like wings. Absolute balance, maintained not just by muscle, but by a whisper-thin thread of Ki circulating through my limbs, an invisible gyroscope steadying me on the uneven ground.

  The forms came next. Muscle memory, deeper than conscious thought, took over. Sequences of blocks, parries, strikes, and evasions honed over decades of relentless training, adapted now to this smaller, younger vessel. My body moved like water, flowing through the motions, then striking like lightning. An elbow snapped outwards, stopping inches from an imaginary opponent’s temple, the air cracking audibly. Fists traced clean, blurring arcs, ghosting past invisible guards. Kicks flowed seamlessly from defensive pivots, the edge of my foot slicing the air with controlled, whistling force. This wasn't the clumsy mimicry of a child playing fighter; it was the distilled essence of a thousand battles, the deadly economy of motion learned in the unforgiving crucible of the Fighters Association, channeled now through a ten-year-old's body.

  Ki followed my will, drawn from the core, flowing through the network of pathways. It wasn't the overwhelming flood I’d unleashed against the constructs, nor the raw, uncontrolled surge that had shattered my arms against the bear. This was different. A faint, almost subliminal white shimmer clung to my hands and feet during the fastest movements, a subtle radiance only visible, perhaps, to the most sensitive eyes. The air around me felt taut, charged, the dust disturbed by my footwork seeming to hesitate, caught in a subtle field of force. I wasn't augmenting for brute strength, but weaving Ki through muscle and bone, enhancing speed beyond normal limits, ensuring every block was perfectly angled to deflect maximum force, every strike carrying the potential for devastating impact, held just short of release. My breathing fell into a deep, measured rhythm, perfectly synchronized with the flow of energy, the expansion and contraction of my chest fueling the internal circulation.

  I felt the familiar burn of exertion, the satisfying warmth of Ki answering my command. The new core provided a deeper wellspring, a more substantial reserve than the simple ambient Ki I’d relied on before. The energy felt richer, quicker to respond, eager to be shaped. But I also felt the core’s inherent roughness – the 'Dull' tier Alina spoke of. There was a slight inefficiency, a subtle drag in the flow, like water passing over uneven stones. With each repetition, each perfectly executed block or strike, I focused inward, visualizing the Ki smoothing those rough edges, polishing the nascent core, striving for greater efficiency, greater control. I lost myself in the familiar cadence, the intricate dance of combat forms – the only true home I had ever known before Argun.

  I didn't notice him approach at first, too engrossed in the internal landscape of Ki and the external precision of the forms. But a subtle shift in the courtyard's ambient energy, a grounded presence entering my awareness, made me pause mid-strike. I lowered my fist slowly, turning calmly. Kaelen stood a few paces away, his arms crossed over his sturdy chest, his brown eyes fixed on me with an intensity that missed nothing. He hadn't made a sound, just observed, his stillness a stark contrast to my fluid motion. He’d clearly been watching for some time, recognizing instantly that what I was doing wasn't childish horseplay. The discipline, the precision, the contained power – it resonated with his own focused nature, even if the source was alien to him.

  He waited until I fully broke the form, acknowledging his presence. His direct nature, as I was quickly learning, left no room for pleasantries or beating around the bush.

  "That energy," he stated bluntly, his voice flat, inquisitive. "It feels… internal. Not mana drawn from outside. What is it called?"

  I met his steady gaze, matching his directness. "It's Ki," I replied calmly. "Life energy." I considered adding more, then settled for simplicity. "A different path to strength."

  Kaelen tilted his head slightly, adjusting his round glasses as he processed the information. His gaze flickered briefly to my hands, perhaps recalling the faint white shimmer he might have glimpsed. "Ki," he repeated the word slowly, testing its weight. "Heard the term. Thought it was just… baseline vitality. Not something… controlled like this." He acknowledged the skill in my movements with a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "You manipulate it with precision. How?

  "Internal control," I explained simply. "Balance. Focus."

  When externalized, his magic's nature was clear. Earth. I subtly turned the observation back towards him, probing his own nature. "Like your Earth magic, I imagine. Singular focus provides great power, doesn't it? Solidity. Unyielding strength."

  A flicker of something – surprise? acknowledgement? – passed through his brown eyes before his usual stoic mask settled back into place. "Earth endures," he stated, his voice resonating with quiet conviction. "It provides solid power. Tangible. Reliable. Something you can shape and depend on." He seemed to value its defensive strength, its unyielding nature.

  "Ki flows within," I countered softly, trying to articulate the difference without revealing too much. "It enhances what is already there – speed, strength, senses. It adapts."

  He gets it, sort of, Alina’s voice cut into my thoughts, amused. Earth versus Energy. Rock versus River. Stability versus Flow. See, Niko? Opposites attract… or at least make for interesting sparring partners. Both dedicated, though. Both powerful in their own way. Pay attention to this one.

  Alina was right. We were two sides of the same coin. Kaelen rooted himself in the external, tangible power of the earth, shaping the world around him. I drew on the internal, flowing energy within, enhancing the vessel I inhabited. Both paths demanded immense discipline, unwavering focus.

  The silence stretched again, but it felt different now. Less awkward, more thoughtful. We were two practitioners of different arts, recognizing the dedication in the other.

  Perhaps sensing the shift, or simply concluding his assessment, Kaelen made a subtle gesture. He didn't speak an incantation, didn't move dramatically, just flexed the fingers of his right hand slightly. A patch of earth a few feet away rippled smoothly, like liquid stone, before settling back into stillness. A nearby pebble lifted silently from the ground, hovering steadily in the air before dropping back down without a sound. His control was exquisite, subtle, powerful.

  "Control requires will," he stated flatly, his eyes meeting mine again over the top of his glasses.

  I accepted the subtle challenge, the demonstration of his mastery. In response, I let my own Ki flow, not explosively, but steadily, gathering it in my right palm. A soft, contained white light bloomed there, steady and unwavering, illuminating the gathering dusk. It held for a beat, a silent testament to my own internal command, before I dispersed it instantly, leaving no trace.

  "And internal mastery," I replied, my voice equally calm.

  An unspoken understanding passed between us. We were different, fundamentally so, in our power and approach. But we recognized the seriousness in each other, the dedication, the potential. A mutual, if wary, respect began to form, built not on words, but on the silent acknowledgment of shared discipline and visible power.

  Kaelen gave a curt, single nod. "Your control is... unexpected. For Ki." Coming from him, the simple statement felt like high praise. His brown eyes scanned my form one last time. "Don't be reckless with it near the dorms. Don't draw unnecessary attention."

  "Yours as well," I acknowledged his skill, turning back to him. "Earth magic requires immense focus."

  Another curt nod. His assessment seemingly complete for now, he turned, his movements economical as always. "Routine is important," he murmured, more to himself than to me, before striding back towards the main building, his solid figure disappearing into the deepening shadows.

  I watched him go, my earlier assessment solidifying. Kaelen. Disciplined, pragmatic, immensely powerful in his singular element. A potential rival, undoubtedly. But perhaps not an enemy. There was a strange kinship in our shared dedication, our solitary focus on mastering the power we wielded.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw a flicker of movement. The red-eyed girl. She was still there, hidden amongst the roses, her book now resting closed on her lap. Her unsettling crimson eyes were fixed on the spot where Kaelen and I had stood, her expression utterly unreadable. Had she been watching the entire exchange? Had she sensed the subtle interplay of Ki and Mana? Another layer added to her mystery.

  Well, that went better than expected! Alina's cheerful thought broke the silence in my mind. No explosions, no shouting. Just two little powerhouses sizing each other up. Almost adorable. Her tone shifted back to business. Now, about smoothing that core… you've got a long way to go before it stops feeling like you're channeling energy through gravel.

  Right. Training. Discipline. The path ahead was long, filled with unknowns, potential rivals, and mysterious allies. But for the first time since waking in this world, alongside the drive for power, a different kind of anticipation began to stir. The prospect of connection, of navigating these complex relationships… perhaps that was part of the second chance too. I took a deep breath of the cool evening air.

  Just as I was about to turn back to my forms, Kaelen’s voice, still flat and direct, cut through the quiet. He hadn’t left completely, but paused near the doorway to the dorms, his back mostly to me.

  "The one always reading," he stated, his head tilting almost imperceptibly towards the far corner where the girl sat. "Runa Nebel. Best not to disturb her."

  Without waiting for a response, he disappeared inside.

  Runa Nebel. So that was her name. I committed it to memory, along with Kaelen’s unsolicited, but likely wise, advice. I turned back to my forms, the Ki core humming steadily within me, a promise of strength yet to come.