Fin was five years old when his father decided it was time for him to learn the art of the sword.
Donovan led him to the training yard, a space that echoed with the clang of steel and the sharp cadence of shouted commands. The morning light caught the dust motes dancing in the air, giving the entire yard a golden, dream-like quality that belied its brutal purpose. Ancient stone walls enclosed the space, worn smooth by generations of warriors who had trained within them, their silent witness to countless hours of discipline and determination.
The air smelled of sweat, dust, and the metallic tang of blood, a scent that Kilian seemed to relish whenever he returned from the academy with tales of sparring victories. But today, for the first time, Fin felt it too, an almost primal excitement, a thrill that resonated deep within him. It awakened something dormant, something that had been waiting, as if his cells remembered a truth his conscious mind couldn't yet grasp.
It was a stark contrast to the sterile labs and quiet libraries of his previous life. There, he had pursued knowledge through equations and theories, chasing abstract concepts that could never be touched. Here, he could feel something different, something raw and electric. A vibrant intensity that sparked something new within him, something that twenty-one years as a physicist had never awakened. The world of steel and strength operated on principles just as immutable as physics, but far more visceral.
Donovan presented him with a scaled-down training sword, crafted from lightweight wood yet carefully balanced to mimic the feel of a real blade. The craftsman had taken care with it; the pommel was wrapped in leather, the guard was simple but functional. The wood had been polished to a soft sheen, small grooves worn into the grip from previous young hands that had wielded it.
It was surprisingly heavy for his small hands, but he accepted it eagerly. The weight of it felt right somehow, as if completing a circuit that had been left open.
His unnaturally blue eyes, eyes that had seen equations and understood the fabric of reality in ways his father could never comprehend, gleamed with anticipation. In them danced calculations and assessments, extrapolating potential movements, analyzing the physics of each potential strike and parry before they'd even begun.
"Hold it properly," Donovan instructed. His voice was calm, measured, but watching. Always watching. The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened slightly, betraying his intense focus.
Fin adjusted his grip, instinct guiding him more than memory. The balance was off compared to anything he'd worked with before, but he adjusted in seconds, shifting his weight, correcting for the uneven distribution. His small fingers wrapped around the hilt, feeling for the center of gravity, automatically compensating for the sword's weight.
His father frowned, slightly, the expression subtle, a mere tightening around his mouth.
"You've never held a sword before," Donovan said. It wasn't quite a question. There was an undercurrent to his words, a tension that hadn't been there moments before.
"No." The simple answer contained volumes. An admission and a challenge all at once.
His father exhaled through his nose. "Hm."
The noise was neither approval nor disapproval. Just observation. A notation in a mental ledger that was becoming increasingly complicated.
But Fin could tell. Something about him had been noted. Filed away for future reference. The kind of detail that would resurface in quiet moments of contemplation, when Donovan would stare into the flames of the hearth, piecing together the puzzle that was his son.
A cool breeze swept through the yard, carrying with it the scent of approaching rain. The sky above remained clear, but the distant horizon had begun to darken with storm clouds, their gray mass crawling inexorably closer. Several of the older guards glanced upward, silently calculating how much time remained before the weather would force them indoors.
Donovan stepped forward, placing his hands over Fin's, adjusting his grip. His palms were rough with calluses, the legacy of decades spent mastering the very art he now sought to teach. "Hold it tighter here, yes, like that. Keep your elbows in. A strong foundation matters more than speed at this stage." His voice carried the weight of experience, of lessons learned through pain and persistence.
Fin let himself be corrected. He absorbed the information, letting his father guide his movements, but even as he did, he could feel Donovan's scrutiny. Each adjustment was accompanied by a searching look, an assessment that went beyond the physical.
Nearby, a younger guard lost his footing and fell hard on the packed earth. His opponent extended a hand, pulling him back to his feet with a grunt of encouragement. The fallen warrior nodded gratefully, resuming his stance with renewed determination. Fin absorbed this interaction, noting the camaraderie that existed alongside the competition.
"First form, Overhead Guard."
Donovan lifted his sword into a high stance. His posture was perfect, his weight centered. A stance meant for deflecting downward strikes, for transitioning into controlled counterattacks. There was an economy to his movements, nothing wasted, nothing excessive. Years of practice had distilled his technique to its purest essence.
Fin mirrored the motion. His smaller frame made the position awkward, but he adjusted, compensating for his height and reach.
His father watched, his gaze analytical, searching for flaws, for hesitation, for any sign that would explain the unnatural precision in his son's movements.
"Lower your stance," Donovan corrected. "Yes. There. Now, Second Form. Advancing Strike."
A sharp forward step, a diagonal slash. Clean. Efficient. Deadly in its simplicity.
Fin matched it. His movements were smoother now, more confident as his body began to understand what was being asked of it.
By the fourth form, Donovan had stopped correcting him. His instructions came faster, each demonstration followed immediately by expectation. The space between them had changed, the dynamic shifting from teacher-student to something more complex, more wary.This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
By the sixth, his expression had shifted from mild curiosity to something colder. Something more calculating. The lines around his eyes had hardened, his jaw set in a rigid line that betrayed his growing unease.
"You learn quickly." The words held an edge this time, sharp enough to cut if handled carelessly.
Fin met his father's gaze. In that moment, something passed between them, an acknowledgment, perhaps, or a challenge. "Isn't that a good thing?" The question hung in the air, innocent on the surface but layered with meaning.
Donovan studied him for a long moment before simply saying, "We'll see." The words carried the weight of promise and threat both, a testament to the complexity of the man who uttered them.
Fin barely had time to process those words before his father moved.
A step forward. A swing, controlled, but fast. A downward strike, testing his reflexes. The sudden change in tempo was deliberate, designed to catch him off-guard, to reveal what instinct would do when thought had no time to interfere.
"Defend yourself," Donovan ordered, his voice carrying across the yard. Several nearby guards paused their own exercises.
Fin reacted on instinct. Something deeper than thought, older than memory, guided his hands.
He lifted his sword just in time to catch the blow. The impact jolted through his arms, his smaller frame straining under the force, but he held his ground. The sound of wood striking wood rang out, sharp and definitive.
Donovan didn't let up. The next strike came immediately. No pause for praise, no moment to recover. This was no longer instruction, it was assessment.
A side cut. A step. A shift in momentum. Each movement flowed into the next, a carefully choreographed test.
He's testing me, Fin thought.
The realization came with perfect clarity. This wasn't about teaching anymore. This was about discovery.
Fin didn't just block. He adapted. His mind raced ahead, anticipating, calculating trajectories and forces with preternatural speed.
Watch the feet, not the blade.
His father's balance shifted, a forward attack. Fin moved before the strike came, dodging by mere inches. The wooden sword whistled through the air where he had been standing a heartbeat before.
Donovan's eyes flashed. Something like surprise, or perhaps confirmation, crossed his features before disappearing behind his disciplined mask.
He changed tactics. A feint, a quick fake to the right before switching left. A technique meant to deceive, to exploit the predictable patterns of an opponent's defense.
Fin saw it. The subtle tell in his father's weight distribution, the fractional delay in the follow-through.
He shouldn't have. No novice could have.
But he did.
He shifted at the last second, dodging the real attack with a grace that belied his years. The yard had grown silent now, all eyes on the father and son locked in their strange dance.
His father stopped. The abruptness of it was jarring, like a sentence cut off mid-word.
Silence.
For a long moment, Donovan simply stared at him. His grip on the sword did not relax. His breathing was measured, controlled, but Fin could sense the tension thrumming through him like a plucked string.
"That wasn't luck," his father said. It wasn't a question this time.
Fin met his gaze evenly. "No." The admission hung between them, impossible to retract, impossible to ignore.
A breath. Then, Donovan pulled back, lowering his sword. His expression remained neutral, but his posture had changed. The set of his shoulders, the angle of his stance, everything about him had shifted into something more guarded.
He knew.
Not everything. Not yet. But this was the moment, the first real moment, where his father realized his son was different. Where suspicion crystallized into certainty, even if the nature of that difference remained elusive.
Ding.
The sound barely registered. A faint chime, like the echo of distant metal on stone. So soft that for a moment, Fin thought he'd imagined it.
Fin stiffened. His breath caught. His pulse spiked. Every nerve in his body suddenly alert, alive with awareness.
What was that?
He turned, scanning the training yard. Nothing appeared out of place. The guards, the equipment, the walls, all exactly as they had been. Yet something fundamental had changed, as if the world had shifted imperceptibly on its axis.
His father frowned. "Something wrong?" The question carried layers of meaning, of suspicion and concern intertwined.
Fin hesitated. Then, carefully, he shook his head. "No. Just... thinking about the fight." The lie tasted strange on his tongue, but instinct warned against revealing more.
Donovan didn't look convinced. His eyes narrowed slightly, searching Fin's face for clues to his sudden distraction.
The storm clouds had moved closer now, casting long shadows across the yard. A distant rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, a warning of what was to come.
They sat by the edge of the training yard, swords resting in the dirt. The silence was heavy, laden with unspoken questions and half-formed suspicions. Two figures, so similar in appearance but separated by an unbridgeable gulf of experience and knowledge.
Then, finally, Donovan spoke.
"You won't unlock the System until you form your core," he said. "But don't think that means it isn't paying attention." His voice was low, meant only for Fin's ears. This was knowledge not freely shared, a secret passed from father to son out of necessity rather than trust.
Fin's fingers curled slightly, digging into the packed earth beneath them. "It... watches?" The question revealed more than he intended, his curiosity overwhelming caution.
His father nodded, his expression grave. "It measures. Records. Some believe it only activates when you reach Tier 1. But the truth is, it's always watching." He glanced upward, not at the gathering storm but at something beyond it, something only he could see.
Fin's mind raced. Possibilities unfolded before him, branching paths of potential and consequence.
That meant, everything he did now mattered. Every choice, every action, every reaction was being evaluated against criteria he didn't yet understand. The realization was both exhilarating and terrifying.
The System wasn't something that just appeared one day. It was tracking him, calculating, weighing his achievements before offering power. It was judge and benefactor both, operating on rules both ancient and inscrutable.
If that was true...
Could he force its hand?
Could he control what it gave him?
Could he manipulate a system designed to evaluate and reward in ways that suited his own purposes?
The implications were staggering. If the System was always watching, always measuring, then perhaps it could be influenced. Perhaps its judgments could be anticipated, its rewards directed. A dangerous thought, but one that took root immediately.
Donovan studied him for a long moment. Then, with an exhale, he ruffled Fin's hair. "You'll do well," he murmured. "Just don't lose yourself in the fight." The words carried a warning, born of experience Fin couldn't yet comprehend.
Fin wasn't so sure. The path ahead seemed suddenly more complex, more fraught with hidden dangers and opportunities. The simple goal of learning swordsmanship had expanded into something far more significant.
As they stood, a storm rumbled in the distance. The first heavy drops of rain began to fall, striking the packed earth with audible impacts. Fin remained still; face turned upward.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the yard in stark white light.
Fin felt it.
A pull. A resonance. Something deep and instinctual. A connection between the electric energy arcing across the sky and something within him. It called to him, awakening more of his memories of his past life. Flooding his mind with more knowledge that he had forgotten.
The rain fell harder now, soaking through his training clothes, plastering his hair to his forehead. But he didn't move. Not yet. There was something perfect about this moment, more knowledge being absorbed and remembered.
Donovan watched him, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he extended his hand. An invitation. A connection.
Fin took it, his small fingers engulfed by his father's calloused palm.
Together, they walked from the yard as thunder rolled across the sky.