The morning of my fifth birthday came and went without much fanfare. In this world, a boy turning five wasn’t much of an event—there were chores to do, fields to till, and little time for grand celebrations. But for me, it marked the beginning of a critical year. This was the year everything began to change in my last life, and I couldn’t afford to ignore the signs. This time, I would be ready.

  I stood in the small clearing behind Wes’s shack, my breath misting in the crisp morning air. My wooden sword felt light in my hands, almost too light. It wasn’t enough—not for what was coming. I swung it anyway, imagining the armored clerics of the Cult of Aeris surrounding Miquella, their fanatical leader stepping out of that carriage with a smile that chilled me to my core.

  Miquella. My best friend. She didn’t know it yet, but her life was about to be upended. She was about to discover her Priest Factor, a rare and powerful blessing that would make her the ideal candidate to lead the cult. In my last life, they’d taken her away before I could even grasp what was happening. This time, I would protect her.

  The past was a tangled thread. Some events seemed destined to repeat, while others veered wildly off course. The old man who had blessed me in my second year didn’t appear in this timeline, and I couldn’t help but wonder what that meant. But other things had happened almost exactly as they had before—for example, Maren’s gift of the spellbook.

  And then there were the events that hadn’t yet come to pass but loomed like storm clouds on the horizon. Maren would soon fall ill with a rare disease that no known remedy could cure. In my last life, it had taken her quickly, leaving a hole in the village—and in me. This time, I had a plan. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t guaranteed to work, but it was something.

  Miquella’s fate, however, was trickier. I had no idea if the cult would come for her again or not. But gambling on their inaction wasn’t an option. If they came, I would stop them. No matter the cost.

  For now, there was at least one bright spot amidst the tension. My mother, Eleonore, had been more radiant than usual, her hand often resting lightly on her stomach. She hadn’t told me yet, but I knew the truth—she was pregnant. In my last life, this news had filled our home with joy, and I hoped it would be the same now. A younger sibling. Another chance to protect my family. The thought brought a rare smile to my face.

  I had spent the last few days refining my plan. The Cult of Aeris wouldn’t come quietly—they never did. They would arrive with a carriage, their cleric flanked by a well-armed escort. Their presence would be calculated, overwhelming, meant to cow the village into submission. But I wouldn’t let them have their way.

  First, I approached Wes. If anyone could stand at my side against the cult, it was him. But when I explained the situation—carefully omitting how I knew what was coming—he shook his head. “This is your fight, kid,” he said, his voice firm. “I’ve taught you everything I can, but I’m not getting involved in that cult mess. That’s a line I don’t cross.”

  I’d expected as much, but the rejection still stung. Wes was a loner by nature, and while he cared about me in his own gruff way, he wasn’t one to risk his neck for others. That was fine. I’d face them alone if I had to.

  I spent the next few nights sketching out the details of my plan by candlelight. When the cult came, they would expect no resistance. They’d stop the carriage in the village square, and their cleric would step out, flanked by his guards. I would use my magic to create chaos, drawing their attention away from Miquella’s family and forcing them to focus on me. It was a risky plan, but it was the best I had.

  My magic had grown stronger over the past few months, and with Maren’s guidance, I’d gained a better understanding of how to control it. But against trained fighters and magic users, I would need more than raw power. I’d need strategy, timing, and perhaps a bit of luck.

  As the days passed, I found myself spending more and more time with Miquella. She was still blissfully unaware of what was coming, her days filled with laughter and curiosity. She’d always been the adventurous one, dragging me along on her wild schemes to explore the woods or sneak into the elder’s meeting hall. I envied her innocence, even as I steeled myself to protect it.

  “You’ve been awfully serious lately,” she said one afternoon, as we sat by the riverbank skipping stones. Her sharp eyes studied me, and for a moment, I wondered if she suspected the truth.

  “Just thinking,” I said, tossing a stone into the water. It skipped twice before sinking. “There’s a lot to figure out.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like how to keep you out of trouble,” I teased, earning a playful shove from her.

  But the truth weighed heavily on me. If the cult came, it wouldn’t just be Miquella’s life that changed—it would ripple through the entire village. People would resist, some might get hurt, and the cult wouldn’t hesitate to make an example of anyone who stood in their way.

  I had to be ready. For Miquella. For Maren. For all of Brustel.

  The day finally arrived. Miquella had been home with a fever, just as I remembered from before. Awakening a Factor was no easy thing for a child’s body—it was a moment of transformation, a calling that marked her as extraordinary. But by today, she was back to her usual self, running around and laughing with the other children, completely unaware of the storm looming over her life.

  I, however, was anything but carefree. From my perch, I watched the Cult of Aeris's carriage approach the village square. The memory of its blackened wood and the golden emblem sent a chill down my spine. It looked the same as it had in my last life, its quiet presence carrying a suffocating weight.

  The carriage came to a stop, and the villagers, just as before, gathered with wary curiosity. They didn’t know what was coming—most of them had no idea who the Cult of Aeris even were. The door opened, and the cleric stepped out. Dressed in a pristine white robe embroidered with golden thread, he exuded an air of calm authority. His hands rested loosely at his sides, but I knew better than to underestimate him. His disarming smile was as chilling as ever.

  Behind him came the guards—three swordsmen in matching white and gold armor, their faces hidden beneath ornate helmets. They moved with the precision of men who had seen countless battles. From my vantage point on the rooftop of the elder’s house, I had a clear view of the square.

  My heart raced as the cleric began to speak, his voice smooth and inviting. “People of Brustel,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “Fear not. We come in peace, bringing a message of hope and unity. Among you is a child blessed by Aeris, destined for greatness. We come to guide them to their true purpose.”

  The crowd murmured in confusion, and I could feel the tension rising. My hands, already glowing faintly with mana, clenched into fists. It was time. I channeled the energy into my spell, [Solid Wall], but I didn’t cast it as it was. Instead, I shaped it, editing its form in my mind—a room of four walls, each at least five meters high.

  My calculations were precise. The height would be enough to trap even their best swordsmen, preventing them from leaping out. The mana in my hands grew hotter as the spell coalesced. I visualized the square, the space around the cleric and his guards, and then I released it.

  The air around the cultists shimmered for a brief moment before my spell snapped into place. Four towering walls of solid stone erupted from the ground, enclosing them in a makeshift prison. Gasps erupted from the crowd, and the cleric’s smile faltered for the first time.

  The swordsmen moved quickly, their instincts kicking in. They tested the walls, one of them leaping to gauge their height, just as I’d anticipated. His armored boots barely reached halfway before he dropped back to the ground with a heavy thud. Inside the enclosure, the cleric raised his hands, his voice calm but firm. “Who dares interfere with the will of Aeris?”

  I didn’t answer. Instead, I made myself a path. Stone rose beneath my feet as I channeled my magic again, forming a bridge that carried me to the edge of the walls I had created. The rough platform was solid, and I crouched low, hidden from view as I positioned myself above the makeshift prison.

  The villagers below started to panic. Some screamed and ran, others grabbed their children and fled toward the safety of their homes. Only a handful remained, frozen in fear or morbid curiosity as they watched the chaos unfold.

  I ignored the noise and focused. My mana pulsed through me, the heat building in my hands as I prepared my next move. This time, it wouldn’t be a wall. I began shaping the fire spell in my mind: [Ember Barrage]. It was a basic offensive spell whose application in combat I’d practiced with Wes, but what I needed now was far beyond its standards.

  I visualized the flames—bigger, hotter, more precise. I adjusted the parameters carefully, pushing the temperature to 250°C, enough to sear and disorient without outright killing. The cleric’s voice cut through the din below. “Whoever is responsible for this foolishness, know that you stand against the will of Aeris!”

  His calm fa?ade was slipping, anger flaring in his golden eyes as he raised his hand. The air around him shimmered with divine energy, and I could feel the pressure of his magic building. I didn’t wait for him to act. I released the spell.

  A barrage of massive fireballs erupted from my hands, streaking down toward the center of the stone enclosure like falling stars. They slammed into the ground with deafening force, one after another, each one exploding into a burst of scorching heat.

  The guards reacted instantly, raising their shields to deflect the flames. The metal glowed red-hot under the onslaught, and one of the swordsmen let out a grunt of pain as he staggered back, his shield too hot to hold.

  The cleric moved faster than I expected. A shimmering golden barrier appeared around him, deflecting the embers that rained down. He barked an order, and the two remaining swordsmen split up, circling the interior of the walls to look for weaknesses.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Impressive,” the cleric called out, his voice echoing against the stone. “But misguided. You’re nothing but a frightened child playing with powers you don’t understand.”

  I gritted my teeth, ignoring his words as I prepared another volley. Sweat dripped down my forehead from the strain—sustaining spells this powerful wasn’t easy, and my mana reserves weren’t infinite.

  The fireballs rained down again, this time aimed not at the cleric but at the guards. One of them barely dodged in time, the edge of his armor catching fire as he rolled to safety. The other tried to leap toward the wall, only to be forced back by the heat. The cleric, however, remained untouched, his golden barrier holding firm.

  “Enough!” he shouted, slamming his staff against the ground. The golden energy around him surged outward, extinguishing the flames and sending a shockwave through the square. My stone walls cracked but held—for now.

  I staggered, the force of the wave nearly knocking me off my perch. My heart pounded in my chest as I scrambled to recover. This wasn’t working. The cleric was stronger than I’d hoped, and my mana was draining faster than I could afford.

  I knew what I had to do. The swordsmen were the cleric’s shield, and if I didn’t deal with them quickly, I’d never get close enough to face him directly. My fingers tightened around the hilt of the sword I’d taken from Wes when he wasn’t looking. Sorry, Wes. I’ll return it—if I survive this. I crouched low, pulling a crude mask over my face—a piece of one of my father’s old shirts, hastily wrapped around my head to hide my identity. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. If I was going to show myself, I couldn’t risk being recognized by the cult later. I sheathed Wes’s sword for now, my focus shifting to the remaining swordsmen.

  Raising my hand, I cast [Earth Pillar] repeatedly, the ground erupting into tall, jagged spires that surrounded the enclosure. The pattern was deliberate, an invitation to the swordsmen—a path of escape that would lead them exactly where I wanted them. The swordsmen moved cautiously at first, testing the stones for traps. One nodded to the other, then leapt onto a pillar. The second followed. They climbed, scaling the rising stone path to escape the enclosure, just as I’d planned.

  As the first swordsman reached the top and jumped clear of the walls, I made my move. I leapt in.

  The moment my feet hit the ground inside the enclosure, the cleric turned his cold, golden eyes on me. His lips curled into a mocking smile as he took in my makeshift disguise. “So, the little rat shows itself,” he sneered, his staff glowing faintly. “Do you really think your tricks will save you? A child like you can’t stand against Aeris’s chosen.”

  His words were calculated to scare me, to break my focus. But I didn’t flinch. I knew his games. Instead of answering, I drew Wes’s sword in a single, sharp motion, its blade gleaming in the sunlight. The cleric laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “You mean to face me with a blade? Foolish.”

  Without warning, he lunged, his staff crackling with golden energy as he brought it down in a sweeping arc. I sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the strike, and countered with a slash aimed at his midsection. He twisted away, his movements unnervingly fast for a man his age.

  I shifted stances, my feet sliding into the familiar rhythm of the Human Style. I struck again, feinting high before sweeping low. The cleric blocked with his staff, the clash of metal against enchanted wood sending vibrations up my arm. “You’ve been trained,” he said, his tone almost impressed. “But training alone won’t save you.”

  He retaliated, spinning his staff in a blur and aiming for my legs. I jumped back, narrowly avoiding the blow, then shifted again—this time into the Night Style. I darted forward, my blade a blur as I alternated between quick jabs and sweeping arcs. The cleric’s barrier flared to life, deflecting the worst of my strikes, but I could see the cracks beginning to form.

  “You’re persistent,” he growled, frustration seeping into his voice. I pressed the advantage, switching back to the Human Style and used [Heavy Stomp] followed by a heavy, two-handed strike. The cleric caught the blade on his staff, but the force drove him back a step.

  Before he could recover, I pivoted into the Night Style again, my blade slicing through the air in a disorienting spiral. One of my strikes slipped through, grazing his arm. He hissed in pain, his golden barrier flickering. “You’ll regret that,” he spat, raising his staff high.

  The ground beneath me trembled, and I barely managed to roll away as a bolt of divine energy slammed into the spot where I’d been standing. I was running out of time. My movements were growing slower, my breaths heavier. But the cleric was bleeding now, his arrogance replaced by a grim determination.

  I switched back to the Human Style, grounding myself for a final assault. My blade met his staff in a flurry of sparks, each strike driving him further back. His defenses were cracking, and I knew I had to end this before he could recover.

  With a sharp feint, I forced him to overextend, his staff swinging wide. I stepped in close, bringing my sword up in a swift arc. The blade stopped just short of his throat.

  “Yield,” I said, my voice steady despite the pounding in my chest.

  For a moment, he stared at me, his eyes wide with shock. Then his staff clattered to the ground, and the golden light around him faded. The fight was over.

  At least, that’s what I thought.

  The moment my blade hovered just inches from the cleric’s throat, a sinister pulse of energy radiated from the ground beneath us. Roots began to slither out of the earth like serpents, wrapping around my feet and pulling at my legs. I had no choice but to leap back, my heart hammering in my chest as I tried to stay balanced.

  The cleric grinned, his eyes wild with a madness I hadn’t seen before. As the roots retracted into the earth, he reached down, grabbing his staff with renewed vigor. A surge of mana exploded from him, the air crackling with power.

  He was channeling far more energy than I had anticipated.

  I raised my sword, taking a defensive stance, every muscle in my body tensed and ready for the oncoming storm. The air hummed with the weight of his spell as he began chanting in a low, ominous voice.

  Stay focused, I told myself. I can't let him get the upper hand again.

  I used [Phantom Step], the shadows of the night style cloaking my movements as I leapt into the air. My feet barely touched the ropes that had formed, using them as a springboard to launch myself toward a wall of vines growing from the earth.

  But before I could regain my footing, a dark figure emerged from the chaos.

  A knight.

  The swordsman’s armor gleamed in the fading light, his movements precise and deadly as he approached. I had no time to think—I was already in combat mode.

  This was no ordinary swordsman. I could tell from the way he carried himself, the fluidity of his strikes—the mark of an Expert in Human Style. The same tier as me, but with a body honed by years of combat. My muscles screamed in protest as I met his sword with mine, the clash sending shockwaves up my arms.

  His blows came hard and fast, overwhelming my defenses. It was a contest of strength and speed, and with every passing moment, I realized how outmatched I truly was. His body was stronger, his training more complete. Each time our swords locked, I felt his power pushing me back, forcing me into a defensive stance.

  I could hear the cleric laughing from behind, but his amusement was cut short by the sudden eruption of mana from his staff.

  “MOVE!” he shouted, and the ground trembled beneath me.

  I barely had time to react before a beam of light shot from his staff. It was blinding, so pure in its radiance that I felt it burn into my skin. I instinctively threw my hands up, my sword raised in a feeble attempt to shield myself. The air around me hummed with the intensity of the spell.

  It was coming straight for me.

  I’m going to die.

  I could see it in slow motion—he said Striking Light. The mana coiling around the cleric’s staff told me exactly how strong this spell was. It was around an Archmage-tier Light Magic attack. I had no way to dodge it. No way to block it.

  I braced for the impact, knowing there was no escape.

  But then, in a blur of movement, a tall figure stepped in front of me, and the spell collided with them instead.

  A man with black hair, tall and imposing, took the brunt of the attack. I could only watch in disbelief as the beam of light hit him square in the chest.

  It didn’t even faze him.

  The spell splintered off his body, like water breaking against rock, and he stood there, unfazed. For a moment, I just stared, stunned. This... this wasn’t possible.

  With a casual flick of his wrist, he deflected the remnants of the spell as if it were nothing more than a nuisance. His eyes turned to meet mine, a smirk on his lips.

  “Well, looks like you’re not dead yet,” Wes said, voice laced with dry humor. “After all that, I’ll have to ask you how you knew all this was going to happen.”

  I was paralyzed, my mind racing but my body frozen in place. I couldn’t even open my mouth to respond. The relief that I wasn’t going to die was almost too much to process. Wes had saved me.

  But there was no time for questions.

  Wes turned away, his eyes hardening as he moved toward the three remaining swordsmen and the cleric. He sliced through the air with his sword, a blur of motion, his strikes as precise and deadly as they had been in our training. The three swordsmen fell in a matter of moments, their bodies crumpling under the force of his blows.

  The cleric shouted something, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of steel cutting through flesh.

  Wes turned to face him next, and with a single swipe of his sword, he disabled the cleric’s staff, sending it flying out of his hands. The cleric staggered back, shock written across his face.

  "You’re not so untouchable now, are you?" Wes said, his voice cold and unyielding.

  I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. My thoughts were a chaotic mess, but one thing burned through the fog of my mind: We need to protect Miquella.

  Suddenly, Wes grabbed me by the arm, pulling me into motion. His grip was tight, insistent, as we fled.

  I yell at him. “They’ll take Miquella! We have to protect her!”

  Wes' expression faltered for a split second. His eyes hardened, and he shook his head.

  “Forget about her,” he said, his voice low. “The cleric is about to cast a curse—a curse that will kill everyone who holds hatred for him. Including you.”

  My blood ran cold. A curse?

  I thought I was ready for anything. But this… this was beyond anything I had imagined. The weight of his words hit me like a stone, and for the first time, I understood how hopeless things truly were.

  Behind us, the land was changing. The air itself seemed to warp as the cleric’s curse began to take effect. A black, swirling void expanded from the center of the square, crawling outward with an unnatural speed. It was like a living thing, hungry and relentless, reaching for us with dark fingers.

  We ran.

  Every step felt like it might be our last. The blackness inched closer, the air thick with malice and death. But we pushed forward, the world shrinking around us as the curse spread.

  With a final, desperate sprint, we broke free.

  The blackness stopped, its reach just a few feet from where we stood. We had escaped, but the weight of the curse still lingered, heavy in the air.

  I looked up at Wes, still struggling to process everything that had just happened. His face was unreadable, but there was a hardness in his eyes that spoke volumes.

  In the distance the Cult’s carriage was moving away.

  “They took her.” I whispered.