The moon shone in the night sky, its silver light spilling across the stone tiles of the Wilson estate like a quiet blessing. Inside the castle, a soft wail pierced the stillness—a newborn's cry, raw and urgent.
In Lady Violet's chamber, sweat clung to her brow as she sank into the silk pillows, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. A nursemaid held the infant gently, her hands trembling as a faint glow shimmered around her, covering her like a veil.
"It's a boy," she whispered, looking at the child in her arms.
A servant, eyes wide with excitement, dashed down the hall. Her footsteps echoed through the corridors before she disappeared into the night. The news spread swiftly—though not with the thunderous fanfare of years past.
By morning, the estate stirred with quiet joy. In the market square, the clamour of daily life carried a lighter tone. Bakers passed out warm buns with modest smiles, merchants hung simple ribbons above their stalls, and children darted between carts, their laughter rising like birdsong.
The Wilsons had welcomed another child—Lord Erwin's son this time.
It wasn't quite like Aidan's birth, when citizens had gathered outside the castle walls just to catch a glimpse of their future heir. But even now, the atmosphere held warmth. The people celebrated not just the birth, but the continued strength of the Wilson name—because the stronger the Wilsons stood, the safer everyone felt.
The journal's horrors and unanswered visions still lingered in Aidan's mind even after months. He had been unable to forget them or fully push them away—but life demanded motion.
When news of his uncle's son spread through the estate, Aidan acknowledged it with a nod—nothing more.
He remained untouched by the celebration. Though happy for his uncle, he felt no deep connection to the child. Despite being called his "brother," the infant was nothing more than an acquaintance. He had met the baby briefly—but hadn't lingered.
Not in Aunt Violet's room. Not alone. He had no intention of betting on his luck. He still wasn't sure about Violet.
He kept his visits short and rare, making his days largely unaffected. The good part was that his visions had begun to fade—less frequent now, easier to ignore. That made it easier to focus on his training.
His own birthday had passed just a month before Aunt Violet's son was born.
Aidan was now seven years old. With each passing season, his training had grown more rigorous. Recently, his lessons had shifted toward core formation—concentrating energy around the center of his stomach, where strength was said to be cultivated and shaped.
The early basics—posture, breathing, movement—had become second nature. Now, the focus had turned inward. Matthew, his instructor, had begun introducing him to the subtleties of internal energy flow, guiding him toward forming his first core.
"You must feel the core like a solid ball," Matthew often said, pressing two fingers lightly to Aidan's abdomen. "Steady. Strong. If it flickers or remains weak, you'll lose balance. Focus on gathering aura and holding it together—refine it, compress it. It must become dense, controlled. This isn't something you can rush. Once formed properly, it cannot be undone."
And so Aidan practiced—hour after hour. After morning drills and exercises, this new form of training had been added to his schedule. His small hands clenched in meditation, sweat beading on his brow, his breathing slow and steady.
Training, at least, gave him something real to hold on to. He loved growing like this—learning, pushing forward, becoming more.
Aidan's life settled into a rigid routine—training, and searching for answers about the calling. Though the visions had become manageable, he refused to believe they were truly over.
Time blurred. Another year passed.
The days bled into one another—sunrises painted in sweat, sunsets swallowed by aching muscles and whispered mantras. Aidan scarcely noticed the seasons shifting.
One morning, on the training ground, he caught his reflection in the blade Matthew had given him—a real sword, unlike the wooden one he used to wield. His face was a little sharper, his frame leaner, his movements tighter.
Eight years old.
By eight, Aidan height had stretched again, his back straighter, shoulders squarer. Aidan now stood at four feet four inches. He wore his usual clothing: a martial-artist-style kimono, like those from the manga he vaguely remembered.
Aidan lingered on the sword's reflection, the gleam of its edge dancing in his eyes, before shifting his gaze to Zane.
The third form of the Wilson sword technique unfolded before him—not spoken, but performed. Zane's blade moved like an extension of his will: fluid, precise, unrelenting. Every arc sliced through the air with a whispering grace that made even the wind hesitate.
With each slash of his blade, a crescent of wind carved through the air, humming with force. Zane smirked as he lowered his sword, his eyes locking onto Aidan—silent, confident.
Zane had always been ahead—but once Matthew began teaching them the core Wilson sword technique, the difference became impossible to ignore.
For some reason, Aidan had noticed that Zane's strength had become quite formidable in just a month.
The style itself was ancient, dating back to the Second Epoch. A legacy passed down through generations, it was reserved for only the most trusted blood of the household. For Aidan, access was a given. But Zane—Zane had earned it.
Whispers echoed through the estate more often now—about how Zane stood not only as a future captain of Wilson, but also as the close friend of the future Duke himself. Every captain was a Rank Three powerhouse, revered not just for their strength but for the legacy they carried. Zane hadn't merely been granted the technique—it was an investment from Wilson.
Aidan clicked his tongue, annoyance flashing in his eyes. "Wow," he said dryly, exaggerating his body gesture. "With all that wind, you should start cooling the estate. Who knew Zane the Breeze had such talent?"
Zane twirled his sword once before resting it on his shoulder, his grin unfading. "Careful, Aidan. Jealousy's not a good look on the future Duke."
Aidan scoffed. "Don't forget—when I become Duke, you'll be first on my 'too fired' list."
Zane chuckled, unfazed. "Guess I'll enjoy the wind while it lasts. Then, when I leave, I'll generate storms all over Maaya."
Matthew, watching from a distance, couldn't help but smile slightly and remark out loud:
"The future of Wilson will be sharpened like a blade by these two."