Chapter 4: The Path That Does Not Wait

  We returned from the forest as the sun began to sink, its pale light bleeding into the snow. The rabbit hung from Father’s shoulder, and behind us we dragged the massive body of the demon bear, its dark blood already frozen against the white ground.

  Mother was waiting.

  She looked once at the bear, once at me, and then calmly went back to the fire.

  “So,” she said, as if commenting on the weather, “your first hunt included a giant demon bear.”

  I stood there, unsure how to respond. “…You’re not surprised?” She finally turned to me, her eyes warm but sharp. “Were you scared?”

  I hesitated. Then nodded. “A little.”

  She smiled—not mockingly, not proudly, but with the quiet acceptance of someone who had lived long enough to understand danger. “That’s good. Fear keeps you alive.”

  As she began preparing the meat, something inside me shifted.

  This world was not kind.

  It was simply honest.

  That night, sitting beside the fireplace, I stared into the flames and understood a cruel truth.

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  This world would not wait for me to grow stronger.If I remained weak, I would be crushed. No excuses. No second chances.

  So I began the next morning.

  I trained my body using what I remembered from my previous life—military discipline, endurance exercises, controlled breathing. I ran until my legs burned and swung my sword until my hands bled.

  At night, I read.

  I devoured every book I could find. History, monsters, magic, tactics. Knowledge was a weapon, and unlike muscle, it never betrayed you.

  Days turned into weeks.

  Weeks into months.

  Father watched me.

  At first, silently.Then one morning, he stepped forward.

  “Again,” he said.

  I attacked.

  And I was thrown to the ground before I even understood what happened.

  Again.

  And again.

  To him, I was nothing more than an insect flailing its limbs. But he did not mock me. He corrected me. He showed me how to stand, how to step, how to hold a blade as an extension of my will.

  How to kill.

  One night, as exhaustion dragged at my bones, I asked Mother the question that had haunted me.“How is Father so strong?”

  She paused, her gaze drifting somewhere far away. “He used to be an adventurer. That’s how we met.”

  Then she said something that shattered my understanding of her.

  “I was a magic user.”

  I stared at her. “But… I’ve never seen you use magic.”

  She placed her hand over mine. “You have. You just don’t remember.”

  My breath caught.

  “When you came to us, you were dying. I used everything I had to keep you alive.”

  Guilt settled heavily in my chest.“That’s why I can’t use magic like before,” she continued softly. “But I don’t regret it.”

  I began practicing magic after that.

  And failed.

  Again.

  And again.

  No matter how much I trained, nothing responded.

  Frustration nearly broke me.

  Mother held me that night. “Magic listens to belief,” she said. “If you doubt yourself, it will never answer.”

  So I trusted.

  Months passed. My sword become steady and my body grow stronger . Then one day, fire flickered weakly in my palm.

  I laughed.

  For the first time since coming to this world, I felt hope.

  Mother promised to teach me every spell she knew.

  Then came another hunt.

  But Father didn’t move. A group of goblins blocked our path, their yellow eyes filled with hunger.

  I reached for my sword—

  But Father didn’t move.

  “You fight,” he said.

  Fear froze my blood.

  I couldn’t step forward.

  Then his hand struck my back.

  “Do your training, my son.”

  I walked into the swarm.

  Their movements were wild, clumsy. Compared to Father, they were slow.

  I cut them down. When they surrounded me, I released fire.

  Sixty goblins burned that day.

  After that, battles became routine.

  Monsters fell.

  Blood stained snow and soil alike.

  Time lost meaning.

  A day passed.

  A week.

  A year.

  And before I realized it—

  Five years vanished like the wind.

  And I was no longer the weak man who had arrived on a winter’s day.