Two more years passed.

I won’t bother recounting the tedium of my first eight years in this world. Monotony is suffocating, and there’s no value in describing it. I’ll just say this: after that encounter with the pink-haired girl, Isolde and I stopped going out. The decision was made in the quiet of night, with the cold logic of those who understand that in an unfamiliar world, preparation must precede exposure.

Mother disagreed, of course. She insisted children should explore, play, socialize. But Isolde’s fake tears were more effective than any rational argument. In the end, after a theatrical tantrum, Mother relented—grudgingly.

So we turned time into a weapon.

If I had to quantify our progress:

• Strength: Enough to haul two sacks of grain without strain.

• Speed: 50 meters in 10 seconds. Mediocre, but every step forward counts.

• Overall capacity: 30% above the kingdom’s average for children—though that benchmark is meaningless.

Our methods were… unconventional. Push-ups with one of us sitting on the other’s back. Four-hour indoor sprints. Absurd to outsiders, but functional in their own brutal way.

Just now, we’d finished another session.

“Hah… hah… I’m… done…” Isolde panted, using magic to condense airborne water into her mouth.

“Issy… maybe don’t… waste mana… on hydration…” Each word cost me air. My body screamed for oxygen like a drowning man’s.

Sweat clung to my skin, though the winter chill seeping through the window helped. Snowing. In my past life, winter was an enemy—a merciless force that drove me under layers of blankets, away from the ice and wind.

Now?

I don’t mind it.

“You two trained too hard again, didn’t you?” Mother entered, handing us glasses of water with that fond-but-worried look she’d been wearing more often lately. Probably because she still wished we’d go outside more. Can’t blame her.

But today would be different.

Because today was the Vigil of the Fallen.

A celebration held only once every ten years. My first time experiencing it.

This day honored the knights who died in Veloria’s war of independence against Aeloria—the conflict that defined this kingdom’s identity. For generations, Veloria (where I was born) had been under Aeloria’s thumb. Clashing beliefs, politics, and culture sparked rebellion. Blood soaked the soil until, finally, Veloria broke free. Now, every decade, they commemorate that sacrifice: the lives lost, the freedom won.

But here’s the problem.

According to the Paradox Scriptures, both Veloria and Aeloria worship the same god: Paradox.

That fact left Isolde and me stunned.

For years, these two continents fought, slaughtered, despised each other—all while praying to the same deity. An uncomfortable truth. Was their war really about independence? Or just factions clashing over who had divine favor?

For now, we’ve kept it secret.

I don’t want to imagine what the Church would do if they knew we’d been reading what appears to be their god’s own writings.

Unsettling.

And ironic.