The rhythmic murmuring of his parents, Garron Stoneveil and Elowen Starcrest, was the first sound Ryn processed. It was an Elven language, flowing and elegant, but their tones spoke a universal language: panic.
Ryn watched, passively, through Aeldir's infant senses, as the tiny body—barely three years old—giggled and launched itself from the bed. The target was the dark, inviting void of the open staircase.
Ten or twelve steps. That is instant death.
The original soul, Aeldir's consciousness, was too innocent, too focused on the childish joy of rebellion to understand the danger. This was a direct violation of their agreement—Ryn was not to interfere—but survival overruled principle.
Ryn's dormant consciousness slammed into the tiny vessel.
[ SOUL INTEGRATION: 100% (TEMPORARY) ]
[ WARNING: MANA CORE OVERLOAD DETECTED ]
The foreign sensation of controlling the infant's limbs was nauseating, like steering a damp sponge. Ryn bypassed the body's motor control entirely and focused on the atmospheric mana, desperate for the easiest spell.
He took over the core's flow, extracting the most basic element: Water.
A thick, pulsing sphere of water spontaneously formed around Aeldir, enveloping him in a cocoon of dull blue light. It cushioned the inevitable fall, holding the child suspended barely a foot above the step.
25 seconds. Ryn counted internally. This body cannot hold it longer.
The sudden burst of mana was not silent. A high-pitched thrum of elemental energy ripped through the quiet house.
From the kitchen below, Elowen shrieked, a sound of pure maternal terror. Her steps, imbued with a spirit-user's unnatural speed, pounded on the floorboards.
Ryn maintained the water bubble for only thirty seconds. Just as the first crackle of overloaded mana appeared on the sphere's surface, Elowen burst into the room. Her silver-white hair flew as she skidded to a stop, her luminous lavender eyes fixed on the floating water sphere.
The sphere shattered just as Elowen lunged, catching Aeldir mid-air, cradling the tiny, wet body against her chest.
Ryn instantly retreated into the depths of the soul-space, severing the connection. He was exhausted, the brief effort having emptied the vessel's small core entirely.
"Aeldir! My darling! My stone, my star, are you hurt?" Elowen sobbed, frantically checking him for bruises.
Garron rushed in, his powerful, muscled frame trembling as he surveyed the scene. "What was that sound? The mana surge… it felt like a ward rupture."
Elowen shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "I don't know, Garron! He was falling, and then… a light. It was a spirit. I swear, it was a spirit protecting him."
Garron's deep, rolling voice was fraught with fear. "Did he… did he activate his core? Did he sense the danger?"
"No," Elowen whispered, holding Aeldir tight. "It was divine. I must have sent a passive spirit or a prayer after the last loss. It saved our baby."
Ryn, silent and invisible inside the boy, understood: they were desperate to believe they had a protective force, not a problem child whose new soul could barely control an unstable, gifted body.
For the next six months, Ryn operated with extreme caution. His primary goal was to strengthen the vessel's mana channels and his own knowledge.
Every night, after Elowen and Garron had retired, Ryn took subtle control of Aeldir's sensory functions. He quietly manipulated the child's legs to navigate to Elowen's study—a room smelling of dried herbs and subtle Light mana.
He located the basic grimoire his mother used—The Doctrine of Minor Healing Arts.
For 4 hours every night—a total of over 730 hours of focused study and practice—Ryn dedicated himself to Light Healing Magic.
He learned that mana was not simply energy; it was an unknown radiation that could subtly bend and weave reality, requiring intense compatibility to wield. He realized his old world's perspective was too simple.
His practice was agonizingly slow. He could only manage a faint, warm glow over the child's skin, a basic maintenance spell that ensured Aeldir's rapid growth didn't destabilize his body. It was nothing like Elowen's swift, effective, healing grace. It was the absolute lowest tier of healing, but it kept the vessel stable.
Meanwhile, Aeldir, benefiting from the dual heritage of Elven grace and Dwarven resilience, grew faster than any standard human. He learned to walk, talk, and move with unnatural speed, driven partially by Ryn's stabilizing presence.
One night, Ryn's nocturnal search took him to the main house library, a grand room lined with polished, ancient wood. He reached out to pull a seemingly mundane history book—The Story of the Archmage—from a shelf.
As his hand brushed the cover, a profound, resonant thrum echoed through the room. The entire bookshelf curved inward, not with hinges, but with living magic, revealing a vast, lightless corridor leading to a hidden library. The air there felt thick, ancient, and humming with forbidden knowledge.
Ryn stole a book: Mastery of Wind—Volume I.
He studied the first spell: Air Slash. The very spell the Demon General used to devastate tanks. The sheer, intoxicating arrogance of the magic pulsed in his hand.
He tried the activation sequence.
The result was a catastrophic failure.
The mana core of the seven-year-old vessel instantly dumped its entire reserve. Ryn felt his own consciousness flicker and fade as he plunged into a sudden, blackout exhaustion.
A second later, Ryn's inner senses registered a massive, violent surge of Spirit Magic. Elowen, alerted by the sudden, brief mana rupture, appeared in the library doorway. She didn't see the hidden corridor, but she immediately cast a high-grade Spirit Seal over the area, locking Ryn out for good.
Ryn had the book, but he had proven the danger: he could not cast any high-tier spells.
III. The Ambush
The years passed in that quiet countryside home. When Aeldir was seven, Garron and Elowen decided the isolation was too dangerous.
"He needs formal training," Garron insisted.
After turning away several local tutors, Garron announced their destination: The Luneris Citadel, capital city of the Astravorne Empire, where Aeldir would be entered into the Magic Knight Academy.
They set off in a simple but sturdy carriage. Ryn, the internal observer, found the arrangement odd—Garron, the powerful knight-mage, driving the carriage while Elowen, the delicate spirit-user, sat inside with Aeldir.
Mid-journey, Ryn felt it first: a chilling, focused presence of hostile mana, cutting through the natural atmosphere. Elowen sensed it a moment later.
"Garron!" she cried out.
Before Garron could react, a volley of arrows struck the carriage. They were not bandits; they were knights in full regalia, wearing the colors of a rival kingdom, operating as an assassination unit.
"Stay inside and remain quiet, Aeldir! This is an ambush!" Elowen commanded, her tone steel. "They are trying to kill us. I am helping your father."
Garron erupted from the driver's seat, his massive frame radiating Earth mana. He instantly summoned his weapon—a Black Rock Greatsword—and met the charge. Elowen used Light Magic to place a rapid-cast healing barrier on Garron. The two fought with terrifying coordination—Garron protecting her while Elowen supported him, the pair slicing through the aggressive, disorganized line of twenty enemy knights.
Then, the cowardly attack: three knights peeled off, striking Elowen from behind with razor-sharp daggers, ripping a deep, devastating gash across her back. She collapsed, her Light Magic instantly failing.
Garron, hearing his wife's cry, turned his massive body in distraction. That single moment was all the assassins needed. A spear, wielded by their leader, pierced the joints of Garron's custom armor, plunging deep into his chest. Both parents collapsed onto the plain.
The remaining eight knights surrounded the carriage, exhausted but victorious.
"Did we not slaughter them?" one knight asked, breathing heavily.
Their boss spat on the ground. "No. They are too famous. Leave them here in this deserted plain. They will wish for death until it comes."
The knights seized Aeldir and began traveling in the opposite direction.
As the carriage rattled away, Ryn risked the last of his energy. He used his newly mastered, basic healing knowledge to cast a simple, slow Light Magic circle beneath his parents. It was a basic healing field, drawing ambient mana to keep their injuries from killing them immediately. It was fragile and slow, but it was all he could do without risking the vessel.
The knights traveled until nightfall, crossing the border of the Astravorne Empire. Exhausted, the guards quickly fell asleep.
Ryn took control.
He reached for the dagger strapped to the belt of the nearest guard—the man in charge of Aeldir's custody. Ryn hesitated, the old, disciplined morality warring with the raw instinct of survival. He is just a soldier following orders, he thought, but the memory of the spear sinking into Garron's chest solidified his resolve.
He suppressed the hesitation and drove the dagger once, quickly, into the guard's neck.
Ryn scrambled out of the carriage, snatching a small food bag and a coil of rope. He ran, using his wind magic theory to enhance the child's legs, flying across the rugged landscape until sheer exhaustion overwhelmed the young body.
He found refuge in a secluded, rocky canyon. Stumbling deep into a cave, he fell onto a patch of soft, unnaturally warm fur at the back. He collapsed instantly, the black void of exhaustion swallowing him whole.
He was awoken not by light or cold, but by a deafening roar that shook the stone around him.
Ryn opened his eyes. Standing over the terrified seven-year-old child was a dragon—a creature of rage and unimaginable power. He was sleeping in its nest.