Rion was still lying on the snow when footsteps approached.
Soft, light, and somehow angry.
Lorn.
She stopped beside his head and looked down like a disappointed cat owner.
"Get up. Class isn't over."
Rion jolted upright. "Huh? You told —"
"I changed my mind."
"…You can't do that?"
"I am older than you and more importantly I am your teacher," she said, flipping her hair. "I can do anything."
Rion sighed. "Women… unpredictable in every universe," he muttered in his mind. "Even in this world full of magic, dragons, but nothing is scarier than mood swings. Weather is more predictable than her."
Rion grumbled, brushing snow from his clothes. "That's illegal…"
"What was that?"
"Nothing!"
Lorn smirked and clapped her hands. "Stand. Today, I'll show you Spell Arts."
That woke him up immediately.
"You—You mean actual magic!?"
"Calm down. You look like a puppy seeing food." She took out her wand — a slender white stick carved with old runes. "To cast Spell Arts, you must speak the name aloud and use a wand. Understood?"
Rion nodded rapidly, eyes sparkling.
Lorn pointed her wand at a pile of snow.
"Watch closely."
She inhaled, flicked her wrist, and chanted:
"Ignis Flareum!"
A burst of bright flame exploded from the wand, instantly melting the snow into a steaming puddle.
Rion's jaw dropped so hard he almost swallowed snow.
"THAT'S… REAL MAGIC!"
Lorn twirled the wand casually. "Basic illumination spell. If this impressed you, your expectations are way too low."
She handed him a simple wooden wand. "Your turn."
Rion took it like it was a legendary treasure.
He swallowed and copied her stance.
He aimed.
He focused.
He took a breath.
He flicked his wrist.
And proudly chanted:
"Ignis Fl—"
The wand sparked.
Then fizzled.
Then died with a very sad puff.
He stared at it. "…Why does my wand hate me?"
"It doesn't hate you," Lorn said sympathetically. "You just have no idea how to use it."
"That doesn't make me feel better."
"It shouldn't."
Rion groaned.
Why is she like this…?
Lorn knelt and tapped his chest lightly with her finger.
"Listen. Before casting, you must channel your Essence through your body. Think of your Essence as a river. If the river doesn't flow, the spell doesn't form."
"That sounds complicated."
"It is. That's why you won't succeed today."
Rion sagged. "That was… honest."
"I'm allergic to false hope."
He straightened again. "Teacher… is it possible to cast magic without a wand?"
Lorn shrugged. "Of course. The wand only helps shape the spell. If you're strong enough, you can cast with bare hands. But that takes years of training and a lot of Essence."
She leaned closer.
"Which you currently do not have."
"…Can you stop attacking my pride?"
"No. Now go to your sword training before you make me regret this lesson."
And with that, she spun around like a strict librarian done with this chapter of the book.
Rion trudged away, wand drooping in his hand.
---
Rion arrived at the training ground where Paul was already warming up, swinging his sword with loud grunts that sounded suspiciously heroic… or constipated.
"Dad, I'm here."
Paul turned, eyes sparkling with fatherly excitement.
"Good! Come here, my talented boy!"
Rion started practicing immediately, attempting the forms his father taught him.
Attempting… failing… attempting again… failing again…
Why does everything hurt?!
Paul stomped closer. "You're too stiff. A sword isn't a punishment stick. It's an extension of your body!"
Rion puffed his cheeks. "Then why does your technique feel like punishment?"
Paul paused dramatically.
He winked.
"Because pain builds character."
Rion stared at him. "Father, that's not a real teaching."
"It is if you commit to it."
Rion shook his head. I swear he was dropped on his head as a child…
Paul clapped loudly. "Alright! Time for the technique demonstration!"
He raised his wooden sword with flair, like a performer about to unveil a masterpiece.
"This move is called—" he took a heroic pose "—The Heavenly Dragon Devouring Tempest Strike!"
Rion froze.
Then slowly, painfully, looked at him.
"…Father."
"Yes?"
"That is the worst name I have ever heard."
Paul gasped. "Worst?! I spent three weeks naming it!"
"That explains the problem."
Paul dramatically placed a hand over his heart. "My own son… betraying my artistic soul…"
Rion crossed his arms.
"The name sounds like a spell to summon your beer belly."
Paul gasped. "How dare—! This is pure muscle!"
"It jiggles when you move."
"It's WIND RESISTANCE!"
Rion rubbed his temple. "Forget it. Let's just call it something else…"
After a long debate and two snowball interruptions, they finally renamed it.
Paul sighed proudly. "Fine. The new name shall be… Whirlwind Fang."
Rion nodded. "Much better."
"Good! Now, keep practicing. And stop swinging like that — you look like you're trying to swat flies."
"…I hate that you're not entirely wrong."
Paul chuckled, but then his laughter faded.
He placed his sword down and looked toward the distant mountains, expression changing — softening, hardening, then settling into something heavy.
"Rion," he said quietly."have you ever wondered why you hold a sword? What its purpose truly is? Or why I abandoned my post in the Holy Empire?"
Rion slowed his practice. "Sometimes."
Paul planted the blade in the snow and leaned on it.
"When I was your age, I thought swords existed to destroy enemies. To keep peace through killing."
His voice sank low, heavy with long-buried memories.
"I killed countless people… brutally. Entire battalions, kingdoms. I killed so many, Rion… that I lost count. I massacred entire armies, Entire kingdoms. They called me the Reaper Knight."
Rion blinked. "You? Reaper Knight? But you can't even reaper your hairline—"
"HEY!" Paul snapped. "It's called mature hair!"
But he continued.
"No matter how much I killed, peace never came. My heart grew heavier. My anger grew deeper. War never brought peace… only more hatred."
He exhaled slowly and brushed snow from his blade.
"It never did."
Rion's hands tightened.
Paul continued, eyes far away.
"One day during a siege, I was heavily injured. I should've died… but your mother found me. She healed me. She was gentle… too gentle for someone drenched in blood like me. A woman who didn't believe in killing, even though I… was a monster."
Rion listened quietly.
"Through her, I learned something. Most people we called 'enemies' were just trapped. Victims of fate. Victims of war. Victims of orders."
He shook his head.
"I realized then that the sword isn't made for destruction. It's made for protection. For choosing who you stand with… not who you cut down."
Rion swallowed hard. His father had never spoken like this before.
"Holy Empire used me like a tool. But I couldn't abandon my oath. Not until I understood it. So with your mother… and the villagers they ordered me to kill… we fled. We hid."
He looked toward the distant forest.
"We fled. The Great Spirit sheltered us in the Fairy Land. Then we came here and disappeared from the world."
Rion breathed out slowly.
"So everyone thinks this is an ordinary village… but it's actually hidden."
Paul nodded.
"Yes. And the forest's boundary is the limit you should never cross."
He tapped Rion's forehead with one finger.
"Now… about the legend of Paul the Untold Knight—"
Rion immediately looked away.
Paul leaned closer.
"OI. LISTEN TO THE REST!"
"I already predicted the ending," Rion said.
Paul gasped in betrayal. "How did you know?!"
Rion pointed at him. "You literally promised Mother you'd always be loyal… and ended up with TWO women chasing you. I'm not surprised."
Paul flailed. "THAT WASN'T MY FAULT! THEY JUST— I WAS— IT WAS A TRAP!"
Rion sighed deeply.
Paul… is hopeless.
But he smiled anyway.
Because somehow, in Paul's chaos, warmth always found a way in.