The village did not return to normal.
That was the first thing he noticed.
People spoke more quietly now. Doors remained barred longer into the morning. Children were no longer allowed to wander freely, and every adult carried something in their hands—tools, knives, spears—whether they had reason to or not.
Fear had settled in.
Fear always changed people.
The Archmage observed it all from his mother's arms, his expression placid, unremarkable. No one noticed the way his eyes lingered a second too long on certain details—the reinforced doors, the poorly repaired wards, the subtle flow of mana around the village perimeter.
They believed the danger had passed.
He knew better.
The beast that had attacked them had not been alone in origin, even if it had been alone in body. Creatures like that did not appear without cause. Something in the nearby forest had shifted the balance.
"Corruption," he concluded. "Or influence."
Either way, this would not be the last incident.
His father healed slowly.
The wound had been deep, and without magical treatment, infection was a real concern. The Archmage monitored it closely, subtly influencing the ambient mana around the injury whenever his mother wasn't looking—just enough to encourage circulation, to strengthen resistance.
Nothing overt.
Nothing traceable.
The result was acceptable.
"You're lucky," the healer muttered after examining the arm days later. "That should've festered."
Luck had nothing to do with it.
But the attention worried him.
Too many eyes were already turning toward
their home.
It began with whispers.
"Did you see how fast that beast fell?"
"I heard something strange happened near that house."
"Didn't they say the ward flared?"
Rumors were dangerous things.
They spread faster than mana, and they were far harder to control.
The Archmage understood this well.
In his previous life, entire kingdoms had fallen not to spells, but to words.
He needed to redirect attention.
Fortunately, humans were predictable.
He began to cry more often.
Not constantly—just enough.
At inconvenient times.
At night.
During conversations.
During tense moments.
A child's cries were disruptive, irritating, and wonderfully effective at pulling focus away from more important thoughts.
"Sorry," his mother would say, flustered. "He's been fussy lately."
People stopped talking.
They stopped thinking.
The suspicion dulled.
"…Effective," he assessed.
Still, not all eyes could be deceived so easily.
He sensed him before he saw him.
Mana.
Refined.
Measured.
Controlled.
A mage had entered the village.
Not the wandering hedge-mage from before.
This one was different.
Stronger.
More disciplined.
His presence pressed against the ambient mana like a weight, bending it subtly toward order.
The Archmage remained still, suppressing his presence instinctively.
"Someone noticed," he thought. "As expected."
The man arrived openly, wearing robes marked with a sigil the Archmage did not recognize.
That alone told him enough.
A regional authority.
Possibly affiliated with a guild.
Possibly worse.
The villagers gathered quickly, drawn by curiosity and hope.
"A mage!"
"Maybe he'll deal with the forest."
"Thank the gods."
The Archmage watched from the edge of the crowd, cradled against his mother's shoulder.
The mage's eyes swept across the villagers calmly, analytically. He was middle-aged, his mana stable and dense—likely Fourth Circle.
Respectable.
Dangerous.
His gaze paused briefly on the repaired ward near the Archmage's home.
Then—
It shifted.
For a fraction of a second, it lingered on the child.
The Archmage felt it immediately.
A probe.
Gentle.
Professional.
He tightened his suppression, folding his soul inward like a sealed grimoire.
The mage frowned slightly.
Then moved on.
"…Interesting," the Archmage thought.
Not suspicion.
Not yet.
Just curiosity.
The mage introduced himself and spoke of the beast, of corruption in the forest, of precautions. He examined the corpse briefly, expression darkening.
"This isn't natural," the mage said. "Something is feeding mana into the area. You should avoid the forest."
Murmurs spread.
Fear deepened.
The Archmage listened carefully.
Every word mattered.
When the mage finished, he turned to leave—but stopped.
His gaze returned.
This time, it went directly to the Archmage's father.
"You," the mage said. "You fought the creature."
"Yes," his father replied cautiously.
"Tell me exactly what happened."
The recounting was simple. Honest. No embellishment.
The mage listened, eyes narrowing slightly when the ward was mentioned.
"That ward activated without a caster?" he asked.
"Yes."
"…Strange."
The Archmage's heartbeat remained steady.
He had accounted for this.
The mage nodded slowly. "Be careful. If anything unusual happens again—send word."
With that, he left.
The village exhaled.
But the Archmage did not relax.
That mage would remember.
And memory led to return.
That night, he reviewed his actions carefully.
"What did I expose?" he analyzed.
The ward flare had been risky—but necessary.
The mana resonance had been contained.
No direct spellcasting.
No witnesses.
"…Acceptable."
Still, the margin for error was shrinking.
He would need to grow stronger.
Faster.
But not recklessly.
Over the following weeks, he adjusted his training.
Mana circulation remained once per day—but he refined the method.
Shorter duration.
Cleaner flow.
Less strain.
He introduced body conditioning—subtle muscle tension, controlled breathing, posture alignment. Techniques designed not for strength, but for durability.
A mage's body was a vessel.
A broken vessel limited even infinite power.
Progress was slow.
Painful.
But steady.
One night, something changed.
As he circulated mana, the familiar pain did not spike as sharply as before. The flow remained thin—but smoother.
The mana core pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
It stabilized.
His eyes widened slightly.
"…I see."
The foundation had formed.
Not a circle.
Not yet.
But a path.
He stopped immediately, unwilling to push further.
This was enough.
More than enough.
Days later, the mage returned.
This time, he did not announce himself.
He went door to door.
Asking questions.
Observing.
Measuring.
When he reached their home, the Archmage was ready.
He cried.
Loudly.
Persistently.
His mother apologized profusely as the mage stepped inside.
"No problem," the mage said, though his eyes flicked briefly to the child.
Again.
The probe came.
Stronger this time.
The Archmage allowed it to touch the surface—just enough to confirm what the mage expected.
A normal child.
A faint mana core.
Nothing else.
The mage's brow furrowed.
"…Strange," he murmured again.
But he found nothing.
When the mage left, the Archmage relaxed.
Not fully.
But enough.
"He's cautious," he thought. "But not convinced."
That was acceptable.
Suspicion without proof was harmless.
As long as it remained that way.
That night, the Archmage lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
"This world is watching," he concluded.
Which meant—
It was time to prepare for a future where hiding alone would no longer be enough.
The child closed his eyes.
The foundation was laid.
The first thread had been woven.
Soon—
The world would begin to notice not a monster…
…but a prodigy.
And that would be far more dangerous.