The child did not understand what had awakened inside him.
Only that something was different.
When morning came, he opened his eyes to the familiar sight of animal-hide walls and the faint smell of firewood.
His small chest rose and fell slowly.
His body was still weak—fragile, thin, disappointing by barbarian standards—but beneath that weakness, a strange sensation lingered.
Warm.
Heavy.
As if something had settled deep inside his bones.
He focused on it instinctively.
Nothing happened.
His tiny fingers twitched, and the sensation faded, retreating into silence like a beast returning to sleep.
So it wasn't power he could control.
Not yet.
Still, the words from the dream echoed clearly in his mind.
You want to be strong.
But you never tried.
The thought stayed with him.
For the first time since his rebirth, he began to observe the world not as a helpless infant, but as someone searching for a path forward.
The barbarian tribe rose with the sun.
Warriors trained openly, their movements heavy and direct. There was no elegance, no unnecessary flourish—only raw strength.
Fists struck wood.
Feet crushed dirt.
Shouts echoed through the air as bodies collided.
Even the children trained early.
They ran.
They lifted stones.
They wrestled until one could no longer stand.
The child watched from the ground, sitting near the fire, wrapped in fur.
He understood something important.
In this world, strength was not optional.
It was survival.
At one year old, his body finally began to change.
Slowly.
Painfully.
He could stand for a few breaths before falling.
He could take a step—sometimes two—before his legs betrayed him.
Each failure sent a dull ache through his bones, but he welcomed it.
Pain meant effort.
Effort meant progress.
Others didn't see it.
To them, he was still weak.
But inside his small mind, something hardened.
If my body is weak, he thought, then I will force it to change.
It was not arrogance.
It was necessity.
One evening, he stood before his mother.
She was sharpening a blade, her movements calm and controlled. When she noticed him struggling to stay upright, she paused.
He looked up at her.
"I want… to be strong."
His voice was soft, uneven, shaped by a child's throat—but the intent behind it was clear.
She studied him for a long moment.
She did not smile.
She did not dismiss him.
She simply spoke.
"If you want strength," she said, "then you must move."
She pointed toward the distant outline of the Back Mountain.
"Run there," she continued. "And come back."
The child followed her gaze.
The mountain looked impossibly far.
Still, he nodded.
He did not understand distance.
Only resolve.
He ran.
At first, his steps were clumsy, uneven.
His feet struck the ground awkwardly, balance failing him again and again.
He fell within moments, palms scraping against dirt and stone.
His lungs burned.
He pushed himself up.
Ran again.
He did not make it far.
His vision blurred, strength drained from his small body, and darkness swallowed him.
When he woke, he was back by the fire.
His mother said nothing.
The next day, he ran again.
And again.
And again.
Each attempt ended the same way—collapse, exhaustion, fainting.
But something changed.
The distance he covered grew longer.
His legs adapted.
His breath lasted just a little more.
His body resisted—screaming, breaking, begging him to stop—but his mind refused.
The tribe noticed.
Some laughed.
Some ignored him.
Some watched silently.
By the time he reached two years of age, he could run without falling immediately.
He could stand without shaking.
His steps were still slower, weaker than other children his age—but they were his.
That was enough.
At night, when the world quieted, his brothers trained him.
They did not speak much.
They simply worked.
They lifted him when he fell.
They showed him how to push, how to grip, how to breathe through pain.
Push-ups until his arms failed.
Pull-ups until his fingers slipped.
Running until his chest burned.
Eight months passed like this.
The child learned something vital.
Strength was not sudden.
It was built.
By five years old, his body no longer looked fragile.
Thin—but solid.
Weak—but enduring.
He was still behind others his age.
But he was no longer helpless.
Then, during a morning run, everything changed.
His body felt heavier than usual.
Each step pressed harder against the ground.
His heartbeat grew loud, violent, echoing in his ears.
A pressure bloomed inside his chest, spreading outward like a tightening grip.
He stumbled.
Dropped to his knees.
Pain surged—not in muscle or bone, but deep within, as if something was tearing its way into awareness.
The air around him vibrated faintly.
The ground cracked beneath his hands.
Invisible force leaked from his body.
Aura.
He did know the word.
But the world reacted.
When he lost consciousness, his parents felt it.
His mother reached him first, lifting him carefully.
His father arrived moments later, his expression grave.
That night, Khoma was summoned.
Khoma was tall, broad, and silent.
His presence alone carried weight.
He knelt before the child when he awoke.
"So," Khoma said, "you awakened it."
The child met his gaze.
Khoma released a trace of aura.
The pressure struck instantly, forcing the child to the ground.
Fear surged—
Then resistance.
Something inside him answered.
Weak.
Unstable.
But real.
Khoma's eyes sharpened.
"I will train him," he said.
From that day on, the child's life changed completely.
Khoma's training was brutal.
He taught control before strength.
Awareness before force.
The child learned to feel his aura—not command it.
To endure its weight without letting it crush him.
He failed constantly.
Collapsed constantly.
But each time, he rose.
Slowly, painfully, the aura responded.
Not power—
Discipline.
The weak child was gone.
What remained was something unfinished.
Something dangerous.
And this was only the beginning.