The first rays of dawn painted the sky in shades of amber and rose, casting long shadows across the cleared training ground behind my cottage. Ten years had passed since my rebirth into this world—ten years that felt simultaneously like a lifetime and a fleeting moment.
I sat cross-legged on the sandy ground I'd painstakingly prepared four years ago, carving out this sanctuary from overgrown wilderness with nothing but determination and raw magic. The cottage had come with a wild, tangled backyard that stretched far beyond what any normal family would need. Perfect for someone with unconventional training requirements.
My eyes remained closed as the morning breeze whispered across my bare torso, carrying with it the scent of dew-kissed grass and the distant fragrance of wildflowers that had begun to bloom along the property's edge. In my previous life, meditation had been a mere ten-minute ritual—a brief mental cleansing before diving into the chaos of modern existence. Here, with time stretching endlessly before me. I'd extended my practice to a full half hour each dawn.
The difference was profound. This wasn't just mental clarity I sought, but something far more tangible.
In this world, meditation wasn't simply about peace of mind—it was about communion. As I breathed in the crisp morning air, I could feel the magical essence that permeated everything around me, invisible threads of power that connected earth to sky, plant to stone, life to life. Four years of dedicated practice had taught me to recognize these currents, to invite them into my being and forge a deeper symbiosis with the very fabric of reality.
With each inhale, I drew not just oxygen but wisps of pure magical energy. With each exhale, I released the mental barriers that separated my consciousness from the greater flow. My magical reserves had grown substantially through this practice, but more importantly, my sensitivity to magic itself had sharpened to an almost supernatural degree.
The familiar warmth of magical essence flowed through my meridians like liquid starlight, strengthening the pathways that channeled power throughout my body. I could feel my magical pool expanding, drop by precious drop, as if I were a vessel slowly increasing its capacity to hold the ocean.
As the sun crested the horizon, painting my eyelids with gentle orange light, I gradually surfaced from my meditative state. My eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the brightening world, and I unfolded my legs.
"What a magnificent morning," I murmured, a satisfied smirk playing across my lips as I watched the sun climb higher, burning away the last wisps of morning mist. I stretched my arms oveIsabellad, feeling my spine align and my shoulders release the last vestiges of sleep.
The real training could begin now.
I moved to the center of my makeshift dojo—a patch of ground worn smooth by years of dedicated practice. My feet found their position automatically: shoulder-width apart, weight evenly distributed, knees slightly bent. My hands rose to chest level, fingers curled into loose fists that could strike or grapple with equal efficiency.
Krav Maga. The contact combat system developed by the Israeli military. In my previous life, I'd spent three years learning it from a grizzled ex-soldier who'd made it clear from day one that this wasn't about sport or show—it was about survival. "Neutralize the threat," he'd growled during our first lesson. "End the fight before it begins."
I'd never imagined I'd be practicing those same deadly techniques in a world where magic flowed like water.
My right fist shot forward with explosive speed, cutting through the air with a sharp whistle. The impact with empty space created a small sonic boom, a tremor that rippled outward from my knuckles and shook the leaves of nearby trees. The raw physics of the strike were impressive enough, but the magical enhancement I'd been developing added an entirely new dimension of power.
Without pause, I pivoted on my left foot, my right leg sweeping up in a devastating arc. The kick sliced through the morning air with enough force to shatter stone, creating another miniature shockwave that sent ripples across the surface of a small pond twenty feet away.
This was the fusion I'd been working toward—the marriage of earthly combat expertise with otherworldly power. Each technique from my Krav Maga training served as a foundation, but now I was building something unprecedented on top of it. Magical energy didn't just enhance the strikes; it transformed them into something that transcended mere physical combat.
My assimilation ability had made learning the original techniques almost effortless, muscle memory and fighting instincts integrating into my new body as if I'd been born with them. But adaptation—that was the real challenge. Taking something designed for one world and reshaping it for another required creativity, patience, and no small amount of trial and error.
I flowed through the forms with increasing intensity, each movement precise and economical. A hammerfist strike that could cave in a ribcage. An elbow thrust designed to shatter a jaw. A knee strike that could drop a grown man in his tracks. But now each technique carried threads of magical power, amplifying force, increasing speed, adding elements that no earthly martial artist could have conceived.
As I trained, sweat began to bead on my forehead and trickle down my chest. The physical exertion was real—magic might enhance my abilities, but it couldn't replace the fundamental conditioning that made techniques effective. Every muscle fiber had to be trained, every reflex honed to razor sharpness.
The hour passed in a blur of controlled violence and flowing movement. Strike, pivot, block, counter. Each sequence built upon the last, creating a symphony of martial prowess that would have been impossible in either world alone. By the time I finally stopped, my entire body glistened with perspiration, and my breathing came in steady, controlled pants.
I stood in the center of my training ground, surveying the subtle signs of my workout. Small craters in the sand where my feet had dug in for particularly powerful strikes. Displaced air that had disturbed the grass in geometric patterns. Even the morning birds had fallen silent.
The transformation I'd undergone over these ten years was nothing short of extraordinary. Physically, I'd grown from a confused reincarnated soul into something that bordered on superhuman. Magically, I'd evolved from someone who could barely sense ambient magical energy into a practitioner capable of feats that would astonish seasoned mages.
If anyone discovered what I was truly capable of at my apparent age, the word "monster" would be the kindest term applied to me. But that was a problem for another day.
Raising my right hand toward the sky, I reached out with my magical senses and gathered moisture from the air itself. Water droplets condensed from nowhere, forming a perfect sphere of crystal-clear liquid that hovered three feet above my upturned palm. The orb grew larger and larger until it contained several gallons of refreshing water, held together by nothing more than my will and magical manipulation.
With a mental command, I released my hold on the sphere.
The water crashed down on me like a personal waterfall, cascading over my hair and shoulders, washing away the sweat and grime of training. The shock of cold water against oveIsabellated skin sent a delicious shiver through my entire body, and I couldn't suppress a satisfied sigh.
"Ah, now that's refreshing," I murmured, running my hands through my dripping hair and shaking droplets from my fingertips.
"You'll catch your death of cold, little brother."
I turned toward the sound, water still dripping from my hair, to find Rosaluna standing at the back entrance of our cottage. She held a thick, cream-colored towel in her hands.
My sister had an uncanny ability to time her appearances perfectly. Whether through magical intuition or simply knowing my habits better than I knew them myself, she always seemed to materialize just as I finished my training, ready to fuss over me like a mother hen despite being only two years my senior.
At twelve years old, Rosaluna was beginning to shed the last vestiges of childhood. The changes were subtle but unmistakable—a new grace in her movements, a lengthening of her limbs, and most notably, the first delicate hints of the stunning beauty she was destined to become. Her features, which had been merely pretty in childhood, were sharpening and refining themselves with each passing month.
Even now, I could see why the village boys had started stealing glances at her whenever we walked through the market square. Their admiration was written plainly across their faces, though they were far too intimidated by her magical prowess and our family's reputation to do more than stare from a respectful distance. At least some of them…
I extended my hand toward her, expecting the usual routine. "Thank you, sister."
But instead of tossing me the towel as she normally did, Rosaluna let out a long-suffering sigh and crossed the small distance between us. Her bare feet made soft patting sounds against the damp earth as she approached, her expression a mixture of fondness and mild irritation that I'd come to associate with her more maternal moments.
"Hold still," she ordered, reaching up to drape the towel over my head.
What followed was less drying and more aggressive scrubbing, as if she could somehow banish every drop of moisture through sheer determination. Her movements were brisk and efficient, but I could feel the careful control behind each motion. As she worked, I noticed something remarkable—the towel itself was generating a gentle warmth that had nothing to do with friction.
The fabric glowed with the faintest amber light, so subtle that someone without magical sensitivity might have missed it entirely. Rosaluna was channeling her fire magic through the towel, using precise temperature control to accelerate the drying process while ensuring the heat never became uncomfortable against my scalp.
The level of magical finesse required for such a technique was extraordinary. Fire magic was notoriously difficult to modulate—most practitioners could manage dramatic effects like fireballs or flame walls, but delicate temperature manipulation required both tremendous skill and perfect emotional control. One moment of distraction, one flicker of irritation or excitement, and she could have singed my hair or worse.
Yet here she was, making it look effortless.
Within minutes, my hair was completely dry, each strand soft and warm to the touch. I ran my fingers through it appreciatively, marveling once again at the casual mastery my sister displayed with her abilities.
"What a reliable talent you have there, big sister," I said, smoothing my hair back from my forehead with a grateful smile. "Perhaps you could teach me that technique sometime."
The words came out easily enough, but they carried a bitter undertone that only I could hear. The truth was, no amount of teaching would help me replicate what she'd just done. While I'd grown tremendously in magical power over the past decade, my abilities lay in entirely different areas. Fire magic remained as elusive to me as ever, and the gap between Rosaluna's natural affinity and my own limitations had only widened with time.
She was a prodigy in the truest sense—someone whose magical talents developed almost faster than she could learn to control them. Meanwhile, I had to rely on different strengths entirely, abilities that I kept carefully hidden from everyone, including her.
"Get dressed already," she said with fond exasperation, reaching out to flick my forehead with her index finger. The gesture was playful but carried just enough force to sting slightly—a sisterly reminder that standing around half-naked wasn't particularly dignified.
I nodded and quickly pulled on the clothes I'd left folded on a nearby tree stump. A simple linen shirt the color of fresh cream, dark brown breeches that had seen better days but remained comfortable, and sturdy leather boots that could handle both village streets and forest paths. Nothing fancy, but practical and well-made.
"Where's mother?" I asked as I finished lacing my boots, falling into step beside Rosaluna as we headed toward the front of the cottage.
"Already down at the merchant square," she replied. "She left before dawn to get the best selection. We should hurry if you don't want to miss anything interesting."
I made a noncommittal sound, though privately I wondered what "interesting" could possibly mean in the context of traveling merchants visiting our small village. Most of the traders who passed through carried mundane goods—farming tools, basic clothing, preserved foods, perhaps some minor magical trinkets for those with coin to spare. Still, there was always the possibility of stumbling across something unexpected.
As we walked through the village streets, I became acutely aware of the attention we drew. It had been less noticeable when we were younger, but as we'd grown older, our unusual appearance had become increasingly difficult to ignore. Our hair, white as fresh snow and practically luminous in sunlight, marked us as different from everyone else in the village. Combined with our distinctive pink eyes—a color I'd never seen on another living soul—we stood out like exotic birds among sparrows.
The stares weren't hostile, merely curious and sometimes appreciative, but they followed us wherever we went. Young women would cluster together and whisper behind their hands when they saw us approach. Men would pause in their conversations to nod respectfully, though whether that was due to our appearance or our mother's reputation as a skilled healer, I couldn't say.
A group of three girls, perhaps a year or two older than myself, had gathered near the baker's shop. They were trying to appear casual, but I could see them stealing glances in our direction while pretending to examine the morning's fresh bread. When our eyes met, they immediately began giggling and nudging each other with obvious delight.
I couldn't resist. Raising my hand in a friendly wave, I offered them my most charming smile—the expression I'd perfected through years of social interaction in both lives.
"Hyaaa!" The collective squeal that erupted from the group was loud enough to turn heads from three streets away. They dissolved into a fresh fit of giggles, their faces flushed pink with excitement and embarrassment.
The reaction was gratifying, if unsurprising. Even accounting for my unusual coloring, I'd been blessed with what people generously called "striking features" in this life. Sharp cheekbones, a well-defined jawline, and eyes that seemed to catch and hold light in interesting ways. Combined with the confidence that came from retaining memories of my previous existence, I'd discovered that charm came remarkably easily in this world.
Perhaps even more easily than it had on Earth, where social interactions had required considerably more effort.
"What exactly do you think you're doing?" Rosaluna's voice had a note of warning as she delivered a sharp elbow to my ribs.
I rubbed the spot where she'd jabbed me, maintaining my innocent expression. "Just acknowledging my admirers, dear sister. After all, I might end up marrying one of them someday. Or perhaps," I added with sly smile, "all of them."
The change in Rosaluna's demeanor was immediate. Her expression darkened like storm clouds gathering on the horizon, and I could feel the temperature around us rise by several degrees.
"Absolutely not. You are far too young to be thinking about marriage or romantic entanglements of any kind. We can revisit this conversation in ten years, and not a moment sooner."
Ten years? I barely managed to keep my expression neutral at the pronouncement.
No way I can hold back this long.