We left the path. The girl just took my hand and pulled me away, no questions asked.
I was still on edge. My ears rang, my hands trembled. I felt like I was still back there—on the field, Somar shouting, wooden swords slicing the air. I looked down at my fingers, clenched tight around the hilt, and forced them open. My knuckles cracked.
Hopefully no one shows up later accusing me of maiming their kids and demanding compensation. Though… probably not how things work around here.
We reached a big tree by the river. The water was murky, but still. Now and then a splash broke the surface, frogs croaked nearby.
"Do you always fight like that?" she asked.
"Like what?"
"Like you don't want to stop."
"I didn't even want to fight at all…"
"But you did. You beat them with a wooden sword. They're probably dying from the shame right now."
"What? I hope not."
She was… strange. Something about her made me tense up. A subtle, crawling feeling, like I was looking at something not entirely human.
"My name's Sylphiette. But call me Sylphy, Rudeus."
"Alright."
She sat down by the tree and stared at the river. Probably the first time I'd talked to someone roughly the same age as this body.
"Locals don't like elves?"
"They don't like what they don't understand. Pretend they're not afraid, but they are." She paused, thoughtful. "I'm an elf. And I've got green hair…"
"Yeah, I noticed… Is that rare?"
"I wouldn't say I'm the only one, but if I see another with the same color in this village, I'll be surprised." She nodded. "You know, green hair's a sign of trouble."
"Trouble?"
She nodded again.
"It's a rare mutation. Laplace had it. So did the cursed Supard berserkers. That's why people don't like it."
Cursed berserkers. I'd heard of them—from Zenith, actually. Back when she used to read me stories, before I could read myself. I still remember the way she'd say it: "The most savage, the most cruel." Something like that. Now they were just boogeymen. Don't behave? The Supard will come and drag you away.
The girl looked clearly upset. I should probably say something.
"I like your hair color… it's really bright."
"Don't force meaningless compliments."
Well. I tried.
"People will be afraid of you too."
"Huh? Why?"
"You're weird. And a mage. That's strange."
"How do you know that?"
"Paul told me."
Paul? Why would he—oh, maybe he was talking to Rowls about something, and she overheard.
"You moved really well in that duel. Did Paul teach you?"
She stood up and began mimicking my moves. She held an imaginary sword, shifted her stance, circled around me. Everything was perfect—foot placement, wrist control, strikes.
"You've fought before?"
"No."
"Then did Rowls teach you?"
"No. I told you—never."
I watched her movements. Something about it felt off. Not because she was copying me—because she was doing it flawlessly. Like her body already knew what to do, and her mind didn't even have to think about it.
"Then how do you know all that?"
She froze. The tension disappeared, like it had never been there.
"It just happens. On its own."
"On its own?"
"It's always been that way."
I was never good at talking to kids. They exhausted me faster than any workout. Always spouting nonsense, waiting for reactions to their random thoughts, demanding attention. At this rate she might launch into some long story about how many frogs she'd caught, how many spots they had, and how deeply important all of it was.
"When I tried playing with other kids, I took someone's toy."
Here we go. I braced myself for the flood: how many toys she had, which were her favorites, which one broke, which one got lost, and how each of those events was somehow the most important thing in the world. As if I cared.
Time to wrap this up and head home. I'd done my good deed for the day, and my conscience was clean.
"It was a wooden deer. He tried to take it back. I broke his arm."
"Wait—what?" I stared at her. "Why?"
I almost answered on autopilot but then realized what she'd just said. Broke his arm. Not hit, not pushed, not scratched—broke. Calmly. Casually. Like she'd just dropped a toy.
"It was an accident. My body just moved," she shrugged. "Same thing back then. People don't like having their arms broken."
"...no one likes that."
"That's why I don't hit back when they pick on me," she added. She raised a finger to her lips. "People always look at me like I'm not supposed to… like I'm doing something wrong. Even when I'm doing what they do."
"You do get that breaking someone's arm is wrong, right?"
She nodded.
"That's why I don't take toys anymore."
Silence.
"I just watch. It's easier."
I looked at her and felt something strange. Not pity. Not fear. Something else. Like I wasn't looking at a kid, but at something half-tamed. Wild, but quiet. She didn't understand people. And they didn't understand her.
At first, I thought she was joking when she said her body moved on its own. But now I wasn't so sure. She said it without pride, fear, or regret. Just a fact. Breaking arms is bad. So don't take toys.
I glanced at the sky. The sun had climbed higher, beams of light filtering through the leaves. My stomach growled. Time to head back.
"I've gotta go," I said, standing up.
She nodded. Didn't ask why. Didn't offer to walk with me. Just nodded, then turned back to the river.
I took a few steps, then looked back.
"Sylphiette."
She looked up.
"If someone bothers you again, let me know."
"So you can beat them up?"
"So you don't break anything.
She smiled—barely. Just a small twitch at the corner of her mouth.
I turned and started walking home.
***
On my way back, I made sure to steer clear of the spot where the fight had gone down. Or was it a duel? Either way, the wooden sword I still carried bore the marks of it—gouges and deep dents from where it struck. A reminder of just how close things had been.
No matter how strong this new body was, no matter how good its genetics might be, I still had to deal with the age gap, height, weight. If that idiot Somar had decided to attack me with both his friends at once, I probably wouldn't have walked away on top.
I still couldn't figure out what made him suggest a fair duel. But I had to admit—he moved well.
Thinking about it, my new body was… off. In a good way. No normal five-year-old moved like that. I was already stronger, faster than I'd ever been before. Back in my old life, I couldn't run a hundred meters without risking a heart attack. Now? No sweat.
And the eyesight. No glasses. If I focused, I could track a fly mid-flight. Must be the mana. The books said everyone here had it. If that's true, it's no wonder people here are built different.
The adrenaline was still there, buzzing through my limbs. The fight had proved the training paid off. That I wasn't wasting time. Victory had a taste. Now I get why people get hooked on it.
Paul was already waiting on the doorstep. Zenith stood a bit further off, busy with something.
"Hey."
"Rudy, finally out of the house? How's the arm? Still hurt?"
Same old cheerful, laid-back tone. How does he even live like that?
"It's fine. Barely hurts anymore."
I glanced down at my arm. It had healed, mostly. Still some dull aching in the mornings, though. And the scars—that damn spell had left its mark. They could be faded with more magic, but that would take time.
"You could've told me when that magic tutor's finally showing up."
It had been weeks since Paul said he'd arranged for a tutor. I'd been waiting every day since. But the longer it dragged on, the more it felt like a bluff. They wouldn't lie to me... right?
"You ask that every single day," Paul chuckled. "Tutors aren't easy to come by. Especially ones willing to come out to a village like this. It's a long trip. Don't worry—someone'll show up."
Always so confident. Always sure of himself. I wish I had that.
Then his eyes locked on my collarbone. He stepped in immediately.
"What's that?"
"Hey—!"
He yanked my shirt aside and jabbed a finger at the spot. Pain shot through me like lightning.
Only then did I realize I had a huge, swollen bruise. Leftover from the duel—something I hadn't even noticed.
"And this sword? Not yours."
His face shifted. Sharper now.
"You got in a fight?"
"What?!"
Zenith's voice sliced through the air. She was already walking toward us.
"Well…"
I didn't know what to say. Admit I beat up three kids? Even if they weren't exactly innocent, it didn't sound great.
So why the hell should I feel bad? I stopped three morons from throwing rocks at a girl.
"I…"
"Rudy, you just got better today, and you're already out brawling?"
Zenith reached us and immediately scanned the bruise. Her eyes softened a second later—clearly nothing serious.
"Where? With who?"
"Well… it was…"
"You win?" Paul cut in, voice perking up with interest.
"Paul!"
"Oh, right—go on."
Didn't take long to explain what had happened.
Zenith listened quietly, occasionally shaking her head. Paul, on the other hand, was grinning wider by the second.
"Not bad! Not bad at all!" He slapped me on the shoulder, nearly making me jump. "Good job!"
"Paul! He just recovered from an injury and you're praising him for getting into a fight?!"
"Well, he won, didn't he? That counts for something."
Zenith narrowed her eyes but didn't say anything. I just stood there, lost in my own thoughts.
I'd won. I'd actually done it.
In my past life, I avoided fights. When I should've hit back—I stayed silent. When I had the chance to stand up—I turned away. I was afraid of being hurt worse, afraid of being broken, afraid of not getting up again.
But this time was different.
I hit them. I didn't flinch. I didn't run. I stood up to three of them—and they fell.
And I liked how that felt.