Four years had passed since that memorable morning when Kris had spoken his first words. The five-year-old boy who now ran through the family home was vastly different from the silent and distant baby he had once been. The invisible walls he had erected around his heart had gradually crumbled under Borel and Beatrice's constant love, giving way to sincere and deep affection.
Kris had made the conscious decision to restart his life. His first existence, marked by illness and abandonment, now belonged to the past. Here, in this warm house at the forest's edge, he was truly Kris Caldris—beloved son of devoted parents, a curious child full of life.
Winter had arrived early that year, wrapping their dwelling in a blanket of pristine snow. The wind whistled softly against the wooden shutters, creating a soothing melody that lulled their family evenings. It was on one of these particularly cold nights that Kris slipped into his parents' room, his small bare feet running silently across the frozen floorboards.
"Papa, mama," he murmured, climbing onto their bed with cat-like agility. "I can't sleep. It's too cold."
Beatrice smiled tenderly and lifted the blankets to welcome him between them. "Come here, my little wolf. You'll catch cold."
Kris snuggled against his parents' warmth, savoring this family intimacy he now cherished above all else. Borel wrapped a protective arm around his small family and gently stroked his son's hair.
"You know what," Borel said with a mischievous smile, "how about I tell you a story to help you fall asleep?"
Kris's eyes lit up. "A real story? Not a baby tale?"
"A real story," his father confirmed. "The most important story of our world. The story of the Great Holy War."
Beatrice turned to her husband with a surprised expression. "You think he's old enough to hear that?"
"He's five years old, and he's intelligent," Borel replied. "He needs to start learning about our world's history."
Kris settled in more comfortably, captivated by his father's solemn air. This story seemed different from the usual tales.
"Long ago," Borel began in a grave voice, "exactly three thousand years ago, our world was very different. Humans, Celestials, and even dragons lived in harmony. The Celestials were humanity's guardians, a role assigned to them by NEKO himself, the creator god."
"NEKO?" Kris interrupted, intrigued by this strange name.
"That's what we call the supreme god in our language," Beatrice explained. "The creator of all things."
Borel resumed his tale: "In those days, peace reigned. But this harmony was shattered when demons managed to open a dimensional portal—a void—that allowed them to cross from their abyssal realm into our world. They weren't alone."
Borel's voice grew darker. "With them came corrupted dragons, and at their head, the four Demon Kings of the Abyss. Together, they launched an unprecedented massacre. Humans and loyal dragons were decimated by the thousands."
Kris shivered, but not from cold this time. The story was taking a terrifying turn.
"The Celestials, faithful to their mission of protecting humanity, intervened," Borel continued. "The war was terrible, bloody. It lasted for decades. Finally, the forces of good managed to repel the invaders and kill most of the demons and corrupted dragons. But the four Demon Kings were too powerful to be destroyed."
"What did they do then?" Kris asked, eyes wide.
"They sealed them," Beatrice answered. "Imprisoned them in distant dimensions where they can no longer cause harm. That's how the Great Holy War ended."
Kris thought for a moment, his adult mind analyzing the story. "But papa, how did humans manage? I mean... facing demons and dragons, we're just ordinary humans."
Borel smiled with pride at his son's perceptiveness. "Excellent question. It's thanks to this."
Without warning, Beatrice extended her hand toward their bedroom's cold fireplace. Kris watched, fascinated, as a small orange flame appeared above her palm, dancing gracefully in the cold air.
It was the first time since his reincarnation that Kris had seen magic up close. His heart raced with excitement and wonder.
"Magic," Beatrice murmured, making the flame disappear. "That's our strength, it was our weapon against creatures more powerful than us."
Kris's eyes shone with new determination. "When I grow up, I'll become a magician! I want to learn to do that!"
Borel laughed softly. "Why not a swordsman instead? It's classier, don't you think?"
"Borel!" Beatrice immediately protested. "You want our son to get hurt? Magic is much safer!"
Kris looked at both of them, then declared with the confidence of his five years: "I'll do both! Magician AND swordsman!"
At these words, a strange expression crossed his parents' faces. Something that resembled worry, perhaps even fear. But it was so fleeting that Kris, despite his intelligence, didn't notice it.
Borel cleared his throat and simply said: "That won't be easy, my son. It will be almost impossible."
Without saying more, he turned on his side and closed his eyes. "Now, sleep. Tomorrow, you'll come with me to cut wood for the first time."
Kris fell asleep that night with his mind full of dreams of magic and adventures, unaware that his parents stayed awake long after, exchanging worried glances in the darkness.
The next morning, Kris woke before dawn, vibrating with excitement. This was the big day—his first outing to the forest with his father!
After a quick breakfast, Borel equipped his son with warm clothes and small fur-lined boots. "Stay close to me always," he advised. "The forest can be dangerous for a child."
They walked together along the familiar path that Borel took daily. The snow crunched under their feet, and the air was so pure it burned their lungs pleasantly. Kris looked at everything with wonder—the giant trees, animal tracks in the snow, sunbeams filtering through the branches.
Arriving in a clearing, Borel stopped before an imposing oak he had marked the day before. He drew his axe, a magnificent blade with a wooden handle polished by years of use.
"Watch carefully," he told his son.
What followed left Kris speechless. Borel didn't merely strike the tree with his axe. Each of his movements was surgically precise, almost artistically graceful. The blade traced perfect arcs in the air, biting into the bark at exactly the right spots. There was no visible effort, no hesitation. It was like watching a dancer execute a deadly choreography.
In just a few minutes, the giant tree fell exactly where Borel had intended, without damaging the surrounding vegetation.
"Papa..." Kris murmured, eyes wide. "That was... magnificent."
Borel wiped his axe with a cloth and looked at his son. "You have a good eye, little one."
"You were a swordsman, weren't you?" Kris asked with the perceptiveness that characterized his mature mind. "No one can handle a weapon like that without training. Why aren't you one anymore?"
Borel stopped dead. His hand tightened imperceptibly on his axe handle. He looked at his son for a long time, then sighed deeply.
"The time has come to tell you the truth," he finally said, his voice heavy with new gravity. "About everything I know of this world."
With these words heavy with promises and revelations, the echo of his voice was lost in the silence of the snowy forest.