Downstairs, the warm aroma of simmering soup drifted from the kitchen, filling the small dining area with a comforting scent. A man with messy dirty-blond hair and sharp blue eyes sat at the wooden table, restlessly fidgeting with something in his hands—an old wooden trinket, worn smooth from years of use.
He glanced toward the stairs the moment he heard footsteps.
"Cecil… how is he?" he asked, concern clear in his tone.
His wife, a beautiful woman with long black hair, had just come down the stairs. But instead of answering, she walked right past him, heading straight toward the kitchen—ignoring him completely.
He flinched. Uh oh.
"W-Wait—Cecil, hold on!" He sprang from his chair and hurried after her. "I said I'm sorry, okay?"
She stayed quiet, reaching for a ladle as if he didn't exist.
"It's my fault," he admitted quickly, grabbing her hand before she could walk away. "I shouldn't have left him alone while he was up on that tree."
She paused but didn't turn to face him. Her silence was far from forgiveness.
"And?" she asked, her voice calm—but dangerous.
He swallowed. "And I shouldn't have given him the idea to train magic up there," he added guiltily. "But—I mean—can you blame me? Our son's a prodigy. His mana control is insane, even compared to nobles in the capit—"
She cut him off by pressing a slender finger to his lips.
"We don't talk about the past," she said softly, yet firmly. Her expression eased just a little. "Not anymore."
He sighed and nodded, knowing she was right.
She gave him a small smile and pulled her hand away. "He's coming downstairs. I'll bring the soup to the table."
With that, she walked off toward the kitchen once more, leaving him standing there—both relieved and scolded at the same time.
Roy sighed in defeat and sat back down just as footsteps came from the stairs.
Lance entered the room. Ten years old. Black hair still slightly messy from sleep, blue eyes calm but thoughtful. He had changed into a simple shirt and trousers and still had faint bandages around his head.
"Morning," he said casually, taking his seat.
Roy leaned forward immediately. "Does it still hurt?"
"A little," Lance replied. "But I'll be fine after Mom's soup."
Cecil placed a bowl in front of him, smiling gently. "Eat slowly. It's hot."
Lance lifted the spoon and took a sip. Warmth spread instantly through his body—his fatigue faded, and his head throbbed less.
'Cooking Magic,' Lance thought. 'Mom's cooking magic, allowed her to create food with special effects—healing, energy recovery, temporary strength boosts, night vision, even mana recovery.
It reminded him a lot of Charmy from the Black Bulls. Given enough mastery, his mother might even reach something similar to Charmy's food magic support miracles.
His father, on the other hand…
Roy grinned proudly. "See? Your old man told you—training builds character! Like they say, 'no one ever walked without falling!'"
Cecil smiled sweetly and reached out to him.
Roy froze.
Twist.
"GYAAAAA—MY WAIST!! WHY?!"
"Because," Cecil said calmly as she tightened her grip, "you're the reason he keeps getting hurt."
"But pain builds courage! H-Honey—mercy!! MERCY!!"
Lance watched this family comedy unfold with a straight face, sipping soup this didn't feel unfamiliar at all this is like the memories was him personally not a foreign memory even the habbits matches with my past life.
'Dad deserves that.'
His father was a lovable idiot—but a genius in his own right. He possessed Script Magic—a rare and extremely versatile type that allowed him to produce almost anything if he could write it down. But it had a massive weakness: it was slow. Very slow.
For something as simple as a sword, Roy had to write its shape, weight, material, size, durabilit, color sharpness —everything—or it wouldn't work that too only until his mana runs out the sword vanishes. In battle, he'd be dead before writing two words. So instead of combat, Roy used his magic to craft magical tools and artifacts and sell them for income.
His mother ran a small pharmacy in town.
That meant one thing—they weren't poor. In fact, compared to most villagers, they lived rather comfortably.
Lance finished the soup and set the bowl down. He couldn't help but glance at his hands again.
What magic does he have will I inherit mother or fathers magic attribute or get something different I could only guess.