1989, St. Augustine's Orphanage, London
Early in the morning, the sun was still hidden behind a pale horizon, and the air hung cool and sharp, damp with the scent of dew.
In the courtyard of Horace Orphanage, a boy stood barefoot on the grass, a length of wood clutched in his hands. His ashen-brown hair clung damply to his forehead, and his emerald-green eyes held a distant, dazed look.
The stick he wielded was crude—one end thick, the other unevenly tapered—but in his grip, it moved with striking fluidity. It sliced the air in clean arcs, each swing drawing a crisp, hissing sound.
His feet shifted with unhurried precision, every step flowing into the next until his movements resembled a dance—measured, deliberate, graceful. And with every repetition, the dance refined itself. Each motion grew sharper, cleaner, more precise.
Minutes slipped by. The sun broke through the morning clouds. Pale light spilled into the courtyard, gilding the cracked stone and damp grass in a soft glow.
From the orphanage building behind him came the creak of floorboards and the patter of footsteps. A burst of laughter followed as a group of children spilled into the ground-floor corridor. Spotting the lone figure in the courtyard, they paused and began whispering among themselves.
"Look at him, dancing with a stick again," one boy jeered.
A girl cupped her hands to her mouth. "He's been at it for a year now. The older kids say he's practicing to be a… scarecrow!"
Their laughter rang through the corridor. After a few more mocking remarks, the group shuffled off toward the mess hall.
As the morning wore on, more children emerged. Each, upon catching sight of him in the courtyard, added their own insult or snicker before hurrying along to breakfast.
But Merlin gave no sign of noticing. His stick continued to trace steady arcs through the air. His face betrayed nothing; his eyes seemed distant, unfocused—as if deaf to their jeers.
And in truth, he was.
What his eyes saw, the others could not. What his ears heard, no one else could reach. His body remained in the courtyard of Horace Orphanage, but his mind… his mind was elsewhere.
"You can stop now," said a firm voice.
Merlin stopped and looked up to see that the world around him had changed. The stick in his hands had become a real sword.
He was no longer in the orphanage. Instead, he stood in a broad garden lined with bare trees, the ground hard-packed and frosted at the edges.
A cluster of houses lay further down the slope, their chimneys puffing thin trails of smoke into the gray sky. Behind him rose his own home: a sturdy, two-story house built of timber and stone.
The air was sharp with winter cold, sending shivers through his sweat-soaked body. Heavy clouds blotted out the sun.
A tall, broad man with short brown hair and pitch-black eyes stood a few paces away. He had a trimmed beard and wore a padded gambeson beneath simple steel plates—light training armor.
"Today's training ends here," Albert said, his gaze filled with satisfaction.
"But Father, I can still continue," someone beside Merlin protested.
Merlin turned to see his brother Ralph wearing a discontented look. He had their father's black eyes and the same brown hair. Two years older than Merlin, Ralph stood a full head taller, his lean but solid frame looking nothing like that of a normal thirteen-year-old.
Even after an hour of sword practice, he showed no trace of fatigue—not even a drop of sweat. His posture remained perfectly upright, like a sturdy pine tree.
Merlin looked down at his own trembling hands clutching the sword and muttered under his breath,
"What a brute."
Perhaps he spoke too loudly, or perhaps Ralph's ears were simply too sharp. Either way, his brother's face twisted into a scowl. "Who are you calling a brute, you scrawny shrimp?"
Merlin spread his hands and spoke calmly, as if stating a simple fact. "Of course I'm calling you a brute—who else is here? And I'm neither scrawny nor a shrimp. I'm perfectly normal for my age. You're the one who's abnormal."
"You little—" Ralph's knuckles whitened around his hilt as he stepped forward, his voice dangerously low. "Are you looking for a beating?"
Merlin smirked, unfazed. "If that's what you want, by all means, try. But you'd only be proving my point."
Albert watched his two sons bicker back and forth and could only shake his head helplessly. Ralph's temper really needed to change. To be so easily provoked by mere words could be fatal at a critical moment. He didn't want his son to lose his life over such a small mistake.
Both of his sons were gifted in their own ways. Ralph wasn't the brightest mind in the room, but his remarkable endurance and near-monstrous stamina gave him a lot of room for maneuver. On the path of the knight, given enough time, Albert had no doubt his eldest would surpass him one day.
Merlin's strength, on the other hand, lay in his mind. Ever since he began speaking, the boy had shown maturity and intelligence far beyond his years, mastering in months what took others years to learn. He possessed a tireless curiosity and an unrelenting thirst for knowledge.
His progress in swordsmanship was equally astounding. Despite Ralph's two-year head start, Merlin had caught up in just six months. Now, aside from the physical difference imposed by age, his form and technique were nearly identical to his brother's.
Albert's lips curved into a faint smile tinged with regret. He would have made a fine knight but it was a pity. Having inherited his mother's talent, Merlin was destined to be a mage—just like her.
"That's enough, you two," he said finally, stepping between them before things escalated further. His tone left no room for argument. "I have an announcement to make."
He continued once he confirmed he had both of their attention. "We won't be practicing swordsmanship anymore. Both your forms and techniques are nearly perfect now."
Merlin blinked, lowering his sword, while Ralph frowned.
Albert's gaze fell on his younger son first. "From tomorrow, you'll begin learning magic from your mother."
Merlin froze. For a moment, the words didn't register. Then his eyes lit up, and his face blossomed with unhidden excitement.
"As for you, Ralph," Albert continued, turning to his elder son, "you'll be sparring with me. I'll drill enough combat experience into you before you register as an adventurer."
Ralph's earlier irritation melted into a grin. "Really?" he asked, barely containing his excitement.
Albert chuckled softly. "That grin will be wiped off your face soon enough."
He sheathed his sword and adjusted his gambeson. "Now, I have to report to the village hall. You two should head inside—your mother will have breakfast ready by now."
After wishing him a good day at work, the brothers watched Albert stride off toward the center of the village before turning back toward the house.
Inside, the home was modest yet cozy, with a crackling fireplace to ward off the winter chill, plush armchairs, and warm wooden walls. Compared to the crisp air outside, the interior was filled with the comforting aroma of frying eggs and freshly baked bread. The faint crackle of firewood came from the hearth, its glow spilling into the tidy kitchen.
Their mother, Elena, stood by the counter, a lock of golden hair slipping from her braid as she bent over a pan. The morning light streaming through the window caught in her emerald eyes, making them glimmer like polished jade. She glanced up as the door opened, her lips curving into a gentle smile.
"You're back," she said, setting the spatula down. "Go and wash up. Breakfast will be on the table in just a moment."
"Yes, Mother," Merlin replied obediently, already unlacing his boots by the doorway.
Ralph, however, smirked and darted past him. "Last one to the washbasin is a lazy slug!" he shouted, bounding upstairs toward the bathroom.
Merlin rolled his eyes at the childish provocation. Honestly… where does he get that enthusiasm?
Running again after an entire morning of drills? Merlin had to say no to that. He was a perfectly sane and rational person who just happened to have an entire lifetime of experience rattled in his head. With that thought, he straightened his back and walked calmly up the stairs at his own pace, ignoring the distant sound of Ralph's triumphant laughter from above.
....
At that very same time, in the courtyard of Horace Orphanage, the other Merlin had already set aside his stick and was wiping the sweat from his face with a handkerchief.
His muscles still trembled faintly from the constant motions. Exhaling deeply, he folded the cloth, slipped it into his pocket, turned on his heel, and quietly made his way toward the cafeteria.