Ikarus's days settled into a strange, peaceful rhythm.
Morning light always crept into the orphanage the same way—squeezing through cracked glass and thin curtains, painting crooked rectangles on the worn wooden floor. Dust motes drifted in those beams like lazy fairies, and the air smelled faintly of old books, soap, and yesterday's soup.
Marta turned one of the long tables into a "classroom" every morning. She would drag out a small stack of battered books, a slate, and a few pieces of chalk, then clap her hands.
"All right," she'd say, voice firm but kind. "Class is starting. Lina, sit down. Arun, don't run. Mei, Rian—eyes up here."
Lina always sat at the front.
She plopped herself down on the closest stool, elbows on the table, chin in her hands like the most serious student in the world. Her eyes, though, were bright with mischief, constantly darting toward the others as if daring them to misbehave.
"This is our continent," Marta said one day, spreading a rough, hand-drawn map across the table.
The ink was faded, but the shapes were clear enough—one main landmass, large and sprawling, and off to the side, a smaller shape surrounded by blue.
Lina squinted at it. "That's us, right? The little one?"
"Yes," Marta said, tapping the smaller land with her finger. "This is our home. A small but well-developed continent. Trade routes, towns, cities, guilds. Plenty of people. Plenty of trouble too, if you go looking for it."
Arun leaned forward, eyes shining. "And dragons?"
"Far north," Marta answered. "Maybe. Don't go looking for those."
Mei whispered, almost to herself, "Sorcerers live in towers near the big cities. I heard they control weather for nobles."
Marta gave her an approving nod. "Good memory."
Ikarus sat a little behind them, on a thin cushion beside the wall. In his hands was a small wooden block a carpenter had given the orphanage for the kids to play with. He rolled it between his fingers, pushed it along the floor, pretended to be absorbed in it.
But his ears were sharp.
"Our small continent has three main kingdoms," Marta went on. "The eastern one has strong mage guilds. The western one is famous for knights and swordsmen. The southern coast trades with the big continent."
Ikarus's eyes drifted over the map, memorizing the rough shapes and names. East—mages. West—swords. South—trade. He could feel his mind stitching the information together with what he already knew from overheard rumors and half-finished bedtime tales.
So that's where the sorcerers and famed swordsmen really gather, he thought. Good to know. Future problems, future opportunities.
He didn't raise his hand. He didn't ask questions aloud. He just watched and listened, head slightly tilted, absorbing everything.
From the doorway, Miya noticed.
She leaned her shoulder against the frame, arms folded, a faint smile touching her lips as she watched Marta teach. Her gaze wandered over the children until it landed on Ikarus.
He looked so small there—barefoot, hair a little messy, eyes too calm and focused for his age.
"You're listening too, aren't you, Ikarus?" Miya asked.
Every head turned. Ikarus blinked, caught.
He tilted his head up, meeting her gaze. For a heartbeat, there was a flicker of guilt—like a thief caught stealing—but then he gave a tiny, shy smile.
Miya chuckled. "Thought so. You're like me. Can't relax when there's something to learn."
Lina twisted in her stool to glare at him playfully. "Hey, you're not allowed to be smarter than me without asking permission."
Ikarus just looked at her, expression quietly amused. Inside, he couldn't help thinking, In my last life, no one cared if I was smart. Here, I can't even play dumb properly.
Marta shook her head, but the fondness in her eyes was impossible to miss. "If you're going to eavesdrop on lessons, Ikarus, at least sit at the table next time."
He wiggled slightly on his cushion and nodded once. He didn't move to the table, but the invitation was there, warm and patient. He'd take it eventually.
For now, listening from the edge was enough.
He was good at that—watching from the edges, collecting pieces, stitching worlds together in his head.
Just like before.
Only this time, he intended to do something with it.
The real problem started when everyone realized just how pretty he was.
It happened one lazy afternoon in the yard.
The sun was gentle, clouds drifting lazily overhead. The ground behind the orphanage was a mix of packed dirt and struggling grass, bounded by a crooked fence. A few chickens pecked in one corner, entirely unimpressed with the universe.
Ikarus sat on a low step, letting his bare feet feel the rough ground. Lina plopped down beside him, leaning back on her hands, hair messed up from chasing Arun.
Rian sat cross-legged in front of them, holding his always-present stuffed toy—a floppy-eared creature that might once have been a rabbit. Mei, quiet as ever, perched on a stone, knees pulled to her chest. Arun ran circles, making dragon noises.
After a while, Lina narrowed her eyes thoughtfully at Ikarus.
"Hey," she said, serious for once. "You know he's too beautiful, right?"
"Beautiful?" Arun skidded to a halt, nearly tripping. "Like… a girl?"
Lina frowned. "No, stupid. Like… like those painted boys and girls on festival posters."
Mei tilted her head. "His face is very clean. His hair too. He doesn't look like us."
Rian hugged his toy tighter. "He looks like a doll from a noble shop," he muttered. "Those ones behind glass."
Ikarus blinked, looking from one to another.
Doll? Glass? That's not reassuring, he thought. In my last life I was invisible. Now I'm a kidnapping risk because of genetics and luck? Great.
Arun plopped down beside him and leaned in, squinting. "If we take him to the market, someone will definitely try to buy him."
Lina's eyes sharpened. "They can try," she said flatly. "I'll bite their hand off."
Mei nodded solemnly. "We'll protect him."
Rian, in a show of solidarity, pushed his stuffed toy toward Ikarus. "You can have Mister Flop if you're scared."
Ikarus stared at the toy for a moment, then gave a tiny, helpless smile and patted its head. Inside, something tightened and softened at the same time.
In my old life, no one said they'd stand between me and danger. No one even noticed when it was coming.
Here, four kids with nothing to their names were ready to fight imaginary kidnappers for him.
Before he could sink too deep into that thought, a familiar presence approached.
Marta stepped out the back door with a small basket of laundry. She paused at the sight of them all gathered around Ikarus like a protective circle.
"What's this?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.
Lina pointed dramatically. "Sister Marta, we have decided something very important."
"Have you?" Marta humored her. "Do I want to know?"
"Ikarus is too beautiful," Lina announced. "We have to guard him. Or nobles will steal him."
Marta looked at Ikarus.
He met her eyes, cheeks a little pink, torn between wanting to disappear and wanting to laugh.
Marta's lips curved in a tired, amused smile. "Looks aren't everything," she said. "But… yes. He'll have to be careful when he's older."
Miya's voice drifted from the doorway, where she'd leaned to listen. "He'll be fine," she said. "He's sharp. And apparently, well-guarded."
Lina puffed up. "Obviously."
Ikarus dropped his gaze to his hands.
If my face draws trouble, he thought quietly, then my sword, and my power, will just have to be enough to send it away.
◇ ◆ ◇
Nights belonged to training.
When the lanterns were blown out and the orphanage sank into soft breathing and faint snores, Ikarus slipped inward.
He lay on the thin mattress between Lina and Rian, blanket up to his chin, thumbnail in his mouth to complete the illusion of sleepy child. Lina's hand often flopped across his stomach, pinning the blanket. Rian's toy sometimes ended up under his arm.
Marta slept against the far wall, sitting up, head tilted down. Miya's shadow moved occasionally behind the curtain that separated her small space from the main room.
Ikarus waited until the room's sounds smoothed into the steady rhythm of deep sleep.
Then he closed his eyes for real and sank.
His awareness slid away from the stiff mattress, the warmth of small bodies pressed against him, the faint smell of wood and soap. Down, past the surface of his thoughts, into that internal space he'd claimed as his training ground.
The inner world had changed since the first time.
What had once been a vague, foggy expanse was now clearer, more defined. A flat plane of dull stone stretched out under his mental feet, dark but solid. Above, there was no sky—just an endless, calm darkness.
Straight lines glowed faintly on the ground. Three of them, side by side, like lanes on an invisible road.
The system's work.
[Training Mode: Movement Enhancement – Active.]
Text appeared in the air before him, clear as ink on paper.
[New Task Set:
– Task 1: Visualize Three-Line Step (Forward, Back, Side).
– Task 2: Maintain balance center while stepping.
– Task 3: Sync blade line with foot placement.]
Ikarus looked down at his imagined feet.
He wore simple shoes here, but he could feel the texture of the stone under them, the subtle pressure shifts when he shifted his weight.
"You're getting fancy," he thought. "Drawing lines for me now."
[Host's previous method was 'swing randomly and hope,'] the system replied. [I am preventing you from wasting my time.]
He snorted. "Your time? Whose soul are we in again?"
[Shared space. Don't make it worse.]
He let that go. The sarcasm was familiar now, almost comforting.
He raised his hand.
A straight wooden sword appeared, materializing with a simple, satisfying weight. Grip, balance, length—it all felt real enough to matter.
"Three-Line Step, huh?" he murmured inside. "Fine. Let's do this properly."
He placed his mental right foot on the center glowing line, left foot slightly behind, shoulder-width apart. His stance felt awkward at first—a little too wide, a little too stiff.
He adjusted. Relaxed his knees. Lowered his center of gravity.
He inhaled, exhaled.
Then he stepped forward along the center line and let his blade follow the motion.
The sword's arc was smooth, cutting through phantom air in a clean diagonal. He focused on every tiny sensation that should be there—the shift of weight, the pull of imaginary muscles, the line of the cut from shoulder to hip.
By the time the swing finished, his mental forehead was damp with nonexistent sweat.
Dizziness brushed the edges of his awareness.
"Already?" he muttered. "Come on. I've crammed harder than this for exams."
[Host's current brain is four years old, not twenty-plus,] the system reminded him. [Overstrain is possible. Adjust expectations.]
He ignored that and reset his stance.
"Again."
Step forward. Cut.
Step back. Guard.
Step to the left line. Cut again.
Each time, the system dropped small notes into his awareness.
[Left knee too straight. Slight bend recommended.]
[Blade drifting three degrees off target. Correct wrist angle.]
[Center of gravity lagging half a beat behind foot—synchronize.]
It was like having a relentless teacher tapping his form with a stick.
Annoying. Absolutely necessary.
He repeated the sequence slowly, then a little faster, then slower again when speed made the form crumble.
Time had no real meaning here, but he could feel fatigue gathering. His thoughts began to blur, shapes fuzzing at the edges.
"Last set," he told himself. "Then sleep. Small steps. Small steps become big ones."
He completed one more careful cycle of the three-line pattern, making sure each cut landed clean in his mind.
Then he let the sword dissolve and allowed his awareness to drift upward, back toward the warmth of the real world.
When he opened his physical eyes a sliver, the ceiling was dim, familiar cracks crawling across the plaster. Lina's hand was still on his stomach. Rian's toy had migrated onto his chest.
He felt tired, but in a satisfying way.
The system hummed quietly in the back of his mind, satisfied too.
[Motor imagery effective. Neural patterns adapting.]
"Good," he thought, before sleep claimed him for real. "We keep going."
Days slid into weeks. Weeks into months.
Life at the orphanage remained simple, sometimes hard, but steady.
In the mornings, he watched Marta turn scraps of paper and half-faded ink into lessons. Lina argued with her own mistakes and bragged when she got things right. Mei absorbed facts quietly, storing them somewhere deep. Arun asked about knights and monsters. Rian just liked any story that had animals.
Ikarus sat a little closer to the table now. Sometimes Marta let him hold the chalk. Sometimes Miya would pass him a small book and say, "You can't read this yet, but you can get used to the feel of it."
He got close to Miya in small, quiet ways.
They were both watchers.
She'd find him sitting in a corner, studying the pattern of light on the floor or the way dust floated. She'd sit beside him, not saying much, just sharing the silence comfortably.
"You think too much," she told him once, ruffling his hair. "That's dangerous and useful. Try not to let it eat you alive."
He looked up at her calmly.
Already did, once, he thought. Not letting it happen again.
At midday, he helped in ways that didn't look like work. Passing bowls, holding doors, distracting crying children with funny faces. It wasn't much, but it made him feel less like dead weight.
Afternoons belonged to play.
Lina dragged him into every game, whether he wanted to or not. She named him "prince" more often than not, which he privately found hilarious.
"I'm not a prince," he told her once, when he could get a word in.
"You look like one," she said simply. "That's enough."
Arun roared and pretended to be a dragon. Mei stitched torn sleeves with careful fingers. Rian positioned his toy as a brave guardian at Ikarus's feet.
Evenings were quieter. Stories, chores, the small rituals of their little world.
And nights… nights were his.
He returned again and again to his inner dojo, following lines on the ground, refining stance, swing, and now chains of movement.
When his mental footwork stabilized, the system added new tasks.
[New Task Set:
– Chain two cuts with minimal wasted motion.
– Maintain balance during simulated push from front.
– Recover stance after overextension.]
Sometimes it simulated resistance—an invisible force pushing against his swing, forcing him to adjust.
Sometimes it introduced slight "time pressure"—subtle, but enough to test whether his forms held up under strain.
It wasn't perfect. Without a real body, there were limits. But experts in his old world had once proven that this kind of mental practice—motor imagery—could genuinely improve future performance if done seriously.
He was definitely serious.
By the time he approached his fourth year in this world, the dojo had changed again.
The ground no longer felt alien. It was familiar under his mental feet, solid in a way his small real body couldn't match yet. The three lines had multiplied, forming patterns—forward and diagonal paths, arcs around phantom targets.
The sword in his hand moved like an extension of his intent. Not perfect. Not yet. But smoother. More precise. Less clumsy.
He learned to feel where a cut would land before he swung. How a slight change in weight would change the angle. How overcommitting would leave him open.
All in his mind. All saved for the future.
The system watched.
And one night, something shifted.
It happened after a particularly long session.
He had just finished running through a complete sequence—step forward, cut, shift left, cut low, retreat, guard. The motions flowed together almost naturally.
His focus held until the last imaginary swing.
As the blade completed its arc, a sudden clarity filled him. Not a new thought, but a deeper understanding of something he'd been fumbling toward.
The system chimed.
[Status Update – Major Threshold Reached.]
A translucent panel appeared, larger and more detailed than before.
[Status]
Name: Ikarus
Age: 4
Level: 2
Magic: 5
Stamina: 6
Strength: 6
Will: 80
[Swordsmanship Interface]
Rank: Novice (Solid Foundation)
XP: 420 / 800
Perception: 45
Form & Technique: 18
Footwork: 20
Blade Control: 15
Killing Intent: 0
Traits:
– Mental Swordsman (Medium)
– Stubborn Will (Enhanced)
– Early Pattern Reader
(Host learns new movement patterns and rhythms faster than average.)
New Manual Unlocked:
– Beginner Footwork: "Three-Line Step"
Integration: Mental – 100%, Physical – 10%
Effect: When body begins physical training, base footwork will already be partially optimized.
Notes:
– Divine Lust System: Suppressed (Stable, Bound by Will 80).
– Divine Eye: Locked (Resonance increasing with Perception).
– Infinity: Observation Phase Complete. Transition to "Guided Growth" available.]
Ikarus studied the panel slowly.
Will 80 at age four. In another life, that number would have been a joke. Here, it was proof—of surviving betrayal, of refusing a divine lust system, of grinding invisible training for years when his body couldn't yet follow.
"Trauma as a stat boost," he thought dryly. "At least it's paying rent."
His gaze drifted to the Swordsmanship section.
Perception 45. Form 18. Footwork 20. Blade Control 15. All from shadows and thought.
When I finally pick up a real sword, he realized, I won't be starting from zero. It'll feel… familiar. Like stepping into a role I've rehearsed a thousand times in my head.
The "Three-Line Step" manual glowed faintly.
Mental 100%, physical 10%.
"So my mind walks correctly," he murmured inwardly, "but my legs will still trip a bit."
[Enough to fall less than others,] the system answered. [Your body will adapt quickly when practice begins.]
He shifted his attention downward.
"Divine Lust System: Suppressed (Stable)."
He still remembered that first surge of filthy power, the way it had tried to burrow into his instincts. It was quieter now, distant, like something sealed behind layered doors.
His left eye throbbed faintly at the thought. A reminder that some prices had already been paid.
"Divine Eye: Locked," he read. "Resonance increasing with Perception."
"So the more I refine my view—angles, lines, intent—the closer that gets to waking up, huh?" he mused.
[Correct.]
His thoughts settled on Infinity next.
"Observation Phase Complete," he repeated. "Transition to Guided Growth available."
"…You've just been watching this whole time?" he asked.
[Data collection is necessary.]
[Host's choices have been… interesting.]
He didn't bother to answer that.
The final lines of the update flickered, and new text appeared.
[Advisory: Host's mental proficiency in swordsmanship has reached a plateau relative to physical capacity.]
[If physical training does not begin, further growth will be inefficient.]
[Recommendation: initiate basic body conditioning and foundational magic practice.]
Ikarus exhaled slowly.
"So even you're telling me to get off the mental couch and touch grass," he said.
[Correction: 'Touch ground, swing real sword, channel mana.']
"Same difference."
He let the panel fade and let himself float back up, out of the dojo, into his small, sleeping body.
The room was exactly as he'd left it.
Lina snored softly, one arm flung over his stomach. Rian cuddled his toy like it was a shield against the world. Mei slept curled like a cat. Arun sprawled everywhere, limbs a mess.
Marta dozed against the wall, head bobbing occasionally, never fully relaxed. Miya's silhouette moved once behind the curtain, then stilled again.
Ikarus lay there, eyes open just enough to see their shapes in the dark.
He thought of his first life—alone, unwanted, dying in shock and confusion.
He thought of his second birth—dropped, discarded, saved only by a woman who'd decided to disobey.
He thought of the last few years—laughter, lessons, shared blankets, mental swings in the dark.
I've built a map in my head, he told himself. Sword lines, footwork patterns, movement rhythms. I've turned pain into will and knowledge into practice.
His hand shifted under the blanket until his fingers brushed Lina's.
She grabbed his hand in her sleep and squeezed, as if assuring him she wasn't going anywhere.
But this is a world of magic too, he went on, heart steady. If I ignore that, I'm just handicapping myself for no reason.
He closed his eyes fully.
"System," he called silently.
[Listening.]
"Tomorrow," he said. "We start for real. Physical training—slow, controlled—and I want to learn how to sense mana. I'm done being just a mental swordsman."
[Request acknowledged.]
[Preparing basic conditioning plan and beginner mana sensitivity exercises.]
[Reminder: host is still physically—]
"If you say 'squishy' again," he warned, "I'm uninstalling you."
[Empty threat. System is soul-bound. Still, noted.]
A faint, exasperated warmth touched his thoughts. He almost smiled.
Sleep pulled at him, heavy but soft this time.
He let it take him.
He'd been forsaken twice. He'd crawled from nothing, built strength in the only place he could—his mind. Now his stats told one story, his body another.
That would change.
He had a family to protect. A world to survive. Old ghosts to one day face—Noah, Elara, Caelan, and whoever else stood behind them.
To do that, he needed more than mental swords and pretty stats.
He needed muscle, magic, and momentum.
In the dark, as his breathing evened out, one last thought drifted through Ikarus's mind:
I've prepared long enough. It's time to make this body and my magic catch up to the will that refused to die.