A month of training taught me that the body remembered only the life it had lived.
My mind knew how to run.
It remembered wet grass under boots, cold air scraping my throat, the weight of a scout’s pack, and the rhythm needed to move quickly without wasting breath. In my first life, running had meant messages, warnings, escape routes, enemy patrols, and sometimes the difference between reaching camp alive or becoming another shape in the mud.
Running itself was not unfamiliar.
This body was.
Short legs changed everything. Balance came from a different place. My arms swung too wide if I stopped paying attention. My feet landed too loudly. My breath was smaller than I expected, and my pride remained much larger than was useful.
Light jogging sounded simple until I had to do it as Ubuyashiki Haruya, five years old, under Mother’s watchful eyes, with Hinaki asking whether we could go faster every few breaths.
We trained anyway.
One day became five. Five became ten. Ten became a month.
Light jogging first. Stretching after. Water after that. Rest when Mother ordered it. No holding my breath. No secret extra training. No pretending I was fine when my legs wanted to become string.
That last rule was the hardest.
The system watched everything with its cold little windows.
Physical Conditioning Lv. 5 progress increased.
Body Control Lv. 27 progress increased.
Endurance progress increased.
Some days gave nothing visible. Some days gave progress. A few days gave warnings.
Condition: Fatigued. Training efficiency reduced. Rest recommended.
The first time that appeared, I tried to continue anyway.
Mother noticed before the system could complain again.
“Haruya,” she called.
I slowed, then stopped.
She stood at the edge of the garden with her hands folded into her sleeves. Her face was calm, which meant I was already defeated.
“You are breathing differently now,” she said. “Come here and sit for a moment.”
“I can finish the path first, Mother.”
“You probably can,” she said, which surprised me. Then her gaze sharpened. “But that is not what you promised me.”
I looked toward Father for support.
He was seated near the veranda, a blanket over his lap, scarred skin visible along his face. He gave me the gentle smile of a man who loved me and had no intention of saving me.
A betrayal.
I walked back and sat.
Mother crouched in front of me and placed the back of her fingers lightly against my cheek, then near my neck. She was not panicking. She was checking. That made it harder to be annoyed.
“You are warm,” she said. “Not dangerously, but enough.”
“I only wanted to complete the routine.”
“I know.” Her voice softened. “That is why I am stopping you before wanting becomes forcing.”
Father spoke from the veranda. “A leader who cannot stop himself must be stopped by others. It is better to learn that here, with your mother, than later when the cost is higher.”
I wanted to argue.
I could not find a good argument.
Wisdom +1
The system rewarded surrender. That felt unfair, even if it was correct.
By the end of the month, my body had changed. Not greatly. I was still five. I still had small hands, short legs, and the reach of a child trying to steal sweets from a high shelf. But I no longer tired after three garden paths. My steps landed better. My breathing stayed calmer. Stretching no longer felt like negotiating with hostile limbs.
One morning, after the last stretch, a window unfolded.
Physical Threshold Reached
Strength has reached 10.
Agility has reached 10.
Endurance has reached 10.
Physical stat display updated. Physical stats at 10 or higher are now counted in full points. Future increases will require greater training load, recovery, nutrition, and meaningful physical adaptation.
I stared at it.
Then I opened my status.
Status
Name: Ubuyashiki Haruya
Title: Ubuyashiki Heir
Race: Human
Age: 5 Years
Level: 1
Condition: Healthy, Warm, Focused
HP: 100/100
Stats
Strength: 10
Agility: 10
Endurance: 10
Intelligence: 47
Wisdom: 35
Charisma: 16
Luck: 20
For a while, I only looked at the numbers.
Ten.
It was still small. Any trained swordsman could have folded me like paper. Any demon could have killed me before I finished calling for help. But compared to the baby who once celebrated moving three fingers, ten felt like a wall reached and touched.
Mother watched me from the veranda.
“You have that look again,” she said.
I closed the status. “What look?”
“The one where you are very pleased with yourself and trying to hide it because you think serious boys should not look pleased.”
Father laughed softly into his sleeve.
I felt my ears warm. “I reached a goal.”
Mother’s expression softened. “Then you may look pleased, Haruya. A child should be allowed to enjoy reaching a goal.”
“It was a small one,” I said.
Father looked at me with quiet warmth. “Small goals are often the only kind that become real.”
I decided that afternoon was the right time to ask.
I waited until after lessons. Father had been teaching me about the Corps’ chain of reports, how crows carried urgent messages and how human messengers confirmed what could not be trusted to speed alone. Mother had corrected my posture twice and my phrasing once. My sisters had been sent to play outside, which was helpful because Hinaki treated serious conversations like locked doors that existed to be broken.
I sat before both of them and bowed properly.
Mother immediately narrowed her eyes.
“You practiced that bow,” she said.
I froze. “Was it wrong?”
“No. It was too careful.” Her mouth curved slightly. “That usually means you want something.”
Father set down the paper in his hand. “Your mother has discovered your strategy before you began.”
“That is unfair,” I said.
Mother folded her hands. “It is very fair. I have been watching you since you were born.”
That was difficult to argue against.
Father smiled. “Tell us what you are asking for, Haruya. Slowly, and without trying to win the whole discussion in one breath.”
I took in air, then let it out.
“I want to adjust my training.”
Mother’s smile faded, though not completely. Concern replaced it before fear could. Father did not refuse immediately, which was progress.
“The jogging and stretching helped me,” I said. “I can feel the difference. I breathe better, I move better, and I recover faster than I did before.”
“We have seen your progress,” Mother said. “We are proud of it.”
That almost derailed me.
Pride from Mother was more dangerous than refusal. Refusal could be pushed against. Pride made me want to sit quietly and be good.
Father must have noticed, because his voice stayed gentle. “Being proud of you does not mean we will agree to everything. Continue.”
I nodded. “I want to add more body conditioning. Still safe. More balance, more strength work, and more practice controlling my breathing. I also want to begin swordsmanship basics with a wooden practice sword, if someone experienced thinks it is safe.”
Mother closed her eyes for a moment.
Father lowered his gaze.
The silence was not angry. It was worse. It was afraid.
Mother opened her eyes again and spoke carefully. “Haruya, when you say swordsmanship, your father and I do not hear a child playing with a stick in the garden. We hear the path of the Demon Slayers. We hear injury, exhaustion, and danger. You understand why that frightens us, do you not?”
“I understand why it frightens you.”
“That is not quite the same as understanding the danger itself,” she said.
She was right.
I hated that she was right.
Father reached for the cup near him but did not drink. “A five-year-old body can be strengthened, but it can also be damaged. Training done too early or too harshly can take away more than it gives.”
“I do not want harsh training,” I said. “That is why I am asking instead of trying alone.”
Mother’s gaze sharpened. “You thought about trying alone?”
I realized my mistake too late.
Father’s expression changed in the small way that meant he was not angry, but he was very much a father now.
“Haruya,” he said, “answer your mother properly.”
I lowered my eyes. “I thought about it. I did not do it.”
Mother was quiet for long enough that my stomach tightened.
Then she sighed and reached across the table, brushing her fingers lightly over my hair. “Thank you for telling the truth. Do not make me discover such things after the fact. I would be far less calm.”
“I know, Mother.”
“I am not sure you do,” she said. “But you are learning.”
Father’s voice softened again. “Tell us the rest.”
I placed my hands on my knees and made myself speak clearly. Not quickly. Not like a thief explaining why his hand had found someone else’s bread. Like a son asking to be trusted with a little more weight.
“If I train alone, I may harm myself. If I guess, I may learn wrong. If I push too hard, the curse wins earlier. So I am asking to try under someone who knows bodies, swords, breathing, and limits. Someone who can stop me before my pride becomes foolish.”
Mother’s expression shifted at the word pride.
Good. That part had been for her.
Father asked, “And why do you want this so badly?”
I had many answers.
World Travel. Muzan. The curse. The system. The body I needed before age eight. The helplessness of knowing danger existed while I remained too young to stand between it and anyone.
I chose the answer that belonged to Haruya, not Noir.
“Because I am the heir,” I said.
The room went quiet.
I continued before my courage could thin. “I do not want that title only when people bow to me. I do not want to wait until I am older and find that everyone has already carried my duty for me. You are teaching me reports, names, roads, letters, and people. I am grateful for that. But the Corps is built from people who use their bodies until they break. If I am meant to lead them one day, I should begin understanding that burden too.”
Father’s eyes did not leave mine.
Mother’s face had become very still, but her eyes were soft. That was almost worse.
“I know I am young,” I said. “I know I am weak compared to any swordsman. I am not asking to pretend otherwise. I am asking to begin correctly. One day of training, then rest. A wooden sword only if allowed. Breathing only if taught safely. If Mother says stop, I stop. If Father says stop, I stop. If the instructor says stop, I stop.”
Mother looked at me for a long time.
Then she said, “You sound very grown when you speak like this.”
I did not know how to answer.
Her hand rested over mine. “But you are still five. That means your father and I must sometimes be careful for you, even when you are trying to be careful for yourself.”
“I know.”
“I need more than knowing,” she said. “I need you to accept it. When we tell you to rest, it is not because we doubt your resolve. It is because we love the child who carries it.”
That struck harder than a refusal.
I bowed my head.
“I will accept it, Mother.”
The system appeared.
Speech Lv. 24 progress increased.
Speech Level Up.
Speech Lv. 25 reached.
Proficiency Milestone Reached: Convince your parents
Reward: Charisma +2
Speech function improved: The user can now express complex intent with improved clarity, emotional control, and age-appropriate phrasing. Persuasive effect remains dependent on trust, timing, listener relationship, social context, and the truthfulness of the user’s words.
Passive: Verbal Clarity +15%
I almost lost my focus reading it.
Charisma could wait. My parents could not.
Father looked at Mother.
Mother looked at Father.
Something passed between them. Concern. Pain. Love. A conversation too old for words.
Then Father turned back to me.
“I know what it is to grow under the shadow of this curse,” he said. “I know what it does to a child’s thoughts when every year feels borrowed. Part of me wants to tell you to stay small for as long as you can.”
His hand moved toward the scarred side of his face, stopping before he touched it.
“But keeping you unprepared would not protect you. It would only protect us from watching you struggle.”
Mother’s fingers tightened around mine.
Father’s smile was small and tired. “That would be selfish of us.”
“It would be human,” Mother said quietly.
“Yes,” Father agreed. “But still selfish.”
I did not move.
Father continued, “You may try.”
My heart jumped.
Mother lifted one finger before I could speak. “Your father said you may try. He did not say you may throw yourself into training like Hinaki throws herself into puddles.”
From outside, faintly, Hinaki shouted about something.
The timing was perfect enough that Father coughed into his sleeve.
Mother ignored it with impressive dignity.
“You will train one day, then rest the next,” she said. “On rest days, you will continue your lessons with us. Reading, reports, manners, writing, and family duties will not disappear because you have discovered wooden swords.”
“I understand.”
“You will train only under supervision,” Father added. “The instructor will decide what is safe. If your condition worsens, training stops until we decide otherwise.”
“I understand, Father.”
“No real blade,” Mother said.
“I will not use a real blade.”
“Not even if someone leaves one nearby.”
“I will not touch a real blade.”
“Not even if Hinaki dares you.”
“I will not touch a real blade even if Hinaki dares me.”
Father’s mouth curved. “That answer was very specific.”
“It needed to be,” I said.
Mother sighed, but this time there was warmth in it.
Father said, “A wooden practice sword may be allowed if the instructor approves. Breathing exercises may begin only as basic breath control until someone qualified judges otherwise. Body conditioning will increase slowly.”
The tightness in my chest loosened.
“Thank you.”
Mother reached across the table and cupped my cheek. “Do not thank us by being reckless. Thank us by keeping your promise.”
“I will.”
Father looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. “Then we will begin properly.”
My sisters found out before evening.
I blamed Hinaki. She had a talent for sensing withheld information and attacking it until it surrendered.
“You are going to train with swords,” she announced, not asked.
“With a wooden sword, maybe,” I said. “And not every day.”
“That still counts,” she said. “I am coming too.”
Kuina appeared behind her. “I am also coming, because if Hinaki goes alone, she will make the rules wrong.”
Nichika smiled. “I should come to make sure both of them behave.”
Kanata said nothing. She only looked at me, which was worse.
We sat in the garden near the stone lantern. The sun was lowering, and the air smelled faintly of damp leaves. I had expected this argument. I had not expected it to feel so uncomfortable.
“You cannot come with me at first,” I said.
Hinaki crossed her arms. “Why do you get to go first?”
“Because this training is not a game for me.”
“It is not a game for me either,” she said, indignant.
“I know.” I softened my voice. “But Father and Mother allowed it because of the curse and because I am the heir. They are already worried. If all of us rush in, they may stop everything.”
Kuina frowned. “That sounds like something adults would do.”
“It is exactly something adults would do.”
Nichika tilted her head. “So we should sneak?”
“No,” I said immediately. “That is also something adults would stop.”
Kanata finally spoke. “You are going because you are the big brother.”
I looked at her.
Then at all of them.
“Yes,” I said. “I am your big brother. Only by a little, I know. But still.”
Kuina muttered, “Very little.”
“Still,” I repeated, and she allowed it.
I chose my next words carefully.
“The curse comes for boys in our family. Father has it. I will have it too. That means I have to learn how to carry it before it reaches me. If the training is safe, maybe later you can learn some parts too. But I need to go first and learn where the ground is dangerous.”
Hinaki’s expression changed.
Kuina stopped fidgeting.
Nichika’s smile faded into something more thoughtful.
Kanata looked down at her hands.
“I am not doing this because I am better than you,” I said. “I am doing it because I want to protect you. Even if all I can do right now is learn first, then that is what I will do.”
Hinaki kicked at the dirt. “I can protect people too.”
“I know you can.”
“I am fast.”
“You are very fast.”
“Faster than you.”
“Most of the time,” I said.
She frowned.
I corrected myself. “Nearly all of the time.”
That pleased her.
Kuina moved closer and gripped my sleeve. “You cannot get hurt.”
“I cannot promise that.”
Her eyes narrowed.
I put my hand over hers. “But I can promise to follow the rules. I can promise to stop when I am told. I can promise not to hide if I get hurt. That is a better promise.”
Kuina did not like it, but she nodded a little.
Kanata looked up. “And you will rest?”
“Yes. One day of training, one day of rest.”
“You will not turn rest into secret training?”
I looked away.
Kanata kept staring at me.
“I will not turn rest into secret training,” I said with a laugh.
A window appeared.
Leadership Lv. 1 progress increased.
Leadership Level Up!
Charisma influence successful.
No stat increase this time.
That was fine. Their faces mattered more.
The next morning was a rest day, which felt like punishment disguised as wisdom. I read with Father, practiced writing with Mother, and tried not to stare toward the garden every time a crow called outside.
By afternoon, my sisters decided I needed distraction.
That was how the dice appeared.
They were small bone dice with dark marks on each side, brought by Nichika from somewhere she refused to name. Mother would have asked. I decided not to, because I wanted to see what game they had invented.
Nichika placed them between us with great ceremony.
“It is a very simple game,” she said.
I immediately distrusted her.
Hinaki grabbed the cup. “We shake, roll, and the highest number wins.”
Kuina placed a red bead in the middle of the floor. “The winner gets this.”
“Where did you get that bead?” I asked.
Kuina closed her hand around it. “From a place.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is my answer.”
Kanata sat beside me. “You should roll last.”
“Why should I roll last?”
“Because you think too much, and if you roll first, you will think while everyone else waits.”
That was unfair.
Also accurate.
We played.
Hinaki rolled high and shouted like she had slain a demon. Kuina rolled low and accused the floor of betrayal. Nichika rolled exactly what she needed twice in a row, which made me suspicious. Kanata rolled quietly and won when no one was paying attention.
Then it was my turn.
I took the dice in my hand.
Luck had always been strange on my status. Twenty from the beginning. Whole and unmoving. A gift from the impossible string of chances that had let me steal my reincarnation package.
I had assumed Luck only existed.
Maybe that was wrong.
I shook the cup once, gently. I did not pray. I did not command. I simply focused on chance as something I was touching.
The dice rolled across the floor.
High.
Hinaki groaned. “That is unfair. You looked too serious.”
Kuina narrowed her eyes. “Again. Serious rolling should not count unless everyone can do it.”
Nichika smiled. “I agree. Again.”
We played again.
Sometimes I won. Sometimes I lost. But after several rounds, just as Nichika leaned too casually over the dice cup, the system opened.
Luck+1
I stared at the message.
Then at the dice.
Then at my sisters.
Kuina shook the cup with great seriousness. “This time, I will win properly.”
Hinaki leaned forward. “I will win more properly.”
Nichika looked far too innocent.
Kanata glanced at me. “You are thinking again.”
I picked up the dice.
“I am.”
“Are you thinking about winning?”
I rolled the dice in my palm, a small smile tugging at my lips.
"Of course!”