The first thing Lancelot knew… was that he was.
There was no confusion, no blur of instinct, no helpless drifting into awareness. He did not become conscious—he arrived that way.
Cold.
That was the first sensation his fragile skin could truly grasp. Then pressure. Then sound—distant at first, muffled, like voices underwater. His thoughts formed clearly, sharply, far too structured for something that had only just taken its first breath.
So this is birth.
He could not open his eyes properly. Light stabbed through them in broken fragments, forcing them shut again. His limbs moved without permission, twitching, weak, uncoordinated—unreliable. A prison made of flesh too small, too undeveloped to obey him. Inconvenient.
Voices became clearer.
"…a boy…"
"…healthy…"
"…thank the heavens…"
He listened. Not because he necessarily wanted to—but because there was nothing else he could do. He could not speak. Could not focus his vision. Could not control his body. But he could think. And so, he listened. Hours passed. Or perhaps Days. Time was… difficult to measure. But patterns began to form.
His father's voice—rough, steady, often tired. A man who worked with his hands. His mother's voice—gentler, warmer, though laced with a quiet strain. She spoke to him often, even when he could not respond.
"…I hope you grow strong…"
"…maybe a knight… or a mage…"
"…anything better than this life…"
He absorbed it all. Concepts began to take shape. More voices came and went. Heavier footsteps. Metal shifting. Guards, likely. They spoke freely, carelessly, unaware, or perhaps simply unbothered, of the infant listening from a cradle in the corner.
"…heard the capital has a new Archmage…"
"…ten circles, it isn't anything new, but it still gives me the chills…"
"…bah, magic's not everything. Give me a Swordmaster any day…"
"…you'd lose your head before you drew your blade…"
Lancelot pieced it together slowly. Different paths. Magic. Sword. Perhaps more. Different names, different systems—but equal in weight.
Balance, he thought.
Even now, barely able to move his own fingers, he understood that much. His body, however, remained a problem. He attempted to lift his arm. It trembled… rose… then fell uselessly back beside him.
Pathetic.
But not permanent. Because unlike others—he knew. He knew what he lacked. He knew what he needed. He knew what was possible. And more importantly—He had time. Plenty of it. His eyes cracked open again, just barely this time. The world came into view in vague shapes—blurred figures, dim light, shadows shifting across a low ceiling. Primitive. Small. Insignificant. And yet… real.
So this is the world I've been placed into. Good.
If there was one thing he understood, even now, even like this—It was that the potential he imagined for himself meant nothing… Unless it was used. His fingers twitched again. This time, they held for just a second longer. And somewhere deep within that fragile, newborn body—Something began to form.
5 years had passed since Lancelot's birth.
The boy who once lay bound by an unresponsive body now moved with relative freedom. Small steps echoed softly across the worn wooden floors of a modest home. To any watching eye, there was nothing extraordinary about him—just another child of five, thin from a commoner's life, dressed in simple cloth, existing in a world far larger than himself. But behind his eyes… nothing had changed.
Lancelot stood near the doorway, watching. Two guards had stopped by again, their presence as familiar as the sound of his own breath. Steel shifted with every movement they made, the faint hum of a contained mysterious power barely perceptible emanating from them, hidden—but not to him.
"…I'm telling you, the capital's changing," one said, leaning against the fence. "Too many prodigies lately."
"Prodigies," the other scoffed. "Most of them burn out before they hit Master. Talent means nothing without discipline."
Lancelot listened, as he always did. Five years of observation. Five years of learning. Of testing the limits of his body, then breaking past them—not through force, but through sheer stubbornness. Every progress he made had been like this, through attempt and failure, which eventually led to success. Every action repeated until inefficiency was carved out of it. Walking. Breathing. Gripping. Balance. Basic things. Foundations. While other children stumbled through growth, he refined it. Faster and better. And in those quiet moments, when the world believed him to be resting… He moved.
That faint pulse he had discovered at birth—it had not disappeared. It had grown. Slightly. He could feel it now without effort. A steady presence within him. Subtle, controlled, waiting. Energy. He still did not know which system it belonged to. Magic? A core? Aura? Or, perhaps, something else entirely. He had tested what little he could. No visible manifestation. No external reaction. No signs that would draw attention. Good. Attention was the last thing he wanted, though he'd be more satisfied If something did indeed happen. For if that was the case, he'd gain more understanding of the world surrounding him.
The guards laughed, their conversation drifting elsewhere, but Lancelot had already taken what he needed. Information. Always information. He turned away from the doorway, his steps silent as he moved deeper into the house. His mother was at the table, hands worn from work, preparing what little they had for the evening.
"You've been quiet today," she said without looking up. "Something bothering you, Lance? Why don't you go play outside for a bit? Food's almost ready."
He nodded. A simple gesture. Expected. Normal. And stepped outside. The air was cool. The sky open. The world… vast. He walked around the outskirts of the village nearby. Children ran past him, shouting, laughing, living without thought. He watched them for a moment. Then stepped forward. Not to join the other kids, but to move past them. He walked to the edge of a clearing in the forest, where the ground was uneven, roots breaking through the dirt like veins beneath the earth. He stood there, still. Then—He closed his eyes. And focused inward.
The pulse was there. Clear. Steady. Waiting. This time, he did not just observe it. He reached for it. Not physically—but with intent. The moment he did—It responded. Faintly. A ripple. Small… but undeniable. Lancelot's eyes opened. No reaction showed on his face. But within—Something shifted. So it can be influenced. Not controlled. Not yet but that was enough. More than enough. Because if he could touch it… Then one day—He would command it.
A breeze passed through the clearing, rustling the trees, carrying the distant noise of a world that had no idea what stood quietly within it. A five-year-old boy. Commoner. Insignificant. And already… Far beyond what he should be. Lancelot looked out toward the horizon, his gaze steady, unwavering. Five years… A brief beginning. Nothing more. He turned back toward the village. There was still much to learn. And he had only just begun.