The years passed more quickly than anyone in the village had expected, and the small child who once crawled clumsily across the wooden floor of the farmhouse soon grew into a lively boy with bright eyes and a curious mind. By the time Luke reached the age of three, he had already begun speaking in simple but clear words, and he walked about the yard with the determined steps of someone much older.
To his parents, this was nothing short of a miracle.
"Did you hear that, Beth?" John said one evening while sitting on a low wooden stool near the doorway. He had just returned from the fields, still smelling faintly of soil and wheat. "He said 'water' properly this time. Not 'wa-wa.' Water."
Beth looked down at the boy beside her and smiled with quiet pride. "Of course he did. Our Luke is clever. Aren't you?"
Luke puffed his chest slightly at the praise, though he had only the faintest idea why the adults seemed so pleased about something as simple as pronunciation.
"Yes," he said with great seriousness. "Wa—water."
John burst out laughing, his deep voice filling the small house.
"Look at him!" he exclaimed. "Three years old and already correcting himself."
Word traveled fast in a small village, and before long Luke had become something of a local curiosity. It was not uncommon for neighbors to stop by simply to see the bright little boy who spoke clearly and behaved far more calmly than most children his age.
One afternoon, while Beth was hanging freshly washed clothes outside, their neighbor Martha leaned over the low wooden fence.
"Beth," Martha called, squinting toward the yard. "Is it true your boy can already talk properly?"
Beth chuckled. "He talks enough to give me a headache, if that's what you mean."
At that moment Luke toddled across the yard, dragging a small stick behind him like a sword.
Martha's eyebrows shot up. "Well I'll be. Look at him walk! My youngest was still falling over at that age."
John, who was repairing a wooden bucket nearby, added proudly, "The boy's got good bones. It must be from his father."
Beth snorted softly. "Or maybe he takes after his mother."
The adults were pleased, and somehow he had become the subject of their pride.
Before long, he had earned the reputation of being the village's "good child," the boy parents pointed to when scolding their own.
"Why can't you behave like little Luke?" more than one mother could be heard saying.
Luke, for his part, accepted the title with quiet amusement. After all, none of them knew his real secret.
As the months passed, he continued improving his magic in silence.
His bullet spell, in particular, had become his favorite experiment. What once emerged as clumsy lumps of metal had gradually refined themselves into more recognizable shapes. Now, when he focused hard enough, he could form small metallic bullets that spun faintly as they hovered before him.
The spinning had grown faster over time.
Not fast enough yet, but noticeably faster.
"Progress," Luke often thought with satisfaction.
Around this time, his parents began trusting him enough to wander near the house by himself. The village was small and peaceful, and everyone knew everyone else. As long as Luke remained close, there was little danger.
Thus he began exploring.
For the first time, he truly noticed the world around him.
Their home, when seen through the curious eyes of a growing child, looked rather crude. Wooden planks had been nailed together to form walls, and the roof was made of layered straw and reeds. It was sturdy enough, but if Luke had to describe it honestly, it resembled the sort of thatched houses he had once seen in the poorer districts of cities back on Earth, though much cleaner.
The rest of the village was much the same.
Every house was made of wood. Some were simple huts, others slightly larger structures built from thicker timbers, but none were made of stone, not even a single one.
It spoke quietly of the village's poverty.
Yet strangely enough, the place did not feel miserable.
Children ran freely between houses, neighbors greeted each other with easy familiarity, and laughter often drifted across the fields in the evenings.
Luke watched these scenes thoughtfully.
So this is what a real rural village looks like,
he mused.
He leaned against a wooden fence one afternoon, observing a group of villagers helping an elderly farmer repair his roof.
They don't have much, he thought, but they help each other.
A faint smile appeared on his face.
I know what it feels like to have nothing. If I ever become rich in this world… I'll help them.
The thought felt natural.
Only those who had known hardship could truly understand the struggles of the poor
And Luke remembered those struggles very well.
Of course, philosophical reflections could only occupy a young boy's mind for so long.
Soon enough, curiosity returned to more exciting matters.
Magic!
One quiet afternoon, when his parents were busy working, Luke slipped behind the house where the tall grass grew thick and the land sloped gently toward the edge of the fields.
This was his secret training ground.
He glanced around carefully making sure no one was watching.
"Alright," he murmured softly to himself.
He raised his small hand and focused.
The familiar sensation of mana gathering within him stirred gently, like water swirling inside a cup.
A small metallic bullet formed before his palm.
This time, the spinning felt stronger.
Luke narrowed his eyes. "Go."
The bullet shot forward.
FWHIZZ!
The sound sliced cleanly through the air, startling even Luke himself as the tiny projectile vanished into the distance.
His mouth slowly fell open.
"That… went far."
He had no exact way of measuring the distance, but compared to his earlier attempts, the improvement was obvious.
Excitement bubbled inside him.
This is magic.
He had imagined it countless times before, but the thrill of seeing it work in reality was entirely different.
Eager to test further, he spotted a large tree nearby.
Perfect target.
He concentrated again.
Another bullet formed.
"Let's see how strong you are."
This time with a small flick of his wrist, pointing his finger forward —
FWHIZZ!
THUD.
The bullet struck the tree's trunk.
Luke ran forward eagerly and examined the bark and there, embedded shallowly within the wood, was a tiny metallic projectile.
The bark itself was thick and tough, yet the bullet had pierced through it slightly.
Luke stared at it with growing satisfaction.
"Success."
Not very deep penetration yet, but the fact that it worked at all was a triumph.
From that day forward, his routine settled into a quiet rhythm.
His parents taught him words and simple counting in the evenings. During the day, he sometimes accompanied them to visit neighbors or walk along the fields where golden wheat swayed gently under the wind.
To the north lay the forest, dark and mysterious beyond the farmland.
To the east stretched a dirt road that led toward the nearest town.
"How far is the town?" Luke had once asked.
John scratched his beard thoughtfully.
"About a day's walk," he said. "Half that if you've got a horse."
Luke nodded solemnly, filing the information away.
Whenever the opportunity arose, he returned to his secret training spot behind the house.
There he practiced endlessly.
To avoid suspicion, he aimed mostly at the ground, carefully covering the small holes afterward with loose soil. Sometimes he set up crude targets like stones, fallen branches, or small piles of dirt to test his accuracy.
Each day, his control improved.
Each day, the bullets spun faster.
Each day, they flew farther.
And slowly, almost without noticing, the years continued to pass.
The seasons changed, wheat fields ripened and were harvested, and the quiet village life moved forward with steady patience.
Until one day, Luke realized something surprising.
He was no longer a toddler.
He was six years old.