I stood alone at the back of the castle, in the vast open space that stretched far beyond what I initially thought was possible. The ground was flat and covered with fine gravel, lined with old practice dummies, wooden targets, and faded sparring circles. This was the training yard, apparently. A place where heroes were made, or at least shaped into something close to one.
The morning sun hung lazily in the sky, casting a golden hue across the silver ocean surrounding the island. The sea breeze whispered against my skin, bringing with it a salty scent and a calmness that felt almost holy. In my hand, I held the old rusted katana. It looked pathetic, like a relic that had no business being wielded, but for some reason, I couldn't put it down.
I stared at it for a while, my thoughts caught somewhere between the past and the strange new present I now lived in.
It's been a week since I woke up in this world. Since I found myself in Lorien's body, inside a story I wrote a long time ago and swore I'd buried in the past. A lot had happened in that time, but what stood out to me more than anything was the warmth.
Warmth in the way my father smiled at me.
Warmth in the way Loria, despite her constant stream of insults, made sure I never felt alone.
Warmth from Blackie, Brownie, and Blondie, whose constant bickering and attention made the castle feel less like a dead place and more like a home.
It was overwhelming.
In my past life, love came in short supply. Affection was rationed like wartime medicine, and kindness felt like a debt that had to be paid back. But here, they gave it freely. And it made something in me ache, like a wound I never knew I had was finally beginning to heal.
I tightened my grip around the katana.
"I'm going to protect them," I whispered. "All of them. This time... I'll do my best."
I looked up at the sky, letting the breeze wash over me. It was strange, surreal even, to think that I was living inside the world I built with nothing but a cracked laptop and teenage angst.
Lorien... the boy I wrote as a side character. The one I designed to live a simple, quiet life. No flashy powers. No destiny. Just peace.
Unlike most demigods in this world, he didn't inherit anything. Nothing visible, at least.
Here, divine power passed down in bloodlines. Children of gods inherited fragments of their divine parent's essence. It made them stronger, faster, sometimes even ageless. Their abilities usually had something to do with the domain their parent god governed.
If your father was Luxarion, the god of Light, then you'd probably manifest something like solar manipulation, radiant shields, or even light-speed movement.
Chronarion's descendants? Time-warping, spatial folds, maybe even teleportation. Reality bent for them like it was made of cloth.
Lorien, though? Nothing. Not a spark. Not a flicker.
But that wasn't the end of his story.
I remembered writing something different for him. Something subtle, almost forgotten.
Lorien didn't have divine sparks. He had something else.
Qi.
It wasn't a discovery. It was part of the original narrative—something unique that set him apart from the others. Where divine essence gave power through lineage, qi was cultivated. Earned. Grown. Not inherited.
When I meditated that first night under the stars, holding the katana across my lap and breathing slow, I could feel it again. The same feeling I gave Lorien when I wrote him. A warmth, like a candle had been lit deep in my gut. It spread slowly at first, like molasses. Then faster, sharper.
I found myself focusing on it, following it, breathing with it.
Qi.
The idea was ridiculous. But the results were real. My senses were sharper. My body healed quicker. I could swing this rusted blade hundreds of times without cramping. And each time, I felt just a little stronger.
So I kept going.
Every morning since then, I woke up early, before Loria could come banging on my door. I walked out here with the katana and practiced. Slashes. Stances. Breathing.
I wasn't following any manual. I had no martial arts master whispering secrets into my ear. But I remembered some of the basics from stories and videos back on Earth.
And, more importantly, I could feel when something was right. When the energy inside me flowed smoothly with each strike. When my feet were rooted like iron and my lungs moved in rhythm with the breeze.
It was meditative. Almost spiritual.
This wasn't just training.
It was transformation.
If I didn't have an ability, I'd make one.
And so, I trained.
I trained with qi.