Five Years Old

Rashan lay in his bed, his muscles aching, his body utterly exhausted. He had just completed his regression run, which meant today, he had actually shown up for martial training.

These people were crazy.

SEAL training had been demanding, but nothing like this—damn, it was a lot.

The only reason he could keep up at all was because it had been watered down for his five-year-old self.

But even that was brutal.

Over the past year, his daily training regimen had pushed him in ways that felt almost inhuman:

• Before dawn, he was woken up with his brothers for the morning session. It started with endurance training, which consisted of running barefoot on sand to strengthen their legs and build stamina. His tiny body struggled to keep pace, but he refused to fall behind.

• Then came weapons training. At first, he was given a wooden sword too big for him, forcing him to build wrist and grip strength just to hold it properly. The strikes were repetitive, monotonous, exhausting. A thousand cuts, a thousand thrusts. Again. And again. And again.

• Then came grappling and hand-to-hand combat. The taskmaster didn't hold back. Rashan had been thrown, pinned, and choked out more times than he could count. His brothers took turns sparring against him, and even when they went easy, their sheer size and strength overwhelmed him. But he kept getting back up.

• His arms and legs constantly burned from the strength drills. Push-ups, sit-ups, planks, and carrying weighted sandbags—all to build the foundation he'd need as a future warrior.

• The day ended with evasion and reaction training. His taskmaster would throw small stones or strikes at him, forcing him to dodge and block, honing his reflexes. If he failed, he got hit. Simple as that.

And this was just the watered-down version.

Rashan smiled.

He loved it.

At first, they had been even softer on him, but he had never stopped pushing.

The taskmaster, seeing his determination, had obliged his demands for harder training—but it was still nothing compared to what his older brothers endured.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

A maid entered, carrying an alchemical potion—his nightly treatment to help muscle recovery.

The first time they had suggested it, they had hesitated—it was painful, and it made the body cold, something they were reluctant to use on a child.

But when Rashan had seen his brothers getting the same treatment, he had adamantly demanded it, too.

The potion was applied directly to his muscles, seeping into his skin, spreading through his body like ice in his veins.

For the first hour, it was hell.

It wasn't excruciating, but it was uncomfortable as hell, the deep ache in his muscles intensifying before the relief came. He could understand why they didn't want to use it on a child.

But it worked.

It sped up his recovery, allowed him to keep pushing every day without breaking down completely.

And right now?

His regression run was done.

Which meant he could actually sleep.

Tomorrow, on his first run, he would skip martial training and instead study in the library, using illness as an excuse.

Otherwise, his regression run was routine.

• Martial training before dawn.

• Classes during the day.

• Martial training again in the evening.

The nobles of Taneth were serious about training their children when there weren't social events to attend.

Of course, normal children his age didn't do what he did.

He had been trained to be a killer as a Navy SEAL, and that experience was paying dividends.

Not that it made him stronger—he was still too young, too small to even compare to his brothers and sister.

But his training had taught him how to fight smart, how to read opponents, how to stay calm under pressure.

For example—when sparring, he never just attacked head-on.

Instead, he watched.

He studied movements, footwork, attack patterns. He noticed openings, weaknesses, rhythms in how his brothers moved.

When he fought Zahir, he saw that his brother always favored his right side.

When he sparred with Kamal, he noticed the slight tension in his grip before he swung, an unconscious tell.

And when grappling, he learned that Nasir always went for leverage over brute force.

It didn't mean he could beat them—far from it. They were bigger, faster, and years ahead in training. But it did mean he could predict, react, and survive longer than he should.

And he was getting better.

But more importantly—he was beginning to understand how they got strong.

It was simple—they pushed past their limits.

It wasn't a guarantee of growth, but it felt eerily similar to the game.

In Skyrim, the more you used a skill, the more it improved. The harder you pushed yourself, the faster you progressed.

And just like in the anime One Piece, when someone fought beyond their limits, they came out stronger.

Even though he had no proof, it felt like the game's underlying mechanics still applied to this world.

And there was some precedent.

The people here did measure ability from Novice to Master.

And what still amazed him?

His father—one of the strongest men he had ever seen—was still two levels below Master.

That meant there was something beyond even him.

Another thing that had become clear—women could be warriors here.

Probably because the world was too dangerous for them not to be.

Sure, inequality still existed in certain areas, but no one questioned a woman's ability to defend herself.

Speaking of his siblings…

He had made a habit of praising his brothers.

Not overtly—just small, subtle comments.

"I can't wait to follow you one day."

"You're going to be a great leader for the family."

Psychological reinforcement.

He had no interest in family power struggles.

He had heard whispers—talk of infighting among noble families, of betrayals, of sons turning against brothers.

He wanted no part of that.

He was on the path to becoming a prodigy, but he had no intention of staying in Hammerfell.

Not if they survived the war.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

His sister, Saadia, stood there, smiling.

They got along better than he did with his brothers.

She had a wooden board tucked under her arm.

A strategy game, something similar to what he had seen in Naruto—Shōgi.

But there were minute differences in this world's version.

And Saadia?

She was really damn good at it.

Better than his brothers, in his opinion.

Rashan sat across from Saadia, the game board laid out between them, the polished wood gleaming softly under the flickering candlelight. The carved pieces, each marked with ancient Redguard symbols, stood at attention, waiting to be played.

The room was quiet but alive, the sounds of the household settling into the night. Somewhere down the hall, servants chatted in low voices, the scent of desert spices lingering from the evening meal. The soft jingle of Saadia's ankle bracelets tapped lightly against the rug as she adjusted her position, her expression calm yet focused.

Rashan exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers against the edge of the board.

He was good at this game—his Perfect Recall let him remember every past match, every mistake, every strategy he had seen. But despite all that—

He was still losing.

Saadia's golden eyes flickered with amusement, the same quiet confidence she always had when they played. She saw the game three steps ahead. She wasn't just moving pieces; she was leading him, controlling the flow, setting traps he never saw until it was too late.

She slid her next piece into place, then leaned back, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

Rashan groaned, rubbing his face with both hands before muttering, "This is embarrassing."

Saadia let out a light laugh, the kind that was more teasing than cruel—not the mocking laugh of a sibling rubbing in a victory, but the genuine amusement of someone enjoying a challenge.

"You lasted ten moves longer this time," she mused, casually adjusting the sleeve of her loose, flowing tunic.

"Ten." Rashan sighed dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. "A whole ten! A great and mighty improvement!"

Saadia giggled, nudging his foot under the table with hers. "Better than last time, little brother."

Little brother.

It was a teasing remark, but it didn't sting.

Unlike with his other siblings.

Kamal was too rigid, always carrying the weight of his future responsibilities. Zahir and Nasir had their own rhythm, their own dynamic that he had never quite fit into. It was the same in his past life—he had never been the kind to form deep connections with family. Even before he had been injured, before the cancer, before everything… he had always felt apart.

Not Saadia.

There was an unspoken understanding between them.

She was razor-sharp, but never boastful. When she won, she didn't gloat, didn't make it about proving superiority.

She just smiled, reset the board, and played again.

It was Redguard tradition for siblings to be rivals and companions in equal measure.

In other families, brothers tested each other through swords, through strength.

But here? Here, they played games of war on a wooden board.

Saadia didn't need to beat him down to prove she was better.

She just needed to win.

Rashan sighed, stretching his arms over his head before flopping back onto the rug with exaggerated defeat. "Alright, one more game. But this time? I'm winning."

Saadia smirked, rolling her shoulders like a warrior preparing for battle. She placed her first piece down, tapping it lightly before giving him a challenging look.

"We'll see."

Her eyes gleamed, her smile playful but sharp—the look of a sister who had never lost to him before… and didn't plan to start now.