the beginning after the end perfect duo

Father vs Sons

Tom's POV

Mastering techniques like Mana Rotation, Mirage Walk, and Thunderclap Impulse filled me with a quiet pride. The hum of mana flowing seamlessly through my body, the faint shimmer of my steps as I blurred across the room—it was exhilarating. But that thrill faded when I faced the truth: these skills were parlor tricks without real combat to test them. I wasn't a fighter—not naturally. In my old life, I'd been a weeb hunched over novels and screens, more at home with stories than swords. All this knowledge from The Beginning After The End was a cheat code, sure, but it couldn't rewrite who I was at my core: a thinker, not a warrior.

That gnawed at me. I had the blueprints for power, but my hands shook when I tried to build it. Still, I wasn't about to give up. If I couldn't rely on talent, I'd lean on persistence—and a little ingenuity.

The next morning, I stood in my underground hideout, the air cool and damp against my skin. The flickering candle cast long shadows across the stone walls, illuminating the scratched runes I'd etched months ago. My shadow clones—three of them today—moved stiffly around the cramped space, mirroring my techniques. They weren't perfect; their forms flickered like bad holograms, and they couldn't think beyond simple commands. But they were my shortcut. I'd set them to practice Mana Rotation and basic elemental conjuring—wind, water, a spark of lightning—hoping their efforts would seep back into me when I dispelled them.

"Keep at it," I muttered, watching one clone stumble through a shaky Mirage Walk. Its steps blurred, then faltered, and it dissolved into a puff of dark mist. I sighed. Progress was slow, but if they could refine even a fraction of what I'd learned, it'd cut my training time in half. That was the plan, anyway.

I slid Mana Theory and Core Development off the shelf, its leather spine creaking as I opened it. The pages were yellowed, the ink smudged in places, but the diagrams of mana channels glowed in my mind's eye. I'd hit the Light Red stage months ago, and it frustrated me to no end—stuck there, my core a stubborn ember refusing to blaze. Arthur would catch up soon, I knew it. He had the instincts I lacked. But time was on my side, and I'd milk every second of it.

Thinking back to the novel, I wondered how much daily sparring could change things for him. In the story, Arthur's growth exploded after his core awakened, honed by years with Jasmine in the wilds. If I could get him comfortable in his body now—build that muscle memory early—he'd have a head start. It was my first real tweak to this world's timeline, a ripple I hoped would grow into a wave.

Arthur's POV

I woke with a weight in my chest, a tangle of doubt that wouldn't shake loose. Tom's words from months ago still echoed: our lives, a novel he'd read in some other world. It sounded insane—my pain, my triumphs, just ink on a page. How could I trust someone who claimed to know me better than I knew myself? At first, I'd pegged him as a threat, a walking spoiler with too much power in his head. What stopped him from turning that knowledge against me?

But the more I mulled it over, the less it held water. In my past life as King Grey, revenge had been my compass—cold, consuming, final. Here, I had a second shot: a family, a home, a brother. Tom was an oddity, sure, with his books and secrets, but he was the closest thing to familiarity in this strange new skin. If he were dangerous, he'd have acted by now—I was still weak, my core unawakened, an easy target. Yet here I was, alive and sparring with him daily.

"Arthur, we need to eat and get ready for training," Tom's voice sliced through my haze. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his dark hair tousled from sleep.