Prologue — The Diary of the Fifth Year
(Rooga Valemont’s POV)
Today’s my fifth birthday.
I didn’t ask for sweets or new clothes.
I just asked for a book.
Mother tilted her head when I told her I wanted to write.
Father laughed softly and said, “Then let him. The boy’s got too much in his head already.”
Maori called it boring at first… until I said I’d write about her too. Then she practically shoved the quill into my hand.
So, this is my diary — or maybe just my garden of words.
If my tree of life grows in the soil, then this one will grow on paper.
It’s strange.
The Borderlands used to groan and hiss — wind carried the sound of sickness, the air thick with rot.
Now it hums.
When I wake up, I can hear it — the rhythm of leaves, the chatter of mana in the roots.
Father says that’s just the wind, but I know better.
It’s the sound of everything living again.
The trees keep getting taller. Some so big they cast shadows over the roof of our house.
The villagers call it “Valemont Forest.”
Father says it with pride.
Mother says it like it’s home.
And to me… it feels like the world itself is breathing again.
Father doesn’t cough as much anymore.
The curse that used to darken his veins is nearly gone.
When he moves, the ground seems to move with him — like even the land listens.
He still trains every morning. Sometimes Kaen joins him, and their shouts echo through the fields.
It’s loud… but peaceful.
There’s a kind of comfort in knowing the first sound I hear every day is laughter between blades.
Father says the crops no longer need replanting — the roots will outlive him.
He says that with a smile.
I think that’s what happiness looks like.
Mother smiles more these days.
Her eyes used to look like burnt glass — sharp, tired, hollow.
Now, when she holds Eria, they glow warm like sunrise.
She spends less time with me and more time caring for the little ones, but I don’t mind.
I understand.
I think she’s finally living the life she wanted to protect.
Sometimes I catch her humming in the kitchen.
Father teases her for it.
I write those moments down too, because even songs fade if you don’t catch them in time.
Riaz is two now — small, loud, and somehow always sticky.
This story originates from NovelFire. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
He follows Father everywhere, waving a wooden sword that’s heavier than he is.
Lyra calls him “Little Knight.”
I call him “Little Chaos.”
But no matter how many times he falls, he gets back up.
Maybe strength runs in our blood after all — not just power, but heart.
And Eria…
I remember the day she was born. The whole forest glowed that night.
Even Maori’s leaves shimmered like stars.
I don’t remember Mother crying that much before — not in fear, but in joy.
When I first held Eria, she smiled.
And for a moment, I thought, this is what miracles look like when they grow small enough to hold.
Lyra’s changed too.
She still moves like a ghost, silent and certain, but now people smile when they see her instead of flinching.
She manages everything — the maids, the harvesters, the traders.
Even Father says, “Without her, this house would fall apart faster than my old sword.”
Riaz clings to her constantly.
Mother pretends not to be jealous, but I can tell.
Sometimes I think Lyra has become the other heart of our home — steady and unseen.
She reminds me of the night sky: always there, always watching, never asking for praise.
Root Village has grown.
One hut became five.
Five souls became many.
I still visit often — to see Kaen training with Father, or Nira singing by the pond, or Roghar silently waiting for me near the shade.
Chera still causes trouble.
Last week, she tried to steal my lunch and ended up diving straight into Seris’s sword swing.
They both screamed.
I pretended I didn’t laugh.
And Elandra — she’s patient as ever. Her vine arm glows when she works, brushing dust off Maori’s roots.
Sometimes, when Maori demands too much, I see Elandra roll her eyes like an exhausted aunt.
I think she likes it here, even if she’ll never say it aloud.
The village beyond our estate keeps growing too.
Traders, farmers, even refugees come to live here.
They all call it The Green Edge.
Father made a rule — no one starves here.
And somehow, the people listen.
They take crops as pay, share meals under the trees, and laugh louder than any noble feast I remember from my past life.
At night, when I look from my window, the whole village glows.
Lanterns, fireflies, and faint mana from the crops — it looks like the stars fell from the sky just to stay near us.
And then there’s Maori.
My goddess, my friend… my biggest headache.
She’s taller than Elara now — and louder too.
She still calls herself “the heart of this forest” and demands tea, food, and Bloom every hour like royalty.
But when she laughs, the trees sway.
When she cries, it rains.
And when she smiles at me… the whole forest hums.
She pretends to be proud, but I can feel it when she worries.
She’s afraid of being forgotten.
So I tell her every day:
“As long as this land lives, you will too.”So much has changed in two years.
The boy who once hid his power now lives in a world built from it.
A world that breathes, grows, and laughs.
Maybe this is what Perfect Mastery really means — not controlling mana, but living in harmony with it.
Tomorrow, life will continue as usual — chores, laughter, training, chaos.
But tonight, I’ll close this first page of my diary and whisper to the forest:
“Thank you for growing with me.”And somewhere beyond the window, I swear I can hear the trees whisper back:
“Then keep blooming, little seed.”