"Runewood… village."

The child's quiet voice drifted through the crisp morning air as he sat atop the hill, his gaze locked onto the horizon where the first streaks of gold split the eastern sky.

"In my old world, both my parents died in an accident and my grandfather was the one who raised me."

"When I recovered those ageless genes… I thought I could give them to him. But by the time I returned, he was already gone."

His fingers pressed into the earth, grounding himself.

"So, I used them on myself."

"I lived fifty years without aging. I understood what it meant—that death would never take me naturally."

His expression darkened, shadowed by something deeper.

"But, when that god devoured me, I saw pieces of his memories."

He clenched his fists, not in anger, but in understanding.

"I know what it means to die. I know what waits beyond it. And even now, the thought of it sends a cold shiver down my spine."

He inhaled deeply, the cool dawn brushing against his flawless skin.

"Those memories… they're invaluable."

He stood, feeling the warmth of the rising sun against his skin.

"I may have lost my human life, but what I gained is far greater."

The Infernal Tome—a fragment of knowledge torn from a god's mind.

"It holds techniques beyond comprehension. I only possess a fraction of them, but even that…"

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Even that is more than enough."

His green eyes shimmered—just for a moment—touched by a faint, flickering crimson before fading into the pale light.

"So the sun's rays still obey the laws of energy conversion."

The world brightened. The sun climbed.

"… Forget it." His voice was steady now, no hesitation, no doubt. "I am no longer Magnus Winston."

A long silence followed. Then, with quiet finality—

"…I am Arthur Reid."

...

Arthur exhaled slowly, his gaze lifting to the sky's shifting hues. Twilight edged closer, deepening the colors above.

"Time to head back."

His small frame tensed—then moved.

With a single bound, he launched from the mountainside. His thin yet honed body landed with precise, controlled steps, each one carrying him nearly two meters.

His feet barely skimmed the ground, skirting over jagged rocks and twisted roots as if gravity itself hesitated to pull him down.

'Even gravity has its limits.'

A flicker of amusement crossed his mind as he weaved effortlessly through the rugged terrain. Every muscle in his body responded without hesitation, his movements refined by instinct.

'Humans aren't defined by brute force or weapons.' His eyes sharpened, scanning the land ahead. 

'It's our adaptability. Our creativity. That's true power.'

The world blurred past him as his thoughts raced.

'Power… What is power?'

'Weapons?'

'Poisons?'

'Destruction?'

'No.'

'True power lay in understanding—taking what existed and reshaping it into something greater.'

As he moved, his thoughts turned inward, drifting back to the Infenal Tome techniques he'd been learning since he was just two. 

Scarlet Eclipse—the way he could draw energy from the light, shifting it within his body, strengthening his muscles in ways that made him feel like he was no longer just human.

His body was lean, but every movement had a sharpness to it, an edge to his speed that couldn't be mistaken.

And his hands. As he flexed his fingers, he could feel the faintest pulse of energy under his skin. 

Infernal Palm—the way his hands had become tools for precision. It wasn't the strength he used, but the careful timing of each motion, each strike. He'd learned how to make them faster, more durable, with nothing more than focus and control.

Then there was his vision. 

Hell's Vision—the ability to see details most couldn't. The smallest shift in a shadow, the faintest flicker of motion in the distance. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough to keep him aware, to keep him safe.

Arthur's breath remained steady as he moved past the boulders, his mind quieting.

He'd never tested Demon's Grasp, Shadow Walk, or Infernal Strike—he didn't need them.

But he knew their uses. 

The demon's grasp is used to seize and hold, its strength growing with each use. 

Shadow Walk bent the world's laws, letting him slip through the air with ease.

Infernal Strike struck with great force, its power increasing the more Shadow Energy flowed through him.

Arthur started training in these techniques at two years old, and now, at six, the Shadow Energy he's gathered would make him appear almost superhuman—if anyone ever discovered it.

The wind roared past him as he reached the foot of the mountain, the village now in sight—Runewood Village.

His home.

...

A modest, four-room brick house stood on the eastern edge, near the village chief's residence. Above its door hung a wooden plaque—a flame engulfing a hammer, its fire curling into intricate, swirling patterns.

A Toolmaker's symbol.

Arthur's lips curled slightly.

"Of all things… my father chose to be a toolmaker."

In this world, toolmakers were nobodies. Their craft was obsolete. The weapons of this land weren't forged—they were grown, birthed through Runics.

Yet his father, Charles Reid, still worked.

Hammering steel against fate itself.

Arthur eyed the worn wooden plaque above the door. It swayed slightly in the morning breeze, much like the man inside.

"Our income is pitiful," he thought, stepping over the threshold. "Even as the only Toolmaker in the village, Dad barely brings home enough to keep us afloat."

Entering the modest house, Arthur was greeted by the scent of rice filling the air.

He exhaled, unsurprised. 

Of course, it wasn't Charles who had cooked—it was him.

At three, he had stood on a stool just to reach the counter. Hunger had taught him early: 'if I don't cook, I don't eat.' 

In his past life, he had no family. Here, even a meager meal shared with another felt like something worth holding on to.

Balancing two worn bowls—cracked and notched from years of use—he ladled steaming food carefully before calling out, "Dad, food's ready."

Silence stretched. Then, at last, the door creaked, and Charles Reid emerged.

A large man, his frame still powerful despite the wear of years. His clothes were riddled with holes, his beard unkempt, and his hair a wild, tangled mess.

His right arm and left leg were replaced by heavy iron prosthetics, their cold, metallic surface stark against his worn body.

His eyes, once sharp, now held only a dull, empty haze. The stench of stale alcohol clung to him, but Arthur didn't flinch.

He had never known a father's warmth—not in this life, not in the last. But still… having someone to call 'Dad' was a blessing.

Charles took the bowl without hesitation, ignoring the heat as he downed the food in heavy, desperate gulps.

Arthur watched, then gently refilled his bowl. "Slow down. It's still hot."

Charles barely acknowledged him, finishing seven or eight bowls before finally sighing. Setting the bowl aside, he rubbed his face, his voice hoarse. "You keep working. I'll rest for a while."

"Dad!" Arthur suddenly called out.

Charles halted mid-step, turning with a trace of impatience. Arthur pointed to a corner where gleaming black chunks of iron lay scattered.

"Can I have these?" he asked.

The iron Arthur now coveted, delivered just yesterday, was different—it contained magnetite. High-quality magnetite, perfect for weapons.

In his past life, Arthur was Earth's greatest mind—a giant in weapons manufacturing and pharmaceuticals. Materials of every kind had been at his fingertips.

But here, in this world, usable metals are scarce. If he was to forge his path to the top—and craft the weapons he needed to survive—he would have to seize every resource available.

Charles ran his left hand over the metal, his brows furrowing. "Huh."

"Looks like regular iron to me."

Then, glancing at Arthur, he asked, "You planning to become a Toolmaker?"

Arthur nodded.

'Though the title's wrong.'

Engineer, blacksmith, weapons designer—none of those words exist here. They called them Toolmakers. But at its core, the craft was the same.

Back on Earth, he designed weapons while machines did the heavy lifting. Here, without advanced technology, he had no choice but to do everything himself. After all—without the right weapons, power meant nothing.

"Dad, you're getting older. Teach me to forge. Let me take over your work—at least until I'm old enough."

Charles, usually a man of few words, muttered absentmindedly, "Toolmaker, huh? Not a bad path."

Dragging a worn-out chair closer to the iron pile, he sat down, then fixed Arthur with a steady gaze. "Tell me, son—what defines the best Toolmaker?"