Decoding the axe’s runes was like cracking open a cosmic prank box crafted by a sadistic engineer.

  Every night for nearly a year, I hunched over the thing , while moonlight pooled over the wooden floor. With [Primordial Gloss] running in my mind and feeding me a flood of meaning, everything finally fell into place.

  And sweet mother of mana…I had been so unbelievably wrong about those “fake runes.”

  They weren’t duds.They weren’t filler.They weren’t decoration.

  They were booby traps.

  Elegant, malicious, beautiful booby traps.

  Take the first cluster: It tracked strikes. Innocent enough, right? Wrong. The rune chain built a hidden counter. On the fifteenth hit?

  Kaboom.

  An explosion rune detonated the core array in a glorious, mana loaded fireball, turning the wielder, and anything within hugging distance, into mist. No mercy, no warning, no safety protocols. Just pure, engineered betrayal.

  Another set of symbols wasn’t an enchantment at all, it was a delay curse. It allowed certain runes to activate as usual for a while, only to twist them later: sharpening runes that slowly dulled the blade, or impact runes that reversed force and blasted the wielder backward like a magical shotgun recoil.

  It was brilliant.Diabolical.Unethical.And I admired it deeply.

  This enchanter wasn’t just sabotaging competitors, he was crafting a full blown marketing strategy.

  Axes exploding mid chop?Customers limping home complaining about blades “mysteriously” losing their edge?People whispering that only one shop produced reliable gear?

  Corporate espionage, fantasy style.

  Somewhere out there, that mystery enchanter was stroking his evil beard and counting coin. And honestly? Respect. I would absolutely steal this man’s homework.

  I tucked the book away under my blankets, mind whirling with possibilities. Miniaturization. Modification. Practical weapons testing. The works.

  But before I could leap into a spiral of mad genius tinkering, reality yanked me back.

  Toddler reality.

  The steady thunk… thunk… thunk of hammering had filled the yard for days. Dad was outside again, building the house additions he promised: one room for them, one for me. The smell of sawdust drifted through the window, warm and comforting. Hope surged in my tiny chest.

  My own room.My own bed.My own space where nighttime… noises… wouldn’t haunt my soul anymore.

  I darted outside on steady legs, the sunlight bright and golden. Dad was up on the ladder, shirt off, sweating like a working class hero. One room already had walls and most of its roof framing done.

  My sanctuary was coming.

  Dad saw me and grinned, wiping his forehead. “Almost there, Viv! This one’s for your mom and me. Gotta start with what’s important.”

  My toddler smile cracked like a dropped clay pot.

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  Theirs first?Theirs?

  I was the one suffering psychological damage every night! I should be first in line for salvation!

  I plopped dramatically onto the ground and crossed my arms like an angry dumpling. He just laughed, climbed down, and ruffled my hair.

  “Yours next. Promise. Be patient, little man.”

  Patience? Patience is something I haven’t possessed since my first life.

  But I sighed and accepted my fate.

  If I couldn’t get my room yet, I’d get something else: progress.

  Real progress.

  And what better way to celebrate my recent rune mastery than with a controlled explosion or two?

  The sabotaged explosion cluster fascinated me. Scaling it down to pebble size became my new obsession. For the next few days, I gathered smooth stones whenever no one was watching. Innocent, rounded, palm sized pieces , perfect for testing micro enchantments.

  To replicate the axe’s trigger, I needed at least four runes:

  1. Strike Detection – to sense impact.

  2. Mana Accumulator – the mini bomb’s stomach.

  3. Instability Trigger – the “oh no” moment.

  4. Detonation Core – the big bada boom.

  Simple in theory. Nightmarish in practice.

  The first pebble fizzled like a sad birthday candle. A quiet pffft and the faint smell of smoke.

  The second pebble overcharged and cracked open, mana escaping with a pathetic wheeze.

  The third almost succeeded, it went off in my hands with a tiny pop! that startled me into falling backwards. No explosion. Just enough force to bruise my pride.

  This was harder than toddler physics. Harder than calculus. Harder than trying to pretend to be a normal baby while secretly training like a cultivation protagonist.

  Between attempts, I meditated under the big tree in our yard. The branches arched like a protective canopy, a perfect picnic spot that begged for future blankets, fruits and tea. One day, I’d force the family to relax under it. A dream for later.

  Fourth pebble: Progress.I threw it at a rock, and it burst in a small puff, shards flying.

  Fifth pebble: And then… success.

  Mana gathered perfectly. Runes aligned. The weave hummed under my fingers.

  I threw the pebble toward the woods, breath held.

  A flash.A shockwave.A thunderous...

  BOOOOM!

  The explosion shook the leaves, birds fled squawking, and a small crater smoldered .

  YES. YES. YES.

  I had made a baby sized grenade.

  My entire body buzzed with pride.

  Which lasted exactly three seconds.

  Because the house door slammed open.

  “WHAT WAS THAT!?” Mom shrieked.

  Dad burst out behind her, armed with his axe. Mom brandished her herbalist knife like a woman ready to fight a wolf to protect her cub. Their instincts were impressive.

  “Monsters? Bandits?” Dad barked, scanning the trees.

  I toddled after them as innocently as a saint.

  They charged toward the blast site, eyes sharp, breath heavy. Dad prowled around the crater. Mom hugged me tightly as if the dirt hole had personally threatened me.

  “Viv, sweetie, what were you doing out here? It’s dangerous!” she scolded, kneeling to check me for injuries.

  Dad frowned deeply. “Could’ve been a blast beetle. Or a mana wasp nest popping. Stay inside, son.”

  They carried me home like a kidnapped prince, alternating between scolding and fussing.

  “No wandering alone.”“What if something hurt you?”“What if it was a goblin trap?”

  If only they knew who set the “trap.”

  I nodded with wide, innocent eyes, babbling nonsense to sell the act.

  Inside, though?

  I was floating on victory clouds.

  That night, once they were asleep, I snuck out again, just long enough to enchant a few more pebbles. Not many. Just a handful for emergencies. Or science. Or stress relief. Or if I get bored.

  I buried them carefully beneath the great tree’s roots, patting the dirt like a squirrel hiding winter nuts.

  My own little armory.

  The room delay still stung, I wanted peace, quiet, and a door between me and the adult orchestra. But with exploding stones at my disposal?

  I felt unstoppable.

  The world was opening. Magic was bending. Runes were becoming weapons, tools, toys, everything.

  And someday soon, we’d have that picnic under the tree.Hopefully with zero accidental explosions.