The aftermath of the hooded figure's abrupt departure and the Author's even more bizarre intervention left Harlan and Elara in a state of bewildered unease. They exchanged hesitant glances, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and confusion. How could they explain the impossible event they had witnessed? A shadowy figure, a disembodied voice, and a giant, cartoonish hand – it defied all logic and reason.

  "Did… did you see that?" Elara whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

  Harlan nodded slowly, his brow furrowed in thought. "I… I don't know what to make of it. Some kind of… magic?" He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the impossible image from his mind. "But I've never seen anything like that before. Not even in the old tales."

  They turned their attention to Skilvyo, who, despite the extraordinary events, remained seemingly unfazed. He gurgled contentedly, his large, innocent eyes fixed on them, as if the whole ordeal was a perfectly normal occurrence. This only added to their confusion.

  "He… he wasn't scared," Elara observed, her voice filled with wonder. "Most babes would be wailing after something like that."

  Harlan frowned. "Perhaps… perhaps he's blessed," he murmured, the word hanging heavy with a mixture of awe and trepidation. "The old legends speak of children touched by the gods, destined for… great things."

  Elara's eyes widened. "You don't think…?"

  Harlan shook his head again, a skeptical expression on his face. "It's just a story, Elara. A legend to comfort us in dark times. But…" His gaze drifted back to Skilvyo, a seed of doubt planted in his heart.

  The incident, however inexplicable, served as a catalyst. Harlan, driven by a newfound protectiveness and a nagging sense of destiny, became even more diligent in his training. He began to incorporate elements of the Astra techniques he knew into his daily routines, subtly preparing himself – and perhaps, unconsciously, Skilvyo – for a world where magic and conflict were intertwined.

  Skilvyo, meanwhile, continued to grow at an accelerated pace. By his first year, he possessed the physical coordination of a toddler twice his age, his mind absorbing information like a sponge. He learned to speak earlier than expected, his first words surprisingly coherent and complex, often startling Harlan and Elara with his insightful observations.

  "The forest… it… hurts," he had said one day, his tiny brow furrowed as he gazed at the edge of the woods, where the scars of the previous cataclysm were still visible.

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  Harlan and Elara exchanged worried glances. "Hurts? What do you mean, little one?" Elara had asked gently.

  Skilvyo had struggled to articulate the feeling, the adult concepts trapped in his infant vocabulary. "Broken… sad… needs… fix."

  His words, though simple, resonated with a profound truth. The world of Aethelgard was indeed broken, wounded by a conflict that stretched back through generations. And Skilvyo, it seemed, could sense that pain.

  As Skilvyo grew, so did his awareness of the world around him. He learned of the demon realm, a shadowy mirror of their own, separated by a fragile veil. He heard whispers of the impending war, a conflict that threatened to engulf Aethelgard and plunge it into eternal darkness. The five war gods, despite their power, were struggling to hold back the tide, their divine weapons stretched to their limits.

  One evening, as Harlan sat sharpening his hunting knife by the fire, Skilvyo, now a toddler of considerable size and intellect, sat beside him, seemingly engrossed in a picture book. But his keen ears were tuned to Harlan's muttered words.

  "The Choosing Ceremony approaches for young Elian," Harlan murmured, his voice laced with concern. "He's a strong lad, but… the demons grow bolder. Even the gods seem… weary."

  Skilvyo's ears perked up at the mention of the Choosing Ceremony. He knew it was the time when young warriors would seek a divine weapon from one of the five war gods. It was a moment of great significance, a turning point in their lives.

  Elian… The name sparked a flicker of recognition within Skilvyo's mind. He couldn't place it, but it felt… important.

  Suddenly, the familiar booming voice echoed in his head, startling him. "Remember that name, Skilvyo. Elian. He's going to be important. And don't worry about the gods being weary. We have a plan... sort of."

  Skilvyo nearly choked on his spit, or rather, he would have if he hadn't mastered the art of toddler-like reflexes. He glanced around to see if Harlan or Elara had heard anything, but they were oblivious, lost in their own thoughts.

  A plan? Skilvyo thought back, directing his mental query at the Author. What plan? And why is Elian important?

  The Author's voice chuckled in his mind. "Patience, little protagonist. All in good time. For now, just keep being adorable and soaking up the world. Your destiny is about to… accelerate."

  The Author's cryptic words left Skilvyo with more questions than answers. His destiny was about to accelerate? What did that even mean? And what role did he, a toddler with the power of a weapon god, have to play in the looming war against the demon realm?

  As the days turned into weeks, Skilvyo continued to grow, his physical and mental development defying all natural expectations. He was no longer just a precocious toddler; he was a force of nature waiting to be unleashed. The world of Aethelgard, with its warring gods and encroaching darkness, was about to witness the dawn of a new era. And Skilvyo, the infant blessed by the god of weapons, was at the heart of it all.