Chapter 12 — It Seems I Need to Train First, 1
The silence in Sylan Kyle Von Noctis's chamber was a fragile thing, broken only by the faint crackle of candles and the distant chime of a clock tower somewhere in the Noctis estate. Sylan stood by the window, the velvet curtains still parted from his earlier vigil, his crimson eyes fixed on the twilight gardens below. The system's words lingered in his mind like a battlefield command: Survive. Alter the narrative. Uncover the anomaly. But survival, Jin Soowhi knew, wasn't just about outsmarting enemies or weaving alliances. It was about strength—raw, undeniable strength. And this body, this fragile, aristocratic shell, was a liability.
The air hummed again, that same crystalline ping from before slicing through the quiet. The translucent panel materialized in the center of the room, its edges shimmering with unnatural light. White text glowed against its shifting blue surface.
[Objective update: Physical conditioning required. Current body status: Frail. Strength, agility, and endurance insufficient for narrative survival. Train your body to meet minimum requirements. Time limit: 20 days.]
Sylan's jaw tightened, his soldier's instincts bristling at the assessment. Frail. The word stung, not because it was untrue, but because it was so far from the man he'd been. Jin had carried wounded comrades through mud, fought hand-to-hand in the dark, survived nights without sleep or food. But Sylan's body—this lithe, untested frame—was soft, built for ballrooms, not battles. He flexed his fingers, feeling the lack of calluses, the absence of scars. It was a stranger's body, and it wasn't ready for the war he knew was coming.
"Twenty days," he muttered, his voice a low growl, half Jin's defiance, half Sylan's aristocratic edge. "That's all I get?"
The panel pulsed, new text forming.
[Twenty days is sufficient for baseline improvement. Failure to meet minimum physical requirements will result in decreased survival probability. Begin immediately.]
Sylan's lips curled into a humorless smile. "No pressure, then." He remembered Love & Chains: Eternal Hearts too well—the game's mechanics, its obsession with stats. Strength determined how hard you hit, agility how fast you moved, endurance how long you lasted. Sylan Kyle Von Noctis, in the game, had been a minor antagonist with pitiful stats, his role to sneer, lose, and die. Jin wasn't about to let that happen. If stats were the currency of this world, he'd grind them until his body matched his will.
"Show me my stats," he said, his tone sharp, commanding. "I need to know what I'm working with."
The panel flickered, its light intensifying before new text appeared, arranged in a clinical, grid-like format.
[Status: Sylan Kyle Von Noctis]
[Strength: 4/100]
[Agility: 6/100]
[Endurance: 5/100]
[Intelligence: 12/100]
[Charisma: 15/100]
[Special Trait: Crimson Eyes (Passive) – Enhances perception and intimidation. Unlocked potential unknown.]
Sylan stared at the numbers, his stomach twisting. Four in strength? Six in agility? He'd seen better stats on NPCs meant to die in the game's first act. Intelligence and charisma were higher, but they were useless if he couldn't survive a fight. The Crimson Eyes trait intrigued him, but its vague description offered no immediate help. He needed raw power, and he needed it fast.
"Pathetic," he said, more to himself than the system. "This body's a damn liability."
[Recommendation: Begin physical training immediately. Focus areas: Strength, agility, endurance. Suggested regimen: Bodyweight exercises, sprint intervals, endurance runs. Training grounds available within Noctis estate. Access granted.]
Sylan nodded, his mind already shifting into soldier mode. Twenty days wasn't much, but he'd trained under worse constraints—boot camp with drill sergeants screaming in his face, missions with no prep time, nights spent hauling gear through rain-soaked jungles. He could do this. He had to.
He crossed the room, pulling open the heavy wardrobe in the corner. Inside hung rows of silk tunics and embroidered jackets, useless for what he needed. At the bottom, though, he found a pair of plain black trousers and a linen shirt—simple enough to move in. He changed quickly, the fabric clinging to his lean frame, and laced up a pair of sturdy boots he found tucked away. They weren't military issue, but they'd do.
The system panel followed him, hovering silently as he moved to the door. He glanced at it, his crimson eyes narrowing. "You're sticking around, huh?"
[Guidance mode active. System will monitor progress and provide feedback. Proceed to training grounds.]
Sylan pushed open the door, stepping into the corridor. The Noctis estate was a labyrinth of marble and gold, its halls lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors whose eyes seemed to judge him. He ignored them, his steps purposeful, his mind focused. The training grounds, according to Sylan's fragmented memories, were behind the main manor, a walled courtyard used for swordplay and drills by the family's guards. It wasn't meant for a noble like him, but Jin didn't care about propriety. He needed a place to sweat, to bleed, to build.
The courtyard was empty when he arrived, the morning sun casting long shadows across the packed dirt. Stone walls enclosed the space, lined with racks of training swords, shields, and straw dummies scarred from years of use. A faint breeze carried the scent of earth and steel, grounding him. This was familiar. This was where he could rebuild himself.
He started with bodyweight exercises, just as the system suggested. Push-ups first, his arms trembling after only a dozen, the weakness in Sylan's body infuriating him. He pushed through, gritting his teeth, counting each rep like a soldier counting steps on a forced march. Twenty. Thirty. His shoulders burned, but he didn't stop until he hit fifty, collapsing onto his knees, chest heaving.
[Strength progress: Minimal increase detected. Continue.]
"Minimal," Sylan muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "Thanks for the encouragement."
He moved to squats next, then lunges, his legs wobbling but growing steadier with each set. The system hovered nearby, its text updating with cold precision, tracking his reps, his form, his heart rate. It was like having a drill sergeant, but one that didn't yell. He almost missed the shouting—it would've felt more human.
After an hour, he switched to sprints, running laps around the courtyard until his lungs burned and his vision blurred. The dirt crunched under his boots, each step a defiance of the frail body he'd been given. He wasn't Sylan, the sneering noble destined to die. He was Jin, the soldier who'd clawed his way through hell and come out standing.
[Agility progress: Incremental improvement. Endurance progress: Incremental improvement. Rest recommended.]
Sylan ignored the system, dropping to the ground for another set of push-ups. Rest could wait. Twenty days wasn't enough to become a warrior, but it was enough to start. He'd build this body into something that could fight, something that could survive the game's script and whatever anomaly was stalking him.
As he pushed himself up, sweat dripping onto the dirt, a shadow fell across the courtyard. He froze, his instincts flaring. Someone was watching.
He rose slowly, turning to face the intruder. The system panel pulsed, its text shifting.
[Warning: Unidentified presence detected. Proceed with caution.]
Sylan's eyes scanned the courtyard, his heart steady despite the ache in his muscles. Whoever—or whatever—was out there, he'd face it. He wasn't frail, not anymore. Not in his soul.
"Show yourself," he called, his voice carrying the weight of both Jin's resolve and Sylan's authority.
The shadows shifted, and a figure stepped forward.