Chapter 13 — It Seems I Need to Train First, 2
The courtyard lay still under the morning sun, its packed dirt scarred from Sylan Kyle Von Noctis's relentless training. Sweat stung his eyes, his limbs burned, and his chest heaved from the sprints and push-ups that had pushed his frail body to its limits. The system panel hovered nearby, its glowing text clinical and unyielding: [Agility progress: Incremental improvement. Endurance progress: Incremental improvement. Rest recommended.] Sylan ignored it, his focus razor-sharp, every muscle screaming but driven by a soldier's will. He wasn't the boy this world expected—weak, sneering, doomed. He was Sylan now, and he'd forge this body into a weapon.
The system's warning cut through his thoughts: [Warning: Unidentified presence detected. Proceed with caution.] His senses snapped to attention, the air suddenly heavy with the weight of unseen eyes. He rose from the dirt, slow and deliberate, his crimson gaze sweeping the courtyard. The stone walls, the racks of training swords, the straw dummies—nothing moved. But the shadows at the far end, near the arched entrance, seemed to ripple.
"Show yourself," Sylan called, his voice a blade, sharp with authority and edged with defiance.
The shadows stirred, and a figure stepped into the light. It was Virelle Thren, his newly appointed personal attendant, her gray dress blending with the stone behind her. Her hands were clasped tightly, her posture rigid, as if she'd been caught somewhere she shouldn't be. Her muted gray eyes flicked up to meet his, then dropped, her face paling under the weight of his stare.
"My lord," she stammered, bowing low, her voice barely above a whisper. "I—I didn't mean to intrude. I was sent to check on you."
Sylan's eyes narrowed, his instincts prickling. 'Sent by who?' he thought, studying her. Virelle's fear was real, her trembling hands and hunched shoulders proof of the Noctis family's cruelty toward those beneath them. But there was something else—a flicker of curiosity in her glance, quickly hidden. She wasn't just a maid anymore, not after he'd reassigned her. She was his, bound to him, and that made her presence here significant.
"Check on me?" he said, his tone even but laced with suspicion. He stepped closer, his boots crunching against the dirt, his crimson eyes locking onto hers. "Or watch me?"
Virelle flinched, her hands twisting the fabric of her dress. "No, my lord! I was only—Lady Noctis, your mother, she asked me to ensure you were… well." Her voice faltered, as if she knew the excuse was flimsy.
'My mother,' Sylan thought, a bitter edge to the words. Sylan's memories supplied the image: Lady Amanda Von Noctis, a woman with hair like spun gold and eyes as cold as winter, her voice sharp enough to cut through pride. She didn't care about her son's well-being—only his usefulness to the family's name. If she'd sent Virelle, it wasn't out of concern. It was surveillance.
The system panel pulsed, new text appearing. [Caution: Virelle Thren's presence may indicate external influence. Monitor her actions.]
Sylan's lips pressed into a thin line. 'External influence. Great. More players in this twisted game.' He straightened, wiping sweat from his brow, his body still aching but his mind clear. He couldn't afford to alienate Virelle—not yet. She was his first ally, fragile as she was, and he needed her loyalty more than her fear.
"Fine," he said, his voice softening just enough to ease her tension. "You've checked. I'm alive. Now help me."
Virelle's eyes widened, confusion flashing across her face. "Help, my lord?"
He gestured to the training grounds, the dirt streaked with his footprints, the straw dummies waiting. "You're my attendant now. That means you're not just fetching water or cleaning rooms. You're part of this." He pointed to the system panel, though he wasn't sure if she could see it. "I have twenty days to make this body worth something. You're going to help me keep track."
Her mouth opened, then closed, her hands stilling. "I… I don't understand, my lord. Keep track?"
"Time. Reps. Progress," he said, his tone clipped, military. "I need someone to count while I train. Can you do that, or do I need to find someone else?"
Virelle shook her head quickly, her bun loosening slightly. "No, my lord. I can do it. I'll… I'll try."
'Good,' Sylan thought. 'She's scared, but she's not running.' He nodded, turning back to the courtyard. "Start with push-ups. Count every rep out loud. Don't miss one."
He dropped to the ground, his palms pressing into the dirt, and began. His arms trembled, still weak from the earlier set, but he forced himself through, each push a defiance of the body he'd been given. Virelle hesitated, then knelt a few feet away, her voice soft but clear.
"One… two… three…"
Her counting steadied him, a rhythm to anchor his effort. By twenty, his shoulders burned; by thirty, his vision blurred. But he kept going, Virelle's voice growing more confident with each number. "Forty… forty-one…"
The system panel flickered, updating. [Strength progress: Incremental increase detected. Continue.]
Sylan grunted, pushing through to fifty before collapsing onto his knees, his breath ragged. Virelle stopped counting, her eyes wide with something like awe. "My lord, that was…"
"Don't stop," he snapped, rising to his feet. "Next is sprints. Time me. Ten laps around the courtyard. Go."
Virelle scrambled to her feet, pulling a small pocket watch from her dress—standard issue for Noctis servants, Sylan's memories supplied. She clicked it open, her fingers steady now, and called, "Start!"
Sylan ran, his boots pounding the dirt, his legs protesting but obeying. The courtyard blurred past, the stone walls and weapon racks a gray smear. Virelle's voice followed him, calling out times at each lap, her tone sharper, more focused. By the tenth lap, he was gasping, his lungs screaming, but he didn't stop until he crossed the invisible line by her side.
"Two minutes, forty-seven seconds," Virelle said, her voice steady now, almost proud.
Sylan nodded, hands on his knees, sweat dripping onto the ground. 'Not bad for a frail noble,' he thought. 'But not enough.' He straightened, turning to the system panel. "Show me my stats again."
The panel obliged, its text shifting. [Status: Sylan Kyle Von Noctis]
[Strength: 5/100]
[Agility: 7/100]
[Endurance: 6/100]
[Intelligence: 12/100]
[Charisma: 15/100]
[Special Trait: Crimson Eyes (Passive) – Enhances perception and intimidation. Unlocked potential unknown.]
A single point in each physical stat. It was progress, but it was slow. Too slow for twenty days. 'I need to push harder,' he thought, his mind racing through training regimens from his past life—grueling marches, sparring sessions, nights spent running until his legs gave out. This body wasn't ready for that, not yet, but he'd force it to adapt.
Virelle watched him, her expression unreadable. "My lord, should I… prepare anything? Water? A towel?"
He glanced at her, noting the shift in her demeanor. She was still afraid, but there was something else now—curiosity, maybe respect. 'She's starting to see me,' he thought. 'Not the old Sylan. Me.' It was a start.
"Water," he said. "And find me a training sword. I'm not done yet."
Virelle bowed, hurrying toward the racks, her steps lighter than before. Sylan watched her go, then turned back to the system panel, its glow steady, unyielding. Twenty days. A frail body. A world that wanted him dead. And somewhere out there, an anomaly waiting to strike.
'Let it come,' he thought, his crimson eyes burning with resolve. 'I'll be ready.'