Morning sunlight slipped through the curtains, soft and golden, painting the floor in uneven stripes.
Cael stirred awake with a groan.
His body ached all over, his muscles screaming as if he'd been beaten with iron rods. When his hand brushed against his neck, he felt it—dried blood, crusted and flaking.
The metallic scent hit him next.
He looked down. His shirt was soaked dark crimson, his bed sheets painted in the evidence of last night's struggle.
For a heartbeat, he thought he was back on the battlefield again, dying beneath the shadow of a monster. But then he remembered—the Awakening, the pain, the blood.
'Right… I did it.'
He let out a shaky exhale. His lips curled into a faint, tired smile.
"Looks like I survived again," he muttered under his breath, voice hoarse.
He pushed himself up, every movement sending jolts of soreness through his limbs.
The smell of blood was suffocating now; he needed to clean up before anyone noticed.
He stripped off the stained clothes and tossed them into a basket, then staggered toward the bathroom.
Cold water hit his skin like a slap. It shocked him at first, but then the chill began to wash away the heaviness clinging to him—the exhaustion, the fear, the phantom memory of dying.
Steam fogged the mirror as he cleaned every trace of the mess. The water at his feet ran pink, then clear.
By the time he was done, the room smelled of soap and nothing else. He dried off, walked to the mirror, and stared at his reflection.
His face looked… lighter. There was still that weariness in his eyes, but beneath it burned something different—resolve.
'Now that I'm awakened,' he thought, running a hand through his damp hair, 'the next thing I need to do is bring this body into shape.'
He turned toward his wardrobe, scanning the rows of clothes.
Silks, embroidered shirts, and vests—all far too stiff and pretentious for what he had in mind.
His fingers found a simple black shirt and a plain white one underneath. He pulled the white one on, left it untucked, and folded the sleeves up to his elbows.
Then he slipped into dark trousers that clung comfortably to his legs.
When he looked at himself again, he nodded in approval.
"Finally," he said aloud, stretching his shoulders, "something comfortable."
His gaze flicked to the corner of the wardrobe where the rest of his noble attire hung untouched.
'I need to tell Luna to make this my regular wear,' he thought, rolling his sleeves a little higher.
With that, he left the room and stepped into the cool morning air.
The courtyard glimmered with dew.
Cael drew in a deep breath, the morning air in the estate's yard was crisp and cool.
Cael began to run — one lap around the mansion, then another, and another.
His footsteps beat against the cobblestone path.
At first, he felt confident.
But by the time he completed his fifth lap, he was panting like a dying horse. His lungs burned, his legs wobbled, and sweat rolled freely down his temple.
'Holy shit… this body's weak.' He grimaced, gasping for breath. 'I've only done five laps and I'm already dying?'
His strides grew heavier, his breath ragged, but he didn't stop.
Each step was a reminder of how far he'd fallen from what he once was—a warrior who could fight for days without rest, now panting after a few laps around his own home.
The servants watched from a distance, whispering among themselves as he passed.
"Is that… the young master?"
"Did the sun rise from the west today?"
"Maybe he lost a bet."
"I didn't even know he could run."
Their voices carried amusement and disbelief.
Cael ignored them, too focused on the rhythm of his feet.
His shirt clung to his back with sweat, his hair plastered against his forehead.
At one corner of the mansion, a tall figure in uniform stood watching through a window—Sebastian, the head butler.
He adjusted his monocle and frowned. After a long pause, he turned and headed for the Baron's office.
✧✧✧
Marcus Winters sat behind his desk, reading over a stack of parchment when a knock came at the door.
"Enter," he said without looking up.
Sebastian stepped inside and bowed deeply. "My lord. Forgive my intrusion, but… there's something rather unusual occurring in the courtyard."
Marcus raised an eyebrow, setting his quill aside. "Unusual?"
"Yes, my lord." Sebastian hesitated for a moment. "Young Master Cael… he's running laps around the mansion."
Marcus's expression didn't change for several seconds. Then, slowly, the corner of his lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
"Is that so?"
Sebastian blinked in confusion. "You… seem unsurprised, my lord. Do you know something?"
Marcus leaned back in his chair, eyes distant. "Who knows," he murmured.
The butler tilted his head slightly, clearly dissatisfied by the vague response, but after a moment, he bowed again and withdrew.
✧✧✧
By the time Cael finished his run, his legs felt like jelly.
His hair was damp, his shirt drenched. He stumbled to a stop in front of his room, hands on his knees, chest rising and falling like bellows.
'That's… enough for now,' he told himself, dragging in air through his teeth.
As he straightened up, he noticed Luna standing by the door, holding his usual set of noble clothes.
She bowed lightly. "Good morning, Young Master."
"Morning, Luna."
She looked him up and down, clearly startled by his state but too polite to say anything.
"Luna," Cael said, straightening his back, "from now on, change my regular clothes to these."
He pointed to his sweat-soaked black and white attire.
The maid blinked, visibly taken aback. "Pardon, Young Master?"
"These," he repeated with a faint grin. "They're more comfortable."
Luna's lips parted slightly in confusion. She studied his face for a second before nodding. "As you wish, Young Master. I'll prepare them within a few minutes."
"Thanks," Cael said, brushing past her and entering his room.
He washed up again, changed into a fresh set of the same clothes, and combed his hair back neatly. Just as promised, Luna returned with folded shirts of similar style.
After thanking her, he made his way toward the dining hall—his stomach growling audibly.
As soon as Cael pushed open the doors, conversation at the breakfast table stopped.
Every head turned toward him.
It wasn't just because he was on time again—it was because he wasn't wearing noble attire. No silk, no crest, just a plain white shirt and black pants.
Rosalie, his mother, was the first to recover from her surprise. "Oh, Cael, you're here! I was starting to worry. You didn't come for dinner yesterday."
Cael rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. "Yeah, sorry about that. I was… a bit busy."
Aldric let out a short laugh. "Busy, huh? Do you even know what that means?"
Cael didn't rise to the bait. He simply and took his seat. Aldric's smirk faltered at being ignored.
Lily leaned closer, her green eyes wide. "Brother, what's with the clothes?"
"They're just more comfortable," Cael replied casually.
Before anyone could comment, Celeste spoke.
Her voice was warm, gentle, carrying that same softness that used to calm his nerves years ago.
"I saw you running earlier," she said, smiling faintly. "Keep it up."
Cael froze for a second, caught off guard. It was the first time she'd spoken to him since his return.
He found himself smiling back. "Yeah… I will."
'She's still the same,' he thought, a flicker of warmth spreading in his chest. 'Kind, gentle… and beautiful.'
Lily's eyes went wide again. "You were working out?!"
Her exclamation drew both Rosalie's and Aldric's attention. Even his mother looked shocked.
Cael shrugged, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Yeah. Thought it was about time I got this body into shape."
The silence that followed was almost comical.
Rosalie blinked. Aldric stared like he'd grown two heads.
'What's wrong with this bastard all of a sudden?' Aldric thought, glaring quietly.
'Why's he trying to act all diligent now? I need to keep an eye on him, he better not become a problem…'
No one spoke further, and breakfast continued awkwardly until Cael excused himself.
✧✧✧
The training grounds lay just beyond the estate walls, a vast expanse of dirt and grass bordered by stone and iron.
The clang of steel echoed through the air, mingled with the shouts of instructors and the rhythmic thud of boots.
When Cael entered, the guards barely spared him a glance.
Hundreds of soldiers and trainees were scattered across the field—some sparring with wooden swords, others running drills.
At the far end stood the knight commander, a broad-shouldered man with graying hair, arms crossed. His sharp eyes tracked Cael with mild curiosity but said nothing.
Cael ignored the stares and walked further in, scanning the field. His gaze settled on a group of young trainees practicing under the watchful eyes of a woman.
She stood apart from them, posture straight, her long red hair glinting in the sunlight.
Her amber eyes followed the trainees' movements with precision, correcting their stances, her tone firm but not unkind.
A faint smile touched Cael's lips. He recognized her immediately.
Lyra.
Two years ago, she had been known across the region as a prodigy.
A commoner who rose to become a two-star knight at eighteen—a feat that even many noble elites failed to achieve in their lifetimes. For context,
Marcus Winters himself, a seasoned warrior and lord, was a two-star knight.
But Lyra's rise had been too swift, too brilliant. And brilliance, in the wrong eyes, bred envy.
The Count she served under had once praised her, gifted her equipment, and promised her a future of honor.
But due to her rapid rise, the Count was worried about losing control over her, therefore he came up with an idea to keep her in his control.
He gave a proposal to Lyra to marry his son but when she refused to marry his son, everything changed.
Outwardly, the Count accepted her decision. Inwardly, he plotted her downfall.
A week later, he presented her with what he called a "gift"—a high-grade cultivation method. Flattered and unsuspecting, Lyra accepted.
She trusted her lord completely.
The method, however, was incomplete. A death sentence disguised as generosity.
When she attempted to practice it, her mana core shattered, her pathways ruptured beyond healing.
One moment she was a rising star, the next she was a cripple—abandoned, betrayed, and broken.
With no home, no power, and a pair of younger siblings to feed, she took whatever work she could.
Eventually, Marcus Winters offered her a place as a trainee instructor at his estate.
A noble's mercy, though Lyra never saw it that way.
She despised nobles—every last one of them. But for her family's sake, she swallowed her pride.
And now, that same prodigy stood before Cael, her once fiery aura muted, her strength reduced to mere memory.
Cael approached, boots crunching lightly on the packed dirt.
Lyra turned, sensing his presence. Her eyes narrowed slightly when she saw him.
"Well, if it isn't the lazy young master himself," she said, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
"To what do I owe the honor?"
"That's a great way to greet someone," Cael replied, amused.
Lyra chuckled softly. "So? What's the infamous Young Master doing here? I doubt you came to train. How can a lowly cripple like me possibly assist you?"
Her words carried a hint of bitterness, but it wasn't personal—it was habit, born of resentment too old to fade.
Cael's gaze flicked to the trainees behind her, then back. "You're wasting time here."
Her expression hardened immediately. "Excuse me?"
Her brow furrowed. She took the statement negatively, thinking he was mocking her for being a cripple.
"You think a cripple can't even teach? What do you know about training, Young Master? Have you ever even trained properly? Even without mana, I still have more experience and technique than—"
"I didn't mean that," Cael cut in, lifting a hand slightly. "You misunderstood. I meant you're wasting your own time."
Lyra blinked, momentarily thrown off. "...What?"
Cael's lips curved into a faint smirk. "Because I can fix you."