As Lyonel continued to examine the sword, turning it slowly in the dim light, a soft knock echoed from the other side of the door.
He blinked, the sound slicing through the fog of his thoughts. For a fleeting moment, he thought about hiding the blade but quickly brushed the idea aside. There was no need for that.
He slid the sword back into its sheath, placing it exactly where he'd found it on the rack, and strolled back to his chair with a calm demeanor. The floorboards creaked softly under his feet.
"Come in," he called, his voice steady and casual, though his crimson-blue eyes remained locked on the door.
The door creaked open once more, revealing a teenager around sixteen, balancing a silver tray. Steam wafted from the porcelain cup resting on it.
"Young Master," the boy said flatly, his voice clipped and tinged with annoyance. "Here's your afternoon tea."
Lyonel turned his head lazily, his eyes half-closed. The boy didn't even bother to bow—his stance radiated impatience.
Ah, he recognized him now. Tario Harris. One of his two personal servants. A former street thug taken in by the Aristeo family for "rehabilitation." Loyal only to himself.
Lyonel offered a small smile. "Thanks, Tario. You can set it down over there."
Tario placed the tray down a bit too forcefully, the cup rattling against its saucer. "Anything else, Young Master?" he asked, the title dripping with sarcasm rather than respect.
Lyonel's smile remained intact. He's hostile. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze scanning Tario like a hawk sizing up its prey. Let's see how far you've come, thug.
"Tario," he said suddenly, his tone deceptively casual. "We have a problem."
Tario frowned. "A problem?"
"Yes," Lyonel said, glancing down at his shirt. "It's dirty. I need you to wash it."
Tario blinked, staring at him in disbelief. The shirt was immaculate a crisp white, perfectly pressed. "With all due respect, Young Master," he replied, trying to mask his irritation, "your shirt looks perfectly fine to me."
"Oh?" Lyonel's voice dripped with feigned innocence as he tilted his cup just enough for a single drop of tea to slide off the edge, leaving a mark on the corner of his collar.
He glanced down, then back up at Tario, a smirk playing on his lips. "Hmm. Not anymore."
Tario's jaw clenched. His gaze darted from the stain to Lyonel's face. He understood exactly what was going on, and it stung.
Lyonel stood up, brushing off imaginary dust from his sleeve. "You know, I could wash it myself," he said casually, his tone oozing with arrogance. "And then I'd have to tell Head Maid Aundi Haynes that Tario Harris is refusing to follow his Young Master's orders."
At the mention of Aundi Haynes, Tario's face went pale. Everyone in the mansion knew that the Head Maid's punishments were… thorough.
He clicked his tongue in frustration and snatched the shirt from Lyonel's hand. "Understood, Young Master," he muttered through gritted teeth.
Lyonel smirked as he watched Tario leave. "Good boy," he said softly once the door clicked shut.
Then his smile faded, his eyes narrowing. "So that's his breaking point. Still has that street dog temper… but he knows when to back down."
When the door finally clicked shut behind Tario, the room fell into a hush once again.
Lyonel sank back into his chair, his fingers tapping a restless beat against the wooden armrest.
In the distance, the soft hum of the mansion's torches created a steady backdrop to his swirling thoughts.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment. Now that the noise has faded… what's next on the agenda?
Before the regression, I had Lyonel's entire past neatly stored in my mind.
I could already envision the paths branching out in front of me.
Should I use those memories to rewrite history?
To reshape the future that Lyonel had once failed to seize?
Or… should I let everything unfold just as it did the betrayals, the power struggles and simply observe from afar?
The thought lingered for only a heartbeat before he scoffed. "No. That's not who I am."
He leaned forward, his eyes glinting in the flickering torchlight. "What's the point of being reborn if I'm still that same weak brat?"
His words hung in the air, sending a chill through the room. His voice had transformed; it was no longer Lyonel's. It now carried the calm, deadly certainty of Kores Kruger.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "If I'm going to live as Lyonel Aristeo… then I'll rise within this family. I'll become its successor—its heir."
The idea felt weighty, yet it settled comfortably in his mind. He had spent his life as a weapon; now, he would be the hand that wielded them.
He exhaled slowly. "With these memories," he murmured, "I can carve out a name that even Belal can't overlook."
His gaze turned distant, sharper. "Connections… influence… leverage." He mentally ticked them off like a checklist.
Then his expression shifted. "And maybe… manipulation."
He clicked his tongue, a frown crossing his face. "Tch. How I despise that word."
The irony wasn't lost on him a killer, repulsed by deceit.
But he understood the reality: in this family, strength alone wouldn't cut it.
The Aristeos were panthers, and panthers devoured those who hesitated.
Lyonel crossed his arms, gazing at his reflection in the window. The boy looking back at him seemed so fragile too thin, too soft. He grimaced.
"If I want to get anywhere," he muttered, "I need a body that can keep up."
He sank back into his thoughts. Power without a solid foundation is just asking for trouble.
He could still recall his old routine the one Kores Kruger swore by honed through years of sweat and discipline.
Wake up before dawn.
Run twenty kilometers.
Do a hundred push-ups, a hundred sit-ups, a hundred squats.
Repeat until your body gives out, then do it all over again.
He chuckled darkly at the memory. "Yeah… that routine turned me into a beast back then."
Then he looked down at his new hands small, thin, almost fragile. The skin was smooth, free from callouses or scars.
"But if I try that now," he muttered, "I'll probably collapse halfway through."
He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a sigh. "Looks like I'll need to dial it back a bit."
He paused, then snapped his fingers. "Right — modified Kores special. One Punch Kid edition."
A slight grin crept onto his face at his own joke.
"Twenty push-ups, twenty sit-ups, twenty squats… and a one-kilometer run every morning." He nodded to himself, counting on his fingers. "Yeah, that should be enough to build a solid base."
Then his expression turned serious again. "But consistency is crucial. I'll stick to it every day. No excuses."
A faint smirk appeared on his lips. "Heh. I can already hear Saitama in my head… 'That's all it takes.'"
He stretched his arms overhead, his muscles protesting with a creak. "Alright then," he murmured, "let's see what this 'Heavenly Restricted Body' can really do."
The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon when Lyonel finally opened his eyes. The soft orange light spilled into his room, casting a warm glow on the furniture, but it did little to chase away the chill in the air.
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his short white hair. "Alright," he muttered, his voice still groggy but resolute. "Day one of operation: No longer the Aristeo family's punching bag."
Pushing himself off the bed, he stretched, feeling his joints crack like dry twigs. His body felt heavy and awkward. Sure, he had a "Heavenly Restricted Skeletal Body," but after years of neglect, it was more like a legendary sword left to gather dust.
Glancing at himself in the mirror, he noted his thin arms, with just a hint of muscle—definitely not enough to call it a warrior's physique. He sighed. "Yeah… definitely not main character material yet."
He dropped down to the floor and took a deep breath. "Let's keep it simple. My old routine as Kores would shatter this body like glass. So… we'll tone it down."
After a moment of thought, he nodded to himself with a smirk. "Twenty push-ups. Twenty sit-ups. Twenty squats. And… a one-kilometer run."
He paused for dramatic effect, raising an eyebrow at his reflection. "…For a twelve-year-old noble, that's basically hell mode."
The first push-up nearly did him in.
His arms trembled immediately, his body shaking like a leaf in a storm. By the fifth push-up, he was already gasping for air. On the tenth, his arms gave out, and he faceplanted right onto the floor.
"Ugh—damn…" he groaned, spitting out imaginary dust. "How weak was this kid?"
Rolling onto his back, he struggled to catch his breath. His chest heaved up and down rapidly, sweat starting to bead on his forehead. But despite it all, the corner of his mouth twitched into a grin.
"This… this brings back memories."
He pushed himself up again, forcing his trembling body to cooperate. "No giving up now. I'm not about to let a twelve-year-old's metabolism beat me."
By the time he hit twenty, his arms felt like spaghetti. His lungs were on fire, and his heart was pounding like a drum. He collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air like a dog that had just run too far.
Staring up at the ceiling, he muttered, "How the hell did that bald bastard manage to do this for three whole years?"
With a groan, he pulled himself up to tackle the sit-ups. "Alright. Time to unleash my inner hero," he joked between breaths. "Though instead of slaying monsters, I'll probably just end up wrecking my back."
Halfway through, a sharp pain twisted in his abdomen, but he pushed through. His thoughts drifted back to his past life, training under stormy skies, the sound of gunfire ringing in his ears, pushing himself to the brink because failure meant death.
Now, failure just meant being called useless by the servants. Somehow, that felt even worse.
By the time he wrapped up the squats, his legs were like jelly. Every step felt like walking on shards of glass. He staggered to the door, grabbed a canteen of water, and took a huge gulp.
"Alright," he muttered. "Last part—the run."
The Aristeo estate sprawled for miles, a fortress in its own right. The gravel paths were cold and shrouded in mist, bordered by towering marble walls that seemed to watch him as he stepped outside. The brisk morning air hit his skin, jolting him awake.
"Just one kilometer," he said. "How hard can it be?"
Thirty seconds later—
"This was a terrible idea!"
He sprinted, stumbled, cursed, and kept pushing forward. His breathing was ragged, and his heart felt like it was about to burst. The maids he passed looked at him in confusion, whispering to one another.
"Isn't that the seventh son? What's he up to?"
"I think he's… running?"
"Good heavens, why?"
He brushed them off. With each step, his body screamed for mercy. But somewhere in that chaos—somewhere between the pain and the laughter—something inside him began to awaken.
The faint hum of Kensei energy coursed through his veins, syncing with the rhythm of his heartbeat.
Thump.
Thump.
Each step intensified that beat. His vision blurred, but his insides felt alive. For a brief moment, he felt as if he were floating, weightless. The pain didn't just disappear; it morphed into something else entirely.
"This feeling…" he gasped, clutching his chest as he approached the estate gates. "It's like… my body is finally remembering how to move again."
He stumbled, his knees hitting the ground, but instead of staying down, he let out a laugh. It wasn't a victorious laugh; it was the bitter, wild laugh of a man who simply refused to quit.
"I can't even tell if I'm training… or just torturing myself at this point."
Lying there on the gravel, the cold air nipped at his skin. Above him, the sky was turning a brilliant gold, the first rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds.
"Still," he muttered with a smirk, "if I keep this up every day, I'll be unstoppable by the time I'm sixteen."
He groaned and pushed himself up, his muscles trembling but alive with energy.
"For now… I'll just focus on surviving day one."
Later that afternoon, he found himself back in his chair, sipping tea with unsteady hands. His arms struggled to lift the cup without shaking. Tario walked by, raising an eyebrow.
"Young master… are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Lyonel met his gaze with half-closed eyes. "Death and I are old pals. We just had a… reunion workout."
Tario blinked in confusion. "...What?"
Lyonel offered a faint grin. "Forget it. Just make sure dinner is packed with protein."
As Tario left, Lyonel leaned back, still smiling weakly. "Day one… complete," he whispered. "At this rate, I'll either become a monster… or die trying."
He closed his eyes, feeling the gentle, rhythmic pulse of Kensei energy lingering in his limbs a quiet reminder that even the weakest beginnings can be transformed with effort.