B
For direct order of Duchess Sophia, the first to pressure him was Albert, his tutor and guardian since childhood. No one in the Douglas mansion dared to argue with him, and even less so when it came to the heir. Albert, descendant of the maternal lineage, had served the family for three generations; his loyalty was as solid as the steel he wielded. He was not only responsible for the young duke's safety, but also his combat master.
Sophia had given the order in a firm voice, leaving no room for reply: —A weak body breeds a weak mind —she had said that morning, while watching from the balcony as the sun illuminated the fields.
Albert obeyed the instruction with his characteristic severity. Upon entering Lusian's chambers, his mere presence filled the room: the smell of leather, the metallic clink of his armor, the weight of duty in every movement.
—The reason you fell ill is because you lack training —he said bluntly, with a gaze that allowed no argument—. From today onward, you will move that body even if I have to drag you to the field.
Lusian tried to protest, still wrapped in the laziness he confused with weakness: —I still feel sick… let it be another day —he murmured, with a dull voice, more to himself than to Albert.
Albert stepped closer, standing like a wall of authority. —There is no other day. Lost time is danger. Every moment you waste here takes you further away from surviving this world.
Lusian swallowed, aware that arguing was useless. But inside him, something sparked: the first hint of defiance, a thought reminding him that although that body was not his, his mind could still trace its own path.
Before he could finish, Albert pushed him toward the training field.
The training field stretched before him: a wide courtyard of sand mixed with stone, surrounded by low walls and watchtowers where soldiers practiced swordsmanship and sorcery under the commander's gaze.
—Greetings to young master Lusian! —the knights shouted in unison as he walked to the center of the field.
The echo of their voices thundered against the walls, and for a moment, Lusian felt the weight of all those gazes fixed on him. Shame wrapped around him like a heavy cloak; he was not a player behind a screen, but a young duke who had to meet everyone's expectations.
Albert appeared beside him, picking up two swords with a sharp twist of his wrist. —You still haven't learned, Lusian. You must behave according to your status. Today you will remember what it means to train —he said, throwing him one of the swords, which Lusian caught by reflex, stumbling under its weight.
—Master… —Lusian said, lowering his gaze— …I cannot feel mana.
Albert frowned, evaluating his disciple with disdain. —You cannot, you say? Or is this just another excuse not to train? —he whispered, the air around him vibrating with energy. Without further warning, he wrapped his fist in mana, a deep red glow that made the air crackle and smell of ozone—. Let's find out.
The blow came fast, straight to Lusian's chest, sending him backward. Another strike, directly to his abdomen, left him breathless. He rolled across the ground, dust and suppressed laughter echoing around him.
The pain was real. It was not a number on a screen or a controller vibration: it was iron pressing into his flesh, metallic taste in his mouth, ringing in his ears. So this is what dying feels like… in reality, he thought, trying to stand up.
Then he sensed it: something inside him stirred, a primitive current responding to the contact of foreign mana. The strike had not only hurt him… it had awakened him.
Pain turned into vibration, and from the void emerged a cold, viscous energy that flowed through his veins. A black mana, thick as ink, rose from his skin. First in threads, then in waves that distorted the light around him. The air smelled of ozone and ash.
Recalling what he knew from the game, he understood that everyone is born at level 1: weak, fragile, vulnerable. One levels up only through training and nourishment. Mana-rich food—monster meat, fruits, and herbs filled with energy—was the key to rapid growth. Most common humans barely reached level 20 or 25 by age 15. Nobles, accustomed to mana-filled feasts, could exceed level 40 with ease. Lusian, at only fifteen, had reached level 45: an intermediate point between cadet and legionary.
Magical affinity, however, was not obtained through food or training. It was an inherited gift, transmitted through the mother, connecting the bearer to a primordial element: water, fire, earth, air, light, darkness, ice, or lightning. Those with affinity could channel mana more easily, reduce spell cost, and enhance elemental power.
That was why the heroes blessed by the gods, the ones Lusian remembered from the game, were not simple adventurers. Combining level and affinity, they were capable of altering the fate of Kuria. And now, in that body and with that foreign power, Erwin realized that surviving would not be just a matter of skill… but of adapting to something far deeper and more dangerous than he had ever imagined.
According to what he remembered from the game, Albert was the right hand of the villain Lusian, always loyal, always respectful. Here, he showed no mercy. No one helped him. No one dared.
—Are you going to train seriously or are you going to get beaten? —Albert stepped forward, his shadow covering him.
Lusian stood up unsteadily. His breathing was irregular, but something inside him was already vibrating with force. Albert's blow had been more than physical punishment: it had activated his dormant mana, the same he had not been able to feel until now.
Game memories and bodily instinct fused into a single impulse. Physical enhancement… speed, strength. The spell activated almost on its own: a dark glow enveloped his muscles, the ground cracking beneath his boots.
He wrapped his sword in that same energy, and the blade turned into liquid shadows. With a guttural shout, he extended his hand. Seven black spears materialized around him, floating in a perfect circle before launching toward Albert.
The elder smiled. With a simple motion, he wrapped his sword in fire. The flames roared with contained fury. Each spear that reached him disintegrated into a rain of sparks. When the last one vanished, Albert stepped forward, his weapon burning like a torch.
—Good, you finally remember! —Albert growled with a mix of severity and pride—. Now we can train properly.
Lusian's heart pounded, but there was no fear anymore: he had awakened, and for the first time he felt his power was in his own hands.
Moments later, Lusian staggered back and improvised a water spell, concentrating without control. Steam burst around him, crackling in the air, but he immediately felt his mana drain violently, leaving him nearly empty. Every attempt to channel an element that did not match his affinity weakened him further, revealing the harsh truth: in this world, anyone can use any magic element, but doing so without harmony with their affinity is a lethal waste of mana. In real battle, that waste is not a mistake: it is a death sentence.
—So you intend to waste your mana just to avoid training? —Albert growled, dryly, with a hint of cold amusement—. That irritates me.
With a gesture, the fire aura around him enveloped the steam, evaporating it instantly. The heat struck like an invisible wall, suffocating and burning. Before Lusian could react, the next blow sent him crashing to the ground.
While rolling across the sand, Erwin remembered the stat tables from the game: at fifteen, a noble should be around level 40… but this body vibrated with the pressure of level 45, a potential he still did not know how to release.
Albert did not slow down. He made him roll, lifted him, forced him back to his feet again, each strike measured and lethal, while his deep voice cut through the air between impacts:
—Only use your affinity magic. Everything else is waste… and on the battlefield, waste dies.
From the balcony, Sophia watched in silence. Each blow her son received made her clench her fists. Her hands trembled between the desire to intervene and the obligation not to. Thunder, her beast, neighed uneasily. —If you hit him one more time, Albert… —she murmured through clenched teeth— I will make you taste my wrath.
Still, she did not intervene. Deep down, she knew that fire, that spirit she saw in Lusian, was new. He was no longer the impulsive child he once was. There was something different in him. Something… she could not explain.
The training lasted for hours. When it finally ended, the sun had shifted, casting long shadows across the field. Lusian lay on the ground, breathing heavily, his clothes torn and his body covered in sweat, dust, and bruises. Every muscle hurt, but something in him shone: the silent satisfaction of having surpassed a limit.
Albert watched in silence, arms crossed, while dust still fell around Lusian. His hardened military eyes poorly hid a deeper emotion. He had seen him take his first steps, witnessed his childish tantrums, his clumsy laughter, his falls, and his small victories. To Albert, Lusian was not just his lord. He was, in many ways, the grandson he never had.
And perhaps that was why it hurt so much to see him there, battered and exhausted.
A part of him wanted to say it was enough for today, to tell him to stand up, shake off the sand, and go enjoy his youth while he still could. But he could not.
Lusian was not an ordinary child. He was the heir of the Douglas family, future duke of a region that did not forgive weakness. If he did not train him now, if he did not harden him, if he did not prepare him for what inevitably would come… then his life would be in danger. And Albert would not allow the boy he had watched grow up to die for not being strong enough.
So he kept his expression firm.
Erwin, pale and trembling, felt he might die there. Every breath was an effort, and the air tasted of iron. The rough, dust-covered ground felt more real than ever, each grain scraping his skin like a reminder of his fragility.
Suddenly, Adela burst in from the edge of the field, her skirt fluttering in the wind, a white tiger following her. In her hands she carried two vials: one contained a glowing green liquid of healing light; the other, a dark blue potion infused with the sharp scent of mint and concentrated mana. She knelt beside Lusian, hands trembling, and carefully offered both.
Garet, who had been silently watching until then, stepped forward, frowning. —You should not be so harsh, Albert. He has not fully recovered —he said, his deep voice echoing between the stone walls.
Albert wiped his sword with a cloth without looking at him. —He is young. He can endure it. He must become stronger.
—If anything happens to him, I will hold you responsible —Garet replied, his hand brushing his sword hilt, tension alive in every muscle.
The silence that followed felt like a tangible weight. The soldiers pretended to look forward, but the air was charged with electricity. Two of the strongest men in the duchy stood opposed, not with weapons, but with conflicting ideals about a boy who could barely stand.
Lusian, still kneeling, drank the green potion. The liquid burned down his throat and then spread through his body like liquid fire, easing the pain and replacing it with a tingling sensation of energy and exhaustion.
—What level am I? —he asked, barely lifting his gaze toward Adela, his voice carrying unexpected calm.
She blinked, confused. —The last measurement was level forty-five, my lord.
Lusian nodded, his gesture simple but firm. —I see… thank you.
Adela froze for a moment.
Thank you.
That word… did not fit.
Before, Lusian would have demanded another potion without even looking at her, or scolded someone for the delay.
But the young man before her did none of that.
He simply drank in silence and then asked his level as if he truly cared about the answer.
Adela lowered her gaze for a moment, not knowing what to say.
There was something different about him.
It was not obvious. Not something she could clearly point at.
But it was there.
The other servants watching around also exchanged slightly confused looks.