A week passed.
The air had grown warmer, the sun climbing earlier and higher as the days wore on. At the crack of dawn, when most of House Blake still lay wrapped in bedsheets and dreams, the manor grounds echoed faintly with the steady, rhythmic beat of footfalls.
Adam Blake ran.
His pace was still awkward—too much weight on his thighs, his breath untrained, posture far from ideal—but each step was a defiance. Against his fate. Against his body. Against the expectations buried in every pair of eyes that once looked down on him with contempt.
Ten kilometers a day.
One hundred pushups.
One hundred squats.
One hundred sit-ups.
That was the baseline. His bare minimum. His self-imposed penance. It wasn't much by the world's standard, but for a man who could barely climb the staircase without wheezing just a week ago, it was a war against the old him. And he was winning, inch by inch.
He jogged along the inner perimeter of the estate, passing the servant quarters, the training hall, the northern garden. Occasionally, maids or butlers crossed his path—men, mostly, younger than him, dressed in black and white with collars that were always too tight and spines always too straight. They paused upon seeing him, startled, eyes wide like rabbits spotting a wolf.
Adam would stop each time.
Smile.
"Good morning," he'd say. "How's the day? Sorry for… everything. I'll do better."
He meant it.
Every time.
But the responses never changed. A stiff pause, a faltering bow, a flustered "Y-Yes, Young Master," before they scurried away, their eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
Some didn't even speak. Just nodded and bowed quickly, like they feared any delay might cost them a bruise.
Adam would sigh.
I deserve that, he thought. I earned that fear, didn't I?
No matter how brightly he smiled now, no matter how sincerely he apologized, the shadow of the tyrant he once was still clung to these halls. Their trauma wasn't going to vanish in a week just because he'd decided to stop being a bastard.
But that was fine.
He wasn't running for them.
He was running to become someone worthy of their forgiveness—even if it took years.
As he passed the third lap, he muttered under his breath, "Status."
The system window blinked open in his vision, ever ready.
[Quest – A Blast to the Past!]
Reconnect with your sister Laylee. Restore the bond you once shared as children.
Progress: 30%
Reward: +10 Charm
Only thirty percent.
Seriously? he groaned inwardly. He'd been subtle. Thoughtful. Helpful. He'd fixed her mana turbulence, talked with her calmly, answered her questions respectfully, and hadn't made a single annoying joke. He didn't try to push too hard, and he hadn't bothered her since.
And still—only thirty percent?
Do I need to fix her taxes next? Brush her hair?
No. He knew how this system worked. Rom-com quests required emotional resolution, not just proximity. Laylee didn't need idle chatter or awkward sibling hangouts.
She needed a problem.
And he needed to solve it.
He just… didn't know what her next problem would be. Not yet.
Adam took a moment to slow his breath, sweat trickling down his back as he paused under the shade of a gnarled hawthorn tree. He exhaled through his nose, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and muttered beneath his breath, "Status."
The system responded at once, flickering softly into view before his eyes like a second sun, translucent and ghostly in the morning light.
[Status]
Strength: 25
Physique: 25
Speed: 25
Endurance: 25
Wisdom: 20
Charm: 20
Mana: 500
Aura: — Locked
Mana Gates Opened: 5/100
School of Magic: Color Magic
Colors Unlocked: Red, Yellow, Blue
His lips twitched.
Not bad for a single week.
His body had responded better than expected to the physical training—enough that he no longer woke up gasping for breath every morning. The squats and pushups had shaved down some of the flab, and his legs didn't buckle under his own weight anymore. Even his belly, while still proudly round, no longer bounced like dough with every step.
But what truly shocked him was the mana.
Five mana gates.
Five.
It hadn't been easy. Not even close. Each time he tore open a channel, it felt like an invisible vice clamped down on his skull and tried to crush his thoughts into paste. The fifth had nearly killed him—he'd bitten his tongue during the seizure it caused, and it took four hours before his fingers could stop trembling. He hadn't told anyone, of course. What could he say? "Sorry, I was having a magical stroke in my room because I'm doing something no man is legally or metaphysically supposed to do"?
So now his mana was at five hundred. Five times the base amount. A woman would've needed years of meditation and spellwork to hit that number. He'd done it in seven days—and nearly lost his mind five times to get there.
He closed the window, breathing carefully.
That's enough for now, he thought. No more gates for a week. My brain needs a goddamn vacation.
He'd train his body instead. Work on his core. Master the two colors he already had. Let the mana settle before it boiled him alive.
Then, he focused on the quest with Laylee. He tried to think back. In the game, Laylee didn't have many major breakdowns between now and…
His breath caught.
Right. The Succession Ritual.
Three months from now.
The ceremonial rite that would mark Laylee's official inheritance of the Blake bloodline crest—one of the oldest noble legacies in the empire. It wasn't a political coronation, but it was tradition. The wolves of House Blake had always earned their place through fire and steel, not inheritance alone.
Of course, she wouldn't truly take over until graduation from the Grand Academy, but the ritual was the beginning. The official recognition of her claim. A rite of passage passed down from matriarch to daughter for generations. Their mother had done it. Their grandmother before her. All of them had taken on the Wolf's Emblem—and the pressure that came with it.
He didn't know what exact problems would arise during the ritual. The game hadn't focused on it. After all, Adam Blake wasn't important enough to witness that event.
Still… three months.
That's when everything would begin.
The Grand Academy.
The most prestigious institution in the known world.
A place of heroes, warlords, mages, monsters, kings. Even Sodom had graduated from there before ascending into legend. It was the stage upon which the game's entire main story unfolded, starting with the arrival of Eve, the Celestial Hero, and protagonist of the original narrative.
Adam frowned.
He remembered the beginning vividly. Eve's peaceful village. Her doting parents. Her childhood sweetheart.
All burned.
A preemptive strike by the Demon Lord's vanguard, hoping to kill her before her powers awakened.
They failed.
And her rage ignited the world.
That was the prologue. The spark that lit the fuse.
But that had nothing to do with him.
He wasn't a main character. He didn't want to be. His goal was simple: survive, stay under the radar, graduate, marry a nice girl, and live the life of a quiet noble who never had to save the world.
No heroism. No gods. No demon kings.
Just peace.
He was mid-thought when he heard it.
"Piggy Brother!" a high, mocking voice rang from the courtyard gates, slicing through the peaceful morning like a dagger through silk. "Don't you think you're about three years too late to be working out?"
Adam stopped.
He turned, already wincing.
There she stood—arms crossed, a half-smirk tugging at her lips, her silver twin-tails fluttering like banners in the breeze. Tall, radiant, and proud in her blue-stitched training uniform, Crystal Blake, second daughter of House Blake and resident prodigy of ice magic, gazed at him with that infuriating mix of amusement and disdain that only she could weaponize so effectively.
Adam exhaled slowly, wiping sweat from his brow.
Great. Just what I needed today.