The talk with the elder butler lingered in my thoughts long after the pain in my limbs dulled. His words hadn't solved anything—but they had sparked something.
A way forward.
I couldn't outmatch a world that had trained since birth to fight, serve, or command. But maybe, just maybe... I could learn how to learn differently.
"Hey Serenya," I muttered while lacing up the worn boots one of the servants lent me. "Your affinity is Remembrance and History, right?"
"Yes," she replied, her voice gentle as ever in the quiet of my mind. "And what may I assist you with?"
"I think I have an idea."
The next morning, I approached servant duties not with blind repetition, but with observation. If I couldn't match their years of instinct, then I'd drown myself in detail.
I studied the way each servant moved—the precise angle of their bows, the way their eyes flicked before they spoke, how they folded the linens without creasing them. At first, it was a mess. Too much information, my head spinning with hundreds of tiny gestures I couldn't replicate.
But with Serenya's affinity guiding me—Remembrance itself—it began to take shape.
By the fourth hour, I could tell who would enter the dining hall before they arrived, based on the order of footsteps I'd memorized. I could anticipate which plate went where based on their subtle hand signals.
It wasn't instinct, but it was close.
In the afternoon, I brought the same approach to the training yard. The soldier who instructed me had a habit of favoring his left foot just before a strike. His shoulders would tense half a second before a downward swing. He always exhaled before he lunged.
It didn't stop the pain when he struck—but now, at least, I saw it coming.
Each night, I'd retreat to my room and write it all down—movement patterns, posture corrections, footwork shifts—page after page. Every failure became an entry. Every strike I took, a footnote in my own developing history.
One night, as I rolled my sore shoulder and dipped the quill into ink again, I said aloud:
"You mentioned I could use your affinity without a ritual or anything. I think it's happening. I'm starting to remember... everything."
Serenya's voice echoed in my mind, calm and reassuring."Yes. As the Spirit of Remembrance and History, my affinity will naturally bleed into your perception. You now share a fragment of it—what your people might call photographic memory."
"Photographic memory…" I repeated. "Yeah, we had that term. People who never forget details."I stared at my notes. Pages of them. "It's weird. I don't feel smarter… just like I'm noticing more."
"And History?" I added, glancing at her translucent form faintly visible in the dim candlelight. "What does that affect?"
There was a pause before she answered.
"History does not simply mean the past, Ezekiel. It is memory given context. In time, you may find that what you recall will let you understand not just how people move—but why they do."
"Meaning?"
"You are not just learning to imitate. You are learning to understand. That is the power of history."
"Understanding, huh…" I muttered, resting my chin on the back of my hand. "That's gonna take a hell of a lot more time. People have so many reasons for doing things—it's not like there's a manual."
"Every movement has a detail to tell," Serenya said softly. "You might say, a story. Ezekiel, why do you write with your left hand when you're naturally right-handed?"
I blinked, caught off guard. "Because… I usually use my left hand when swinging a sword. So I figured, if I'm not training, I should build the coordination some other way."
A pause. Then her voice again—almost pleased.
"See? There's your answer. A reason behind the action. And now that you understand it, you perceive yourself a little differently, don't you?"
I furrowed my brow, leaning back as I let her words settle.
"If you begin to understand why people move, speak, or even hesitate the way they do… then you don't just see their actions. You read their intent."
"Like reading the subtext of a person?" I said.
"Exactly," she replied. "Remembrance teaches you what happened. History teaches you why it mattered."
I leaned forward, glancing at my open notebook—at the scribbled observations of guards, servants, even Elowynn's battle stance.
"So this… this isn't just about remembering their steps," I murmured. "It's about reading the pattern behind the steps."
"Yes, Ezekiel," Serenya said. "And soon, you'll stop reacting to your enemies. You'll start anticipating them."
I guess the only problem is my physical limitations...Even if I know the pattern, I couldn't do much without having an equally strong body as them—and the experience too.
Maybe I could fill that gap in the remaining days?It's not like I'll be drafted into a military camp or something…
By the next morning, I decided to keep doing what I'd been doing—but harder. This time, I had to push the limits of my body to match them.
Servant training was starting to feel easier; my body was getting used to the routine after a week. But sparring? That was a whole different beast.
Now I stood again in front of the soldier who always sparred with me—expression calm, stance loose, but with a sharpness behind his movements that reminded me I wasn't facing a trainer. I was facing a weapon.
I took my stance, feet firm on the dirt floor. Across from me, he twirled his wooden blade with a casual spin and then—
Clack!
He came at me first, as always. I raised my guard just in time, his blow crashing against mine, sending a sharp jolt up my arms.
I remembered: he always follows with a quick left sweep—
I moved. Barely fast enough to dodge.
Then came another strike—downward. I parried it, legs buckling from the force, but I stayed upright.
I could hear Elowynn breathing behind me. Watching. Judging.
Don't think about her.
The soldier grinned this time. He could tell I was pushing myself.
I studied his footwork—remembered how he circled before launching a high feint. I dodged it. Barely.
One minute.
Sweat dripped from my brow. My chest was already heaving, my arms heavy. I wasn't going to last much longer like this.
But I had to.
He lunged again—I sidestepped and swung low. He blocked with ease, countered with a shoulder shove that sent me stumbling.
Two minutes.
I rolled, barely avoiding his boot. The dust clouded my vision, but I focused—on his stance, his patterns, his weight.
Three minutes.
Now he started to test me—less predictable, sharper angles, quicker combos. My muscles were locking up, my vision shaking. I almost dropped my weapon.
Four minutes.
My legs felt like stone. My grip was slipping. But my mind—it was still holding on.
I saw his next move before he did it.
He raised his blade to strike down—I sidestepped again and slammed my blade weakly against his ribs. A light tap, but it made contact.
He blinked, surprised.
Clack!
The whistle blew.
"Five minutes," the guard instructor said.
I dropped to the ground. Hard.
My chest heaved as I gasped for air, sweat soaking through my shirt. My hands trembled around the hilt of the wooden sword.
The soldier nodded to me. Quietly. Respectfully.
I looked up to see Elowynn still standing there.
No applause. No smile.
But she hadn't left.
She watched.That was enough—for now.
I was still seated on the edge of the training field, clutching the wooden sword like it was the only thing keeping me from collapsing entirely.
Footsteps approached—soft, deliberate.Elowynn stood nearby, arms crossed, her usual unreadable expression painted on her face.
"You lasted longer than expected," she said plainly.No praise. Just observation.
I wiped the sweat from my brow, still catching my breath. "Thanks... I think."
Her gaze lingered on me for a moment longer before she turned to leave.
"Rest well tonight, Ezekiel," she added, almost as an afterthought. "We depart tomorrow for Aetherfall Academy."
I blinked. Just like that?
She was already walking away before I could say anything.
Tomorrow…The real start begins.
That night, after taking a much-needed bath to soothe the aching soreness in my limbs, I was just settling into the warmth of my robe when I heard a knock at the door.
Knock knock.
"Who's there?" I called out, cautiously.
I opened it slowly, only to be met with the familiar, bright-eyed face of the little boy servant, barely taller than the tray he was carrying.
"Brother Ezekiel! Here are your clothes!" he said, beaming with excitement.
"Clothes?" I tilted my head.
"Yes! I had my mother make them—she's the best seamstress in the estate!"
"I see... well, thank you."
He handed over the case, and as I opened it, my breath caught in my throat.
Inside were clothes I never thought I'd see again.
A classic hoodie—grey, just like the one I wore back home. Jogging pants with subtle lining. Plain V-collar T-shirts in white, black, and navy. Even jeans. Familiar, worn-in styles I hadn't realized I missed until now.
I traced the fabric with my hand. They weren't exact, but close enough that it felt like opening a window to my old world.
"I had them made from the stories you told me about your country," the boy said proudly, his smile lighting up the hallway.
I knelt down and gently patted his head. "Give my thanks to your mother. Truly."
He nodded quickly, like he'd just been knighted, then turned to scamper back down the hall—light, carefree, as if the world wasn't heavy at all.
I lingered by the door, eyes still on the clothes, a quiet storm brewing in my chest.
For the first time since I got here...It really felt like someone saw me.
That only left the shoes I had when I first landed in this world—the same pair I stuffed in a wooden box under the bed when they started to reek.
I pulled them out now, giving them a once-over.
Worn-out rubber soles, a few faded scratches, and laces that had seen better days. Just a pair of cheap, white sneakers you'd find in side-street markets back on Earth. Nothing special.
But here, they felt like relics from another life.
I turned them over in my hands, wondering out loud, "Think I could get a shoemaker here to replicate these?"
Serenya stirred lightly in the back of my mind.A strange request... though I doubt the craftsmen of this world have ever seen such things.
"Yeah. Maybe not," I sighed. "Last thing I need is to accidentally start a fashion revolution."
I chuckled to myself, then set them gently by the clothes—cleaned, scuffed, and still stubbornly holding the last bit of the world I left behind.
Maybe I'd wear them tomorrow.Maybe not.
Either way... I wasn't the same person who first wore them.