Weeks turned into a month. Robin's secret routine became as natural as breathing. The dark, lonely hours before dawn were his. His small room, once a prison, had become his personal forge.
But it was too small, too stuffy. A warrior, even a warrior-in-training with tiny arms, needed space to move and fresh air to breathe.
Using his ghostly knowledge of the castle, he found the perfect place. It was a small, forgotten courtyard tucked away behind the kitchens.
It had once been a garden for the castle's chefs, but now it was overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. A crumbling stone bench sat against one wall, and a large, ancient pillar stood in the center, its purpose long forgotten.
No one ever came here. It was perfect.
This morning, like every morning, he was there before the sun. The air was cold and damp with dew. He called up the blue screen, his daily progress report.
[Name: Robin Tregor]
[Level: 1]
[Stats:]
[STRENGTH: 5]
[AGILITY: 5]
[ENDURANCE: 5]
[DEXTERITY: 5]
A grim smile touched his lips. The numbers were still pitifully low. A well-fed cat probably had higher stats. But they were no longer a joke.
He could now run for a whole minute before his lungs felt like they were on fire. His Strength had doubled. He could now do five whole push-ups before collapsing in a heap.
It was pathetic, but it was progress. And progress was everything.
"Alright, you bag of bones," he muttered to his own body. "Let's get to work."
He began his routine. The push-ups came first. His arms, still thin but now with a faint line of muscle, shook as he pushed himself up from the damp grass.
"One…" he grunted, his body protesting.
"Two…"
"Three…"
"Four…" HFF… HFF… His arms screamed.
"Five!" He finished the last one and collapsed, his chest heaving.
The pain was a familiar friend now. It meant he was getting stronger. After a moment, he pushed himself up and began practicing basic stances.
He moved slowly, deliberately, trying to teach his weak body the perfect forms that Commander Justin's soul knew by heart. A low stance, a high guard, a simple foot pivot.
Every movement was clumsy and awkward, but he repeated them again and again. Repetition was the mother of skill.
He was in the middle of a slow, lunging motion, trying to keep his balance, when he felt it.
It wasn't a sound. It wasn't a sight. It was a change in the air. The feeling a predator gets when it realizes it is no longer the only one hunting in the forest.
Someone was watching him.
He froze mid-lunge, every nerve in his body suddenly on high alert. His eyes, sharp and analytical, scanned the courtyard. The crumbling walls. The overgrown herb bushes. The old, forgotten pillar in the center.
There.
Behind the pillar, a flash of silver. A small face peeked out, eyes wide with curiosity. It was a girl, no older than eight, with the signature silver hair of the Tregor bloodline. Her face was round, her expression one of pure, innocent wonder.
Robin's mind, a library of faces from his past life, instantly identified her.
Sarah Tregor.
His future "sister." The youngest child of the Duke. He remembered her from his past life. She grew up to be a beautiful and formidable swordswoman, nicknamed the "Iron Rose of the North."
She was fiercely loyal to her family, a proud warrior who defended the very name that had discarded and betrayed him.
In his mind, the image of the small, innocent girl in front of him flickered and was replaced by the woman she would become. He saw her in full Tregor armor, her sword raised, her face cold and determined as she cut down her family's enemies.
She was a pillar of the House that he had sworn to destroy.
The cold, calculating mind of Commander Justin took over. He analyzed her as he would any other piece on a chessboard.
Threat Level: Currently zero. She's a child.
Potential Future Threat: High. A loyal Tregor is an enemy Tregor.
Weakness: Innocence, curiosity.
Opportunity: None. Any interaction is a risk.
A tiny, forgotten part of him felt a flicker of something else. She was just a little girl. She wasn't his enemy. She was just curious. Maybe…
NO! the commander's voice in his head roared, crushing the flicker of softness. Attachments are a weakness. Kindness is a liability.
Do you remember Gregor? He laughed with you one day and stabbed you the next. This girl is a Tregor. She is part of the poison. Do not engage. Do not connect. Cut it off before it can grow.
The little girl, seeing that he had stopped moving, seemed to think it was safe to come out. She stepped out from behind the pillar, her small nightgown damp from the dewy grass.
She looked at his strange, wobbly posture and the sweat on his brow.
"What are you doing?" she asked. Her voice was small and sweet, like tiny silver bells.
It was a simple, innocent question. But to Robin, it was a test. A trap.
He slowly straightened up, his face becoming a cold, emotionless mask. He remembered her future, her loyalty, her place in the family that had left him for dead.
He could not afford attachments. He could not afford friends or family. His path was a lonely one, paved with secrets and blood. This little girl, with her wide, curious eyes, was a complication he did not need.
He looked down at her, his gaze as cold and distant as a winter sky.
"Nothing that concerns you," he said.
His voice was flat and dismissive. The words were not shouted, but they hit her like a physical slap. The innocent curiosity in her eyes vanished, replaced by a flicker of confusion and hurt. Her small smile faltered.
She looked like a puppy that had just been kicked for trying to play.
Robin didn't wait for her to respond. He deliberately turned his back on her, a clear and final rejection. He faced the stone wall and resumed his stances, his movements stiff and deliberate.
He could feel her small presence behind him, hesitating for a moment. Then, he heard the soft sound of her bare feet running away across the damp grass.
The courtyard was silent again. He was alone.
A cold sense of satisfaction settled in his chest. He had successfully defended his isolation. He had cut off a potential weakness before it could even form. It was a necessary cruelty, a small, strategic victory on his long road to revenge.
But as he stood there in the cold morning light, he couldn't shake the image of her confused, hurt face. He had won the exchange, but a small, quiet voice in the back of his mind wondered what it had cost him.
He quickly silenced it. The cost didn't matter. Only the mission mattered. And the mission required him to be a ghost, a monster. And ghosts and monsters do not have little sisters.