The day after his acceptance, Lady Virel left the estate.
She said nothing to Caelum before departing — not out of cruelty, but because there was nothing more to say. She was returning to her birth family, an ancient and rigid noble house that valued bloodlines above bonds, and Caelum had no place among them.
He bore the wrong name.
In that lineage, sons followed fathers. Circumstance, regret, even love — none of it outweighed the rule.A child born into another house could not return with the mother.
And so she left. Without ceremony. Without farewell.And for Caelum, it was almost a relief. He wouldn't have known how to say goodbye anyway.
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The stables were another world entirely.
Damp air. The pungent stench of manure, old hay, and sweat. Horses whinnying. Leather straps creaking. The soft curses of boys with blistered hands.
They gave him a twisted broom, a rusty fork, and a vacant stall with a canvas sack for a pillow. No welcome. No introduction. Only sidelong glances and half-formed sneers.
He adapted in silence.
Each morning, he woke before the bell.He filled troughs, cleaned stalls, dragged buckets until his shoulders burned.He watched the others — how they moved, who took shortcuts, who got away with it.He learned how to hold a bridle without getting kicked, how to read a horse's mood by the twitch of its ear, how to avoid the attention of the loudest boys.
And slowly, his body changed.
The blisters turned to calluses.His breath grew steadier.He learned to ration his energy. To endure.To act without drawing notice.
But most importantly…
He listened.
He learned the rhythm of the bells.The shift of the guards.The intervals between drills.The tone of the sergeants.The pace of command.
And when the others laughed, or collapsed into sleep — he was building something else.
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At night, he slipped into the woods behind the estate.
The trees welcomed him like old guardians, their limbs creaking gently in the wind. No one followed him. No one asked where he went. The forest had become his refuge — the only place that felt honest.
It took three days to find branches that held — thick enough to bend, light enough to wield. He tested their strength against the wind, ran his fingers across bark until he found grain that felt alive.
Two more days went to drying them beside the hearth in the stable, hidden beneath piles of leather scraps. At night, he listened to horses breathe and sharpened kitchen steel by candlelight. The arrows splintered, the heads dulled quickly — but he carved them again.
He fed the fire with patience. Heated the wood, bent it gradually, hands blistered and blackened. The string was coarse — braided from frayed threads he'd scavenged from old saddle cords.
The result was imperfect. The bow leaned slightly to one side. The arrows wobbled in his hand.
But it was his.
Born not of privilege, but effort. The kind only the forgotten know.
And it would do.
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He trained at dawn.
Before the bell rang.Before the guards began their drills.
The training yard was empty — only sand, distant targets, and silence.
At first, his shots were wild.The string vibrated awkwardly. The arrows veered.But something in him understood.
Not through instruction.Not through logic.Through something else — instinct.
The System whispered in subtle ways.
Too much tension in the shoulder.Breathing uneven.Wrist angle off.
There was no voice. No text.Just awareness — an inner compass, correcting, refining.
He didn't just shoot.He understood why he missed.
And each session brought him closer.
He soon memorized the hours when the guards were absent from the yard.
But instead of hiding…he waited for them.
He chose a precise window between the second and third bells — a shift-change, when a tired patrol would cross the far end of the yard in silence.
That was when he fired.
One arrow.Two.Three.
Solid draw. Steady release. Clean follow-through.
He never turned around.Never looked to see if he was being watched.
But he knew.
One day, someone would see.
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This day comes after two weeks.
He was mid-draw when a voice cut through the morning air:
"Not bad… for a stable boy."
Caelum turned — slowly, calmly.
A man stood near the fence, arms crossed, the sunlight glinting off chainmail. His gaze was sharp, his stance firm but relaxed. Mid-thirties. Scarred hands. Dark hair cropped unevenly above a hard, expressionless face.
Caelum knew the name.
[Knight Barion.]Commander of the manor guard.Veteran of the Northern Frontier.A man spoken of in low tones by stablehands and squires alike.
"You draw clean," Barion said. "Your stance is tight, too tight. But the string doesn't lie."
He stepped closer.
"Who trained you?"
"No one," Caelum replied. "I watched. Then I tried."
Barion examined him. "You made this bow?"
Caelum nodded once.
A long silence.
Barion inspected the arrows briefly, then straightened.
"Come back tomorrow. Same time."
He turned to go, then paused.
"Being watched isn't a warning. It's the beginning of judgment."
He walked away without another word.
His boots crunched over the sand, the rhythm sharp and deliberate. Caelum remained motionless, body taut as a drawn bow. The silence that followed wasn't empty — it was filled with thunder.
His heart pounded, not with panic — but with something sharper. Purpose.
Barion had seen him.
And hadn't dismissed him.
That meant something.
He turned back toward the target, the air cold against his flushed skin. The bow felt heavier now — not in weight, but in meaning. No token left. No magic. No prestige.
Just an old soul, a crooked bow, and the knowledge that someone — someone important — was watching.
One arrow remained.
He drew slowly. Muscle memory guided his hand. His breath slipped out, steady and calm.
The silence wrapped around him like a cloak.
He released.
The arrow flew, slicing through stillness, striking the target near center. Not perfect — the fletching slightly frayed, the angle a touch high.
But closer.
Closer than yesterday.
Closer than doubt.
And it was enough.
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He lowered the bow slowly, breath still steady, and looked at the target one last time before turning back toward the empty yard. He did not smile. He didn't need to.
He lingered a moment longer, listening to the stillness settle again.
Then, wordlessly, he slung the bow over his shoulder and returned to the stables.The day's labor hadn't paused for him. There were troughs to refill, hooves to check, and manure to clear. The same boys threw the same glances, and the horses made no special welcome.
But his movements were sharper now.His body lighter.Something had changed.And even if no one else saw it yet, he could feel it in every step.
The next simulation was still far off — roughly two weeks away — but that didn't matter now.
Because here, in this life, his aim was already improving.And someone had started to watch.
[SYSTEM UPDATE – ACTIVE]
[Name: Caelum Velmire]
[Biological Age: 15]
[Soul Age Estimate: 43 years]
[PHYSICAL POWER (Reference: Average adult male = 1.0)]
– Strength: 0.55 (+0.05)
– Agility: 0.65 (+0.05)
– Constitution: 0.7
– Dexterity: 0.6
(No stat increase detected – selected reward: passive technique)
[SPIRITUAL POWER (Reference: 1.0 at adult maturity)]
– Current Level: 1.3
(Enhanced through multi-life overlap – simulation + previous life experience)
[MASTERED TECHNIQUES]
Basic Archery(Passive Skill)
[SIMULATION TOKENS AVAILABLE: 0]
=> (Next available in: 13 days)
System Rules:
– 1 simulation per lunar cycle
– 1 reward per simulation
– Manual simulation control: locked
– Magic access: inactive– Soul channeling: locked
The words faded like a sigh through the leaves.
And Caelum…wasn't finished yet.
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