Caelum walked slowly across the manor's cold stone paths, a bucket in each hand, the wooden handles scraping against his bandaged fingers. Stable work never stopped. Not for rain. Not for fatigue. Not even for the aches piling up in muscles too young, too weak — for now.
But he didn't complain.
There was something pure in the silence of labor.
As he passed the central fountain, two squires deliberately ignored him. The younger one, a blond with round cheeks, made a snide remark between bites of bread:
"So, you survived Barion? We had you pegged for the latrines by week's end."
Snickers. The other added, without even looking at him:
"You aim like you're chasing butterflies. If you ever hit one, it's 'cause it wanted to die."
Caelum didn't reply. He didn't even pause.
But their voices faded more easily than they used to.
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The training yard was still empty when he arrived.
Cold bit through his gloves, and the sky above was the color of lead. A light mist crept between the stone walls. He set the buckets beside the rack and gave himself a few moments to rest. His right shoulder still pulsed from the blows taken the day before.
He drew a long breath.
Then, slowly, he retrieved his crude bow.
Every morning, he returned here. Every morning, he stood up again. The bow had no beauty, no grace. It creaked when he drew it, the string rasping against his glove's fabric. But he wasn't shooting for elegance. He was shooting to prove he was moving forward.
He nocked the first arrow. Inhaled. Exhaled.
Too early.
The System whispered.
He adjusted his stance — a subtle shift in the hips, less pressure on the right heel.
He fired.
The arrow struck — clean, two fingers from center.
A shiver ran through him.
"Again," he whispered.
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Routine became refuge — a thread stretched over the void.
At dawn, Caelum rose before the bells. He stepped into the icy mist, fingers numb, eyelids heavy with sleep. He fed the horses, cleaned the stalls, carried buckets larger than his arms. It wasn't training, but it left the same marks: sweat, soreness, endurance.
Then came the drills. Barion gave him no respite. No wasted words, no unnecessary gestures. Just trial. Metal against muscle. Fall and rise. Each session stripped something away — an illusion, a weakness, a comfort. And in return, something raw began to form.
The others still saw him as the stable boy. An outsider. A frame too thin to matter. But none of them stood in his place when breath ran short and arms shook from exhaustion. None of them knew what it meant to relearn everything, carrying the cruel awareness of someone who had already grown old — elsewhere.
At dusk, he returned to the stables. The pace there was slower, but the fatigue ran deeper. He handled saddles, checked bits, scraped hooves. The sweat-soaked leather and the horses' warm bodies wrapped him like a living blanket. It was dirty, repetitive, thankless.
And yet…
Those were the moments when his mind felt clearest.
Then came the return to the yard — as the sun dipped behind the towers, as the guards withdrew, and the stone chilled beneath his feet. He'd draw his bow — that crooked, unbalanced piece of wood — and stand before the target.
And there… everything changed.
He learned to listen to his body, to tell useful pain from the kind that slowed. He learned to breathe not to live, but to aim. To feel every tension in his shoulder, every drift in the wrist. To recognize the exact moment when breath meets silence before the release.
Each arrow was a step.
A step toward a goal he couldn't name, but felt growing with every shot.
And every System correction — subtle, precise, almost tender — became a voice in the dark. Not a master's. Not a father's. Not a god's.
But a memory.
His.
Both lives.
A fragmented but persistent awareness that refused to fade, demanding more than survival — a reason to exist.
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One evening, as golden light draped the towers of the manor, Barion called from the shadows:
"You're aiming too high."
Caelum, startled, lowered his bow.
"The wind's shifted," the knight continued, approaching. "And your left arm's overextending at the end. You're losing stability."
He wasn't scolding. He was observing — with the cold precision of a man who corrected not to encourage, but because precision mattered more than praise.
"I thought I was alone," Caelum said, a little stiffly.
"You never are. Not here."
A pause. Then Barion stood beside him, arms crossed.
"Show me."
Caelum hesitated. Then took his stance again. Nocked the arrow. Inhaled.
He felt the wind. The angle. The release.
Shot.
The arrow struck — two centimeters from the bullseye.
Barion said nothing. But his eyes betrayed quiet satisfaction.
"You know," he finally said, "I saw you drop like a sack of apples on the first day?"
"I was weaker."
"You still are. But now you fall better."
Caelum smiled — a faint shadow of one.
"It's a start."
Barion nodded slowly.
"Some soldiers take years to learn that falling isn't failure. Staying down is."
He turned, ready to leave, then added:
"Meet me tomorrow. Before dawn. Not for the sword this time."
Caelum raised an eyebrow.
"Then for what?"
Barion glanced back briefly.
"To run."
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They set off at first light, without a word.
Barion's pace was steady. Relentless. Caelum struggled to keep up at first, breath ragged, legs heavy. But he pushed forward. A hill, a descent, a muddy trail by the river.
They ran for an hour.
The silence became companionship. The pain, a guide.
Barion finally stopped — winded, but upright.
"You held up better than I thought."
Caelum bent over, gasping, his heart thundering in his chest.
"It's not the running... it's the fear of stopping... that drives me."
Barion looked at him — and for a moment, his face shifted.
"Then keep running. But know this…"
He gestured toward the woods behind them.
"Past a certain point, turning back becomes harder than going forward."
Days passed.
And the stares changed.
The same squires who once mocked him now fell silent when he entered the yard. Some looked away. Others watched — curious, puzzled. They saw persistence but didn't understand why.
Because they hadn't lived ten years in shadows.
Nor twenty-eight more in a world without magic.
They didn't understand that Caelum didn't want to be better than them.He wanted to be better than himself.
A boy with no name, no power, no promise... but with a purpose.
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One night, he collapsed onto his straw mattress.
Every muscle screamed. His throat was dry. His hands cracked and bleeding.
He felt the System stir faintly — like a benevolent presence.
[Simulation Token: available in 9 days.]
He stared at the ceiling, arms spread, heartbeat slowing.
"Nine days," he whispered.
So little — and yet so much.
He thought of rewards. Of possibilities. Of what was to come.
But also… of now.
He closed his eyes.And let sleep take him.
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Nine days later
Evening stretched over the Yllar estate, bathing the stones in golden light, drawing long shadows from the rooftops like silent fingers. The air was calm, almost solemn — heavy with that quiet gravity only the end of a cycle seems to carry.
Caelum, breath still short from a punishing session, wiped the sweat from his brow. His arms trembled slightly, muscles tight, but his mind remained sharp. That's when he spotted Barion near the old stone well — a place no one visited anymore.
The knight gave him a discreet nod — almost intimate. Caelum hesitated, then approached, wary but curious. Barion, usually so terse, seemed weighed down by something more. His gaze wasn't on Caelum, but the horizon — as if seeking an ancient truth written in the fading light.
He crossed his arms. His voice, low and firm, broke the silence.
"You're no longer a stable boy. Not really. You've proven more than most who were born with names."
Caelum froze. The words echoed through him like an impossible sound. He didn't dare believe them. He didn't even dare breathe.
Barion finally turned to him — direct, honest.
"Baron Yllar asked for my counsel. I'm going to give him your name."
Time seemed to stop. The wind ceased. Even the birds fell silent.
"To become a knight?" Caelum murmured, his voice tight, almost strangled.
Barion nodded slowly.
"Page first. Then squire. But the path is open. And this time, it doesn't depend on your blood. It depends on you."
He paused, then added, more quietly:
"Luckily for you, despite your family's lack of land, you're still noble-born. That grants you access to the knight's breathing technique — no need for years of earned merit. You can begin training like a true knight."
Caelum lowered his eyes, heart pounding like a war drum. He felt every beat in his temples, his fingers, his chest. But his mind remained clear. He knew. He knew Baron Yllar was watching — from some tower or hidden window.
So, without hesitation, he knelt on the cold stone, head bowed, hands resting on his thighs.
"I thank you, Sir Barion, for the honor you grant me. I will honor your recommendation, and I swear on my soul and my name that I will serve House Yllar to the best of my ability."
He didn't see the smile forming on Barion's face — wide, sincere, rare. The knight respected clever children.
And the one kneeling before him was more than clever.