Chapter 14 — It Seems I Need to Train First, 3
The training courtyard was a battlefield of dirt and will, its air thick with the scent of earth and sweat. Sylan Kyle Von Noctis stood poised, a wooden training sword gripped in his hands, its weight unfamiliar yet grounding. His muscles ached from hours of push-ups, sprints, and lunges, but the burn was a welcome reminder of progress. Virelle Thren stood nearby, clutching a waterskin and a towel, her gray eyes flicking between him and the stopwatch in her hand. The system panel hovered silently, its glowing text tracking his every move: [Strength: 5/100. Agility: 7/100. Endurance: 6/100.] Twenty days to forge this frail body into something capable of survival. Sylan was determined to make every second count.
He swung the sword in a controlled arc, testing its balance. The motion was clumsy—Sylan's memories held no trace of swordplay, only sneers and arrogance—but his soldier's instincts guided him, muscle memory from a past life shaping his stance. He adjusted his grip, planting his feet, and struck again, the blade slicing through the air with a soft whoosh. Virelle counted his swings aloud, her voice steady: "Fifteen… sixteen…"
The system pulsed. [Agility progress: Minimal increase detected. Continue.]
'Minimal,' Sylan thought, his jaw tightening. 'Still too slow.' He drove the sword forward, imagining an opponent—a faceless male lead from the game, all smug smiles and perfect hair. The thought fueled him, each swing sharper, more precise. He wasn't just training his body; he was rewriting his fate.
A sharp gasp broke his focus.
Sylan froze mid-swing, his crimson eyes snapping toward the courtyard's arched entrance. A woman stood there, her presence like a storm cloud rolling over the sun. Amanda Von Noctis, his mother in this world, was a vision of icy elegance. Her golden hair was swept into an intricate updo, her sapphire gown shimmering with silver thread. Her face, sharp and flawless, was a mirror of Sylan's own beauty, but her eyes—cold, piercing blue—held none of his fire. They widened now, shock cracking her composed mask as she took in the scene: her son, sweat-soaked and dirt-streaked, wielding a training sword in a place meant for guards, not nobles.
"Sylan?" Her voice was sharp, a blade wrapped in silk. "What in the name of the Noctis bloodline are you doing?"
Virelle dropped to her knees, bowing so low her forehead nearly touched the dirt. "My lady," she murmured, her voice trembling. Sylan shot her a glance, his expression unreadable, before turning to face Amanda.
"Training," he said, his tone flat but firm. He lowered the sword, resting its tip against the ground, his posture relaxed but unyielding. "Is that a problem?"
Amanda's lips parted, her shock deepening. 'He's never spoken to her like that,' Sylan thought, catching a flicker of memory—Sylan, the old Sylan, cowering under her gaze, his arrogance crumbling before her disapproval. But he wasn't that boy. Not anymore.
"Training?" Amanda repeated, stepping into the courtyard, her heels clicking against the stone path. Her eyes raked over him—his sweat-dampened shirt, his tousled blond hair, the dirt smudged on his hands. "You, who've never lifted anything heavier than a wine glass? This is… unseemly. A Noctis does not dirty himself in a guard's yard."
Sylan's grip on the sword tightened, his soldier's instincts bristling. 'Unseemly,' he thought bitterly. 'She cares more about appearances than survival.' He straightened, meeting her gaze, his crimson eyes burning with a defiance that made her pause. "I'm not here to play noble, Mother. I'm here to get stronger."
Her brows arched, a flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps—crossing her face before her composure snapped back. "Stronger? For what purpose? Your role is to uphold our name, not to… to degrade yourself like a common soldier." She gestured at the courtyard, her voice dripping with disdain. "This is beneath you."
The system panel pulsed, its text shifting. [Warning: Amanda Von Noctis's interference may disrupt training progress. Neutralize her influence to maintain focus.]
'Neutralize,' Sylan thought, his mind racing. He couldn't afford to antagonize her—not yet. Amanda held power in the Noctis household, her word law among the servants and lesser nobles. But he also couldn't let her derail him. Twenty days was all he had, and every moment wasted was a step closer to the game's death flag.
"I'm not degrading myself," he said, his voice calm but edged with steel. "I'm preparing. The world out there—" he nodded toward the estate's towering walls "—doesn't care about our name. It cares about strength. I intend to have it."
Amanda's eyes narrowed, searching his face as if seeing him for the first time. "This is unlike you," she said slowly. "You've never shown such… initiative. What's changed?"
'Everything,' Sylan thought, but he kept his expression neutral. "Maybe I'm tired of being a disappointment," he said, letting a hint of Sylan's old arrogance color his tone. It was a calculated move, blending the boy she knew with the man he was becoming. "Or maybe I just want to be ready for whatever comes."
She studied him, her silence heavy. Virelle remained kneeling, her head still bowed, but Sylan caught the faintest twitch of her fingers, a sign she was listening intently. The courtyard felt charged, as if the air itself waited for Amanda's response.
Finally, she spoke, her voice softer but no less commanding. "If you insist on this… folly, do it discreetly. The Noctis name will not be tarnished by rumors of my son playing at being a warrior." She turned, her gown sweeping the ground, but paused at the archway. "And clean yourself before you're seen. You look like a peasant."
Sylan said nothing, watching as she glided away, her presence lingering like a chill. 'She'll be watching me now,' he thought. 'Good. Let her see I'm not her puppet.'
Virelle rose slowly, her eyes darting to him, then away. "My lord, I… should I fetch more water?"
He shook his head, lifting the sword again. "No. Keep counting. We're not done."
She nodded, her voice steadying as she resumed her role. "Seventeen… eighteen…"
Sylan swung the sword, each strike harder than the last, his mother's words fueling his resolve. The system panel updated: [Strength progress: Incremental increase detected. Continue.]
'Twenty days,' he thought, his muscles screaming as he drove the blade through the air. 'I'll make this body a weapon. Let the game try to break me then.'