Chapter 15 — It Seems I Need to Train First, End
Ten days had passed in a blur of sweat and steel, the training courtyard transformed into Sylan Kyle Von Noctis's personal crucible. The morning sun beat down, casting harsh shadows across the dirt as Sylan swung a training sword, its wooden edge biting into a straw dummy with a dull thwack. His muscles, once frail and untested, now carried a faint definition, his movements sharper, more controlled. Virelle Thren stood at the courtyard's edge, her stopwatch clicking, her voice steady as she called out, "Twenty-five… twenty-six…" The system panel hovered nearby, its glowing text a constant reminder of his progress—and his shortcomings.
[Status: Sylan Kyle Von Noctis]
[Strength: 12/100]
[Agility: 14/100]
[Endurance: 13/100]
[Intelligence: 12/100]
[Charisma: 15/100]
[Special Trait: Crimson Eyes (Passive) – Enhances perception and intimidation. Unlocked potential unknown.]
Sylan paused, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow. The numbers had climbed, a testament to his relentless regimen—push-ups until his arms gave out, sprints that left his lungs burning, sword drills that blistered his hands. But it wasn't enough. 'Thirty,' he thought, his crimson eyes narrowing. 'I need strength, agility, and endurance at thirty before I face one of those pretty-boy leads.' The male leads of Love & Chains: Eternal Hearts were no mere nobles—they were powerhouses, their stats honed by the game's script to crush anyone in their path. Sylan, as a minor antagonist, was meant to be a stepping stone, his death a plot point to elevate their glory. He refused to let that happen.
He drove the sword into the dummy again, the impact jarring his arms. Virelle's voice continued, "Thirty… thirty-one…" but his mind was elsewhere, sifting through memories of the game. There was an artifact, buried in the story's early chapters, that could tip the scales. The Aetherial Crest, a relic hidden in the Noctis estate's forbidden archives, was said to grant a permanent stat boost and unlock a unique skill. In the game, it was a mid-tier reward for the heroine or one of the leads, but Sylan wasn't bound by their paths. If he could claim it, he'd have a chance to close the gap.
'Problem is getting to it,' he thought, lowering the sword and wiping his brow. The archives were off-limits, guarded by both physical locks and his parents' iron grip on the household. Amanda Von Noctis, with her cold blue eyes and sharper tongue, had already made her disapproval clear. His father, Lord Darius Noctis, was a shadow in Sylan's memories, distant but unyielding, his authority absolute. Defying them would be risky, but Sylan was no stranger to risk.
The system panel pulsed, new text forming. [Warning: Ten days remain to meet minimum physical requirements. Current stats insufficient for narrative survival. Additional resources recommended.]
"Tell me something I don't know," Sylan muttered, his voice low. He turned to Virelle, who paused her counting, her gray eyes meeting his with a mix of caution and curiosity. She'd grown steadier in her role, her fear of him tempered by his refusal to treat her like the other nobles did. She was his ally now, fragile but loyal, and he needed her for what came next.
"Virelle," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "I need information on the forbidden archives. Layout, guards, access points. Can you get it?"
Her eyes widened, her hands tightening around the stopwatch. "The archives, my lord? They're… they're locked. Only Lord and Lady Noctis have keys, and the guards—" She stopped, her voice faltering as she registered his expression. "I mean, I can try. I know some of the servants who clean near there. They might… overhear things."
"Good," Sylan said, nodding. "Be discreet. No one can know I'm asking."
She bowed, her bun looser now from days spent in the courtyard. "Yes, my lord."
Sylan turned back to the dummy, his mind racing. 'Plan A: Get Virelle's intel, sneak into the archives, grab the Aetherial Crest.' Simple, but dangerous. The archives were deep in the estate, past layers of security—guards, locked doors, and possibly magical wards, if the game's lore held true. He'd need a distraction, maybe a staged incident to pull the guards away. A fire in the kitchens, perhaps, or a fabricated emergency in the stables. Virelle could plant the seeds among the servants, let gossip do the rest.
'Plan B,' he thought, striking the dummy again, 'is brute force.' If stealth failed, he could try overpowering the guards, but his current stats made that a gamble. Twelve in strength wasn't enough to take on trained soldiers, not yet. He'd need to train harder, push his body to the brink, and hope the system's incremental gains added up fast.
'Contingency: If my parents block me.' Amanda and Darius would never approve of him entering the archives. If they caught wind of his plan, they'd lock him in his chambers or worse, banish him to some distant manor, far from the game's main stage. He'd need leverage—something to keep them at bay. Sylan's memories supplied a possibility: the Noctis family's obsession with reputation. A public display of strength, perhaps a duel against a lesser noble, could force their hand. If he proved himself an asset, they might hesitate to interfere.
The system panel flickered. [Recommendation: Prioritize training to reach Strength 30, Agility 30, Endurance 30 before attempting high-risk objectives. Aetherial Crest acquisition viable but hazardous. Plan accordingly.]
Sylan grunted, driving the sword into the dummy with enough force to splinter the wood. "Hazardous is my life now," he said under his breath. He turned to Virelle, who was watching him with that same mix of awe and unease. "Double the reps today. I'm not stopping until I drop."
"My lord, you've already—" she began, but his glare cut her off.
"Count," he said, dropping to the ground for push-ups. His arms protested, but he pushed through, each rep a defiance of the frail body he'd been given. Virelle's voice resumed, steady and clear: "One… two…"
'Ten days,' Sylan thought, his muscles screaming as he pushed up. 'Ten days to hit thirty in stats, to get the Crest, to face a lead who'd crush me without blinking.' The male leads were out there, their stats likely in the fifties or higher, their skills honed by the game's script. He remembered them from the game: Kael, the charming swordsman; Damian LeCroix, the cunning Prince; Elias Vaughn, the brooding swordsman. Any one of them could end him if he wasn't ready.
The system updated: [Strength progress: Incremental increase detected. Continue.]
Sylan gritted his teeth, pushing through another rep. The Aetherial Crest was his best shot, but it came with risks—guards, wards, his parents' wrath. He'd need every plan, every contingency, and every ounce of strength he could muster. Virelle's intel would be his starting point, her loyalty his foundation. The courtyard was his forge, and he'd temper himself into something unbreakable.
'Let the leads come,' he thought, his crimson eyes burning with resolve. 'I'll be ready.'