The morning light crept through the blinds in soft, golden ribbons and fell across Lucien's face. He stirred, half-buried in the warmth of his sheets, eyes blinking open to the gentle hum of a new day.
The room around him was modest but dignified — a small chamber with sun-warmed stone walls and the faint scent of oiled steel. A narrow bed occupied one corner, beside it a writing desk littered with quills, parchment, and the remains of last night's candle. Above the desk hung a cross-shaped sword mounted upon the wall, its hilt inlaid with two faintly glimmering gemstones — one sapphire, one amber — catching the morning light like twin eyes.
In the opposite corner leaned another blade, far plainer in make. Beside it lay a jumble of dented armor pieces, dull and scarred from practice, a quiet testament to years of toil and mediocrity.
Lucien pushed himself upright, running a hand through the tousled strands of his light chestnut hair. He rose with the lazy stiffness of someone used to early mornings, washed at the basin, and dressed in the crisp blue training attire of a knight apprentice. A simple tie at the collar, a tug at the cuffs, and his reflection looked back at him from the small bronze mirror — upright, composed, and faintly melancholy.
The young man in the glass looked every bit the noble's son — fair skin, straight posture, and the quiet grace of good breeding. Yet there was a certain softness around the eyes, a hesitancy that betrayed something deeper. He studied his reflection for a long moment, his gaze thoughtful.
"Sixteen years," he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath.
A sigh escaped him, carrying with it the weight of unspoken thoughts. Sixteen years in this strange new world — a world not his own.
Here, men and women wielded forces he had once thought the stuff of legend: the Aura that could shatter boulders, the magic that bent the elements to one's will, and the whispered mysteries of powers that defied all reason.
And here he was, Lucien Lanster — son of Baron Rufu Lanster , heir to a name of modest nobility and dwindling pride.
His father, a man of old honor and quiet ambition, ruled over a small but fertile fief on the outskirts of the Kingdom of Line. Wealth enough to live in comfort, not enough to command respect. And now, the weight of that lineage rested on Lucien — who was, by every measure, a disappointment.
A Talentless, as the world so kindly put it.
It wasn't cruelty that gave him the title. It was fact.
After three long years at the prestigious Orland Knight Academy — the most renowned institution in the western provinces — Lucien remained what he had been from the beginning: a first-level apprentice knight. He could swing a blade, yes, but not with power. He could run drills, but not with precision. His sword wavered, his balance faltered, and his spirit — the inner fire that marked a true knight — remained stubbornly dim.
His father had spent a small fortune on tutors, training gear, and medicines. The results were the same.
A noble son without strength, a knight without progress — a name without future.
Lucien's lips curved into a wry smile as he adjusted the collar of his tunic. "If only I had magic instead," he whispered to the mirror.
For unlike him, his younger sister had inherited all the brilliance he lacked.
Bellis Lanster — two years his junior, already a fifth-level apprentice magician. A prodigy whose rise was so fast she had skipped a level in training, earning praise from tutors and envy from her peers. The same instructors who sighed at Lucien's name spoke hers with reverence.
In their father's halls, guests often remarked that Bellis was the jewel of the Lanster line. Lucien, by contrast, was its dull reflection.
He had long grown used to the comparison. But even so, it stung.
Perhaps, he thought bitterly, it was fate. His mother had died bringing him into this world — a difficult birth that had left him weak and frail from infancy. His constitution never recovered. No amount of training or medicine could forge strength where his body refused to yield.
She had died smiling, he'd been told — holding him close as if to promise he would live a full life. But he had done little so far to honor that promise.
Lucien ran a hand through his hair and sighed again. "At least I'm still standing, Mother," he murmured.
A knock sounded faintly somewhere down the dormitory hall. The day was beginning.
If he couldn't be brilliant, he could at least be consistent.
The air outside carried the crisp bite of morning dew, tinged with the metallic scent of the practice field. The Orland Knight Academy stretched out before him — an expanse of courtyards, stone halls, and practice yards bordered by banners of crimson and gold.
It was a place of lineage and ambition, of noble scions and common-born prodigies, all striving toward the same distant ideal: to become knights.
Lucien moved with practiced familiarity through the stone corridors, past other apprentices already making their way toward the training grounds. Few greeted him. Fewer still noticed him.
In Orland, reputation was everything. Noble sons flaunted wealth; commoners flaunted talent. Lucien had neither.
He was the quiet one — polite, diligent, and forgettable. A shadow between worlds.
The clang of wooden swords echoed across the field as he arrived. Rows of young men and women moved in unison, their blades slicing through the cool air in rhythmic arcs. The instructor, a tall man with a weathered face and stern posture, paced between them like a hawk.
"Lucien," the knight instructor, Sir Julian, said with a faint frown as he noticed him. "You're late."
Lucien bowed slightly. "My apologies, Instructor."
Julian's eyes lingered for a moment, then slid away with disinterest. "Take your position."
Lucien joined the ranks silently. The morning drill had begun — the same routine he had repeated countless times.
Basic swordsmanship.
It was the foundation upon which every knight's path was built — and the wall upon which Lucien had been stuck for three long years.
He drew the training blade from its stand — a lead-weighted oak sword, nearly as heavy as the real thing — and exhaled slowly. Around him, the class moved in precise rhythm. Lucien followed suit.
Cut. Parry. Lift. Swing.
The familiar motions burned into muscle memory. The wooden blade hissed through the air, striking the invisible rhythm of discipline. Sweat soon beaded his brow, tracing down his temples.
His breathing grew heavy, but steady.
It was routine. It was dull. It was everything he had left.
And then —
A voice.
"Biochip activation complete."
Lucien froze mid-swing.
The words echoed not in his ears, but inside his mind — cold, mechanical, precise. His heart stumbled in his chest.
"Storing information… analyzing performance… analysis complete."
He stared ahead, unblinking, the world narrowing to a pinpoint.
The biochip.
The words alone were impossible — and yet terrifyingly familiar.
That voice belonged to something he had thought lost forever. A relic from his previous life — a microscopic neural interface once embedded in his brain, designed for cognitive enhancement and data processing. It had belonged to a man who lived in a world of machines, not magic — a man he once was.
For sixteen years, he had heard nothing. No hum, no whisper, no sign. And now… it spoke.
"Action completeness: ninety percent," the voice continued coolly. "Action perfection: sixty-seven percent. Recommended corrections: left shoulder down two centimeters. Right wrist elevation one centimeter."
Lucien stood utterly still, his pulse roaring in his ears. Around him, the clang of training blades continued. No one else seemed to hear a thing.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry.
So it was real. The chip had somehow survived the impossible — death, rebirth, and sixteen years of silence.
A laugh, sharp and incredulous, almost escaped him.
Then came wonder.
A flood of memory rushed through him — algorithms, diagnostics, data overlays. His second life had not come empty-handed after all.
Lucien's hand tightened around the sword hilt. He exhaled, grounding himself. "Run analysis," he whispered inwardly.
"Commencing sequence," the voice responded.
A faint shimmer of blue light flickered across his vision — not in the air, but behind his eyes, like translucent glyphs written upon the world. As he raised his sword again, faint indicators traced the motion: lines, angles, precise numerical adjustments.
Left shoulder down. Right wrist up. Shift weight.
Lucien obeyed.
His movements slowed to a crawl, every swing deliberate, every correction exact. He looked almost foolish — like a novice learning his first forms.
Instructor Julian's frown deepened as he passed. "Focus, Lucien," he muttered, shaking his head.
But Lucien barely heard him. He was somewhere else entirely.
Each corrected motion felt… right. Each adjustment brought a faint thrill, a whisper of clarity in the haze of years of failure. His balance improved. The swing flowed smoother. His sword sang faintly through the air.
"Action completeness: ninety-seven percent. Perfection: eighty-two."
Lucien's eyes widened. He adjusted again.
"Ninety-nine percent. Perfection: ninety-one."
The wooden sword came down in a final arc — clean, balanced, flawless. The motion ended in perfect stillness, the kind of silence that follows something true.
Around him, no one noticed. Sweat dripped from his chin. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm.
And yet, deep within, something long asleep had awakened.
A spark.
Lucien's lips curved, not in pride, but in quiet awe.
For the first time in sixteen years, he had hope — not born of wishful thinking, but of certainty.
The path of the knight no longer seemed so far beyond his reach.
He raised his gaze to the rising sun, light glinting off the leaded blade.
And in that light, his eyes burned with something new — a calm, steady flame that promised to rise higher, brighter, fiercer than anyone would expect from the boy they once called waste.
The sleeping flame had finally stirred.