Class ended ninety minutes later when Thorne stopped mid-sentence, set down his chalk, and said: "That's time."
No dismissal. No closing remarks. Just immediate termination.
The students began packing their materials with practiced efficiency. Casimir had brought nothing—no notebook, no writing implements, nothing. He'd spent the entire lecture watching, listening, memorizing.
Thorne's lecture had covered mana compression theory—the fundamental concept that separated lower Star ranks from higher ones. It wasn't just about having more mana. It was about compressing that mana into denser, more controlled forms. Like the difference between steam and water. Same substance, different states, different capabilities.
A 4-Star had mana like fog. A 6-Star had mana like ice.
Casimir stored every diagram, every formula, every casual aside Thorne had made. The professor's teaching style was deceptively simple—he explained concepts clearly, without unnecessary elaboration, assuming his students could connect the dots themselves.
Most of them probably could. They were sixth-years. They'd spent years building the foundational knowledge.
Casimir was starting from scratch with nothing but a century of observation and a desperate need to not fail.
The students filed out. Several glanced at Casimir as they passed. Not hostile—just curious. Assessing. One girl with short-cropped blonde hair met his eyes briefly and gave a small nod. Not friendly, not unfriendly. Just acknowledgment.
He returned it.
Within a minute, the classroom was empty except for Casimir and Thorne.
The professor was organizing his papers with methodical care, sorting them into his leather satchel. The limp was more pronounced now—standing for ninety minutes had clearly aggravated old injuries.
Casimir waited. Didn't speak. A student interrupted a professor at their leisure, not on demand.
"You didn't take notes," Thorne said without looking up.
"No, sir."
"Can you afford to be that confident?"
"I remembered everything, sir."
"Did you." Thorne finally looked up, steel-grey eyes sharp. "Prove it."
"The Weiss-Thorne compression model states that mana density increases proportionally to the square of applied willpower, assuming optimal pathway conditioning and—"
"Stop." Thorne held up a hand. "That was word-for-word from the lecture."
"Yes, sir."
"Do it again. Different section."
Casimir recited another passage. Then another when Thorne requested it. Perfect recall, exact wording, including the professor's casual corrections and side comments.
Thorne listened without expression. When Casimir finished the third recitation, the professor nodded slowly.
"Perfect memory. That's rare. Extremely rare."
"I pay attention, sir."
"It's more than that. Perfect recall usually requires either specialized mana techniques—which you don't have the Star rank to use—or significant neurological conditioning." Thorne studied him with the clinical interest of someone examining an unexpected variable. "Which is it?"
A century of having nothing to do but memorize guard conversations and calculate exactly how everything went wrong.
"I've had time to develop the skill, sir."
"Time." Thorne's tone suggested he heard what Casimir wasn't saying. "Interesting phrasing."
Casimir said nothing. Let the professor interpret it however he wanted.
Thorne finished packing his satchel and limped toward the door. Casimir stood, preparing to leave.
"Lord Eisenrath."
He stopped. "Sir?"
"Your sister reached Six-Star at seventeen." Thorne's voice was matter-of-fact. Clinical. "Do you know why?"
"She worked harder than I did, sir."
"That's part of it. But not all of it." The professor turned, leaning against his cane. "She has an advantage. Something most cultivators don't have."
Casimir waited.
"When she was ten years old," Thorne continued, "she was caught in a mana-storm during a training exercise gone wrong. One of the instructors lost control of a spell. The backlash should have killed her."
Casimir felt his chest tighten. He didn't remember this. The old Casimir wouldn't have paid attention.
"Instead," Thorne said, "it burned out her natural mana pathways and forced her body to regrow them. The new pathways are wider. Denser. More efficient than natural ones. She can hold nearly twice the mana of someone at the same Star rank."
That's why she advanced so fast, Casimir realized. Natural pathways limiting her. The accident removed the bottleneck.
"She almost died," Thorne added quietly. "Spent three months in the medical wing. Your father visited once. Enzo stayed the entire time."
Of course he did. Enzo raised them when Father was too busy serving the Emperor.
"She earned her advancement," Thorne said. "Through pain and discipline and work that would have broken most people. But she also had an advantage you don't have. Remember that before you start comparing yourself to her."
"Why are you telling me this, sir?"
Thorne adjusted his grip on the cane. "Because you're going to hurt yourself trying to advance three Star ranks in six months. And I want you to understand that your sister's path isn't replicable. Don't try to match her speed. You'll cripple yourself."
"I don't have a choice, sir. Six months."
"Then be smart about it. There are cultivation methods that prioritize speed. They're dangerous, but they work. I can point you toward them. But you need to understand the risks."
Casimir met his eyes. "What kind of risks?"
"Pathway damage. Mana deviation. Permanent injury if you push too hard." Thorne's expression was grim. "I've seen dozens of students try to force advancement. Most of them failed. Some of them died. The ones who succeeded…" He trailed off.
"What happened to them, sir?"
"They succeeded. And then they had to live with what they'd done to their bodies." Thorne pushed off from the wall, limping toward the door. "Think carefully about how much you're willing to sacrifice, Lord Eisenrath. Some prices aren't worth paying."
He left.
Casimir stood alone in the empty classroom, surrounded by diagrams of mana circulation patterns and compression theories.
Pathway damage. Mana deviation. Permanent injury.
He'd lived through the apocalypse. Had spent a century in a cell. Had felt his sister die through secondhand descriptions designed to break him.
Physical pain was temporary. Failure was permanent.
He'd take the risk.
The training grounds occupied the western section of the Citadel complex—a sprawling area divided into specialized yards for different combat disciplines. Archery ranges with targets at varying distances. Dueling circles marked with white chalk. Mana-channeling platforms where students practiced spell control.
And in the largest yard, reserved for the Grand Knight Order candidates, an obstacle course that looked designed to injure people.
Casimir stood at the yard's edge and observed.
Elise was there. Of course she was. His sister spent more time in the training grounds than anywhere else. She moved through a sword form with fluid precision, each strike controlled and measured. Her blonde hair was tied back, her uniform already showing signs of sweat despite the cool morning air.
She wasn't alone. Roughly a dozen other students trained nearby, all wearing the dark grey uniforms that marked them as Grand Knight candidates. They ranged from fifth-years to seventh-years—the elite students preparing for officer commissions.
Watching them all from the center of the yard, arms crossed and expression suggesting he'd seen better performances from training dummies, was Commander Severin Blackwood.
Casimir had never seen him in person before. Only heard stories—and in the original timeline, those stories had ended with Blackwood's death during the Citadel's fall. The Commander had held the eastern wall for six hours against Revolutionary Army assault, killing dozens before a mana-charge brought down half the fortification on top of him.
He was buried in rubble for two days before they found the body. Guards said he was still holding his sword.
Now the Commander stood alive and whole, watching his students with the critical eye of someone who expected excellence and rarely got it.
Blackwood looked like his reputation suggested—somewhere in his mid-forties, tall and broad-shouldered, with black hair starting to grey at the temples. His face was weathered, lined with scars that told stories he probably never shared. He wore the Grand Knight uniform—black with silver trim, the Order's crest prominent on his chest.
His presence was… heavy. Not oppressive, exactly. Just undeniable. The kind of weight that came from years of combat, of command, of making life-or-death decisions and living with the consequences.
Eight-Star, Casimir estimated. Maybe Nine. And decades of battlefield experience that make the Star rank almost irrelevant.
One of the students—a tall boy with the build of someone who'd spent years in armor—executed a strike that was technically correct but lacked commitment. The blade moved through the form, but without conviction behind it.
"Stop," Blackwood said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried across the entire yard. Every student froze immediately.
The boy lowered his sword, face flushing.
"What was that?" Blackwood asked.
"The Falling Blade form, sir."
"No. That was you going through motions. There's a difference." The Commander walked closer, circling the student like a predator examining prey. "In real combat, that strike would have bounced off your opponent's guard and left you exposed. You'd be dead in the counter."
"Yes, sir. I'll—"
"You'll do it again. But this time, commit. The blade goes through the target, not toward it. Through. Until your muscles understand that, you're just wasting time."
The student nodded and resumed the form. This time with more force. More intent.
Blackwood watched for a moment, then nodded once. "Better. Keep going."
His eyes swept across the yard, cataloging each student's performance. They caught Casimir standing at the edge.
Stopped.
Casimir met his gaze and held it. Didn't look away. A true noble didn't flinch from assessment.
Blackwood's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his posture. Recognition. Calculation.
"Break," the Commander called out. "Five minutes."
The students immediately stopped training and moved to the yard's perimeter. Several grabbed water skins. Others stretched or checked their equipment.
Elise noticed where her instructor was looking. Her golden eyes found Casimir, and her expression went carefully blank.
She said something to Blackwood—too quiet to hear at this distance.
The Commander responded with something equally quiet. Then he started walking across the yard toward Casimir.
Each step was measured. Deliberate. Not aggressive—just completely confident. The walk of someone who'd never had reason to doubt their ability to handle a situation.
He stopped five paces away. Close enough for conversation. Far enough to react if necessary.
Professional distance.
"You're Reinhardt's son," Blackwood said. Not a question.
"Yes, sir."
"I served under your father during the Border Wars. Fifteen years ago. He was a general then. Already Sovereign-rank." The Commander's voice was neutral, factual. "I watched him kill three Calamity-rank threats in a single day. Didn't even look tired afterward. Just moved on to the next objective."
Casimir said nothing. What response could match that?
"Your sister trains with me four days a week," Blackwood continued. "She's one of my best students. Disciplined. Focused. She'll make an excellent Grand Knight."
"Yes, sir."
"You're her twin brother."
"Yes, sir."
"Same genetics. Same resources. Same access to training." Blackwood's golden eyes were sharp, assessing. "But she's Six-Star. You're Four. Why?"
Because I was an idiot. Because I thought the family name was enough. Because I didn't understand what I was throwing away until it was too late.
"Because I didn't work for it, sir."
"And now you want to start."
"Yes, sir."
"Why?"
"Because I have six months to prove I'm worthy of the Eisenrath name, sir."
Blackwood's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. "Your father gave you an ultimatum."
"Yes, sir."
"Join the Grand Knight Order by winter's end or be disowned."
"Yes, sir."
"So you're here out of fear."
"No, sir." Casimir kept his voice level. Cold. "I'm here because I finally understand what my duty requires."
"Duty." Blackwood tested the word like he was tasting something. "What do you know about duty, Lord Eisenrath?"
"Less than I should, sir. Which is why I'm here."
Silence. The training yard had gone quiet. Every student was watching now, though most were pretending not to. An Eisenrath confrontation with the Grand Knight Commander was worth witnessing.
Blackwood studied Casimir for a long moment. Not hostile. Just clinical. Like he was examining equipment and deciding if it was worth repairing or should just be scrapped.
"You want a recommendation from me," the Commander finally said.
"Eventually, sir."
"I don't give recommendations to students who aren't in the Grand Knight candidacy program. That requires Five-Star minimum, demonstrated combat capability, and instructor approval. You have none of those things."
"Yes, sir."
"So what exactly do you expect me to do for you?"
Casimir met his eyes with the cold directness learned from a hundred years of survival. "Train me, sir. The same way you train everyone else. No special treatment. No accommodations. If I can't keep up, I fail. But I want the opportunity to try."
"You're Four-Star," Blackwood said. "Most of my students are Five to Seven-Star. Your sister is Six-Star. Even if you advanced a full Star rank, you'd still be the weakest person in this yard."
"Yes, sir."
"You'd be a liability in group exercises. A distraction during training. And a waste of my time if you can't handle the workload."
"Yes, sir."
"Then why should I accept you?"
Because in the original timeline, you died holding the eastern wall while I was rotting in a cell. Because you trained my sister into someone strong enough that it took a show trial and a noose to kill her. Because you're one of the few people in this empire who actually earns their authority instead of borrowing it.
"Because I'm willing to work harder than anyone else in that yard, sir. Because I understand what I've wasted and I won't waste any more. And because even if I fail, I'll fail trying to be better rather than succeeding at being mediocre."
Blackwood stared at him. The Commander's face was unreadable—not impressed, not dismissive. Just… considering.
"No," he finally said.
Casimir felt nothing. Expected this.
"I don't train students who aren't qualified," Blackwood continued. "It's not fair to them or to you. You need to reach Five-Star first. You need to demonstrate basic combat competency. And you need at least one instructor willing to vouch that you're worth my time."
"How do I get that, sir?"
"You figure it out. That's part of the test." Blackwood turned slightly, preparing to return to his students. "Come back when you've met the requirements. Then we'll talk."
"Commander."
Blackwood stopped. Didn't turn around. "What."
"If I can demonstrate combat capability now, would that change your assessment?"
Now the Commander did turn. Slowly. His expression had shifted into something that might have been curiosity or might have been anticipation.
"You want to spar with one of my students."
"Yes, sir."
"You're Four-Star. They're all higher. You'd lose."
"Probably, sir."
"So what's the point?"
"To show you I'm serious. That I understand what failure looks like and I'm willing to face it anyway."
Blackwood studied him for a long moment. Then something that might have been a smile crossed his weathered face. Thin and sharp.
"All right, Lord Eisenrath. You want to prove yourself?" He raised his voice, projecting across the yard. "Who wants to spar with Eisenrath's son?"
Silence.
The students looked at each other. Several expressions showed interest—but also hesitation. Nobody wanted to be the one who injured or humiliated an Eisenrath, even in legitimate training.
"It's a sanctioned spar," Blackwood added. "Standard rules. First blood or surrender. No consequences for either participant."
Still nobody moved.
"I'll do it."
The voice came from near the equipment racks. A boy stepped forward—stocky build, probably fifth-year, with the shoulders of someone who spent hours in armor. His blonde hair was cut military-short, and his golden eyes held the confidence of someone who'd never lost a practice bout.
Casimir recognized the expression. The old him had probably worn it once, before reality taught him otherwise.
"Varen," Blackwood said. "You're Five-Star."
"Yes, sir."
"Lord Eisenrath is Four-Star. That's not an even match."
"I'll hold back, sir."
"Will you." Blackwood's tone suggested he didn't believe that for a second. "Fine. Standard sparring rules. Wooden practice swords. First blood or surrender ends it. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Varen said.
Blackwood looked at Casimir. "Lord Eisenrath?"
"Understood, sir."
"Then take your positions."
The other students immediately began forming a ring around one of the dueling circles. Excited whispers rippled through them. This was entertainment. This was watching an Eisenrath get humiliated in real-time.
Casimir walked to the circle's edge. The ground was packed dirt, marked with white chalk defining the boundaries. Standard sparring space—ten paces across. Enough room to move, not enough to run.
Someone tossed him a practice sword. He caught it without looking.
Wood, weighted to approximate a real blade. The balance was slightly off—practice weapons never quite matched real steel—but it would do.
I haven't held a sword in eighteen years. A hundred and eighteen years. Whatever the count is now.
In the cell, he'd watched guards spar. Prisoners fight. Revolutionary Army soldiers drill. Had analyzed every movement, every technique, every mistake that led to death or victory.
Watching wasn't the same as doing.
But it was all he had.
Varen stepped into the circle opposite him, practice sword held in a ready guard. His stance was textbook—weight distributed properly, blade angled to defend or attack, confident without being cocky.
He's trained. Properly trained. Five-Star means more mana, which means faster movements, stronger strikes, better endurance. I have none of those advantages.
Casimir adjusted his grip on the practice sword and settled into a neutral stance.
Blackwood stood at the circle's edge. "Standard rules. Begin on my mark." He paused, letting the tension build. "Begin."
Varen moved immediately—a testing strike, fast but not committed. Probing for weaknesses.
Casimir sidestepped. Didn't try to block or parry, just moved out of the strike's path. Let it pass through empty air.
Varen recovered quickly and pressed forward with a combination—high strike, low strike, thrust. Each one technically sound, executed with the muscle memory of someone who'd drilled these forms hundreds of times.
Casimir avoided them all. Backward step, side step, minimal movement. Watching the angles, reading the patterns.
He's fast. But predictable. The forms are clean but rote. He's not adapting.
"Fight back!" someone called from the watching students.
Casimir ignored them. Kept moving. Kept watching.
Varen's frustration showed in his next combination—the strikes came faster, harder. More force behind them. Still technical, but now there was emotion bleeding into the technique.
There.
Casimir saw the opening. Varen overextended on a high strike, committed too much weight forward. For just a fraction of a second, his guard was open.
Casimir moved.
Not a strike—he didn't have the speed or strength to capitalize on the opening. Instead, he shifted his weight and swept Varen's forward leg with his own.
The Five-Star student stumbled. Not much—just a half-step, balance disrupted.
But it was enough to prove the point.
Varen caught himself and spun, blade coming around in a sharp arc aimed at Casimir's torso.
Casimir was already moving backward, out of range.
The exchange had taken maybe three seconds. Varen had attempted a dozen strikes. Casimir had avoided them all and created one opening that he couldn't exploit.
"Stop," Blackwood said.
Both students immediately froze and lowered their weapons.
The Commander walked into the circle, studying both of them with clinical interest.
"Varen. What happened?"
"I… Sir, he didn't attack. He just avoided."
"And?"
"And he found an opening I didn't know I'd created."
"Correct." Blackwood turned to Casimir. "Lord Eisenrath. Why didn't you capitalize on that opening?"
"Because I'm not fast enough or strong enough to execute the follow-up before he recovered, sir."
"So you identified a weakness you couldn't exploit."
"Yes, sir."
Blackwood nodded slowly. "Most students your level would have tried anyway. Gotten themselves hit because they couldn't accept the tactical reality." He looked at Varen. "And most students at Five-Star wouldn't have been read that cleanly by someone a full rank below them."
Varen's face flushed. "Sir, I—"
"You fought predictably. Good technique, but no adaptation. Against someone with less analytical skill, you'd have won easily. Against Lord Eisenrath…" Blackwood gestured at Casimir. "He spent the entire bout studying you. Learning your patterns. If this fight lasted another minute, he'd have found a way to exploit them despite the Star difference."
Silence.
"Lord Eisenrath," Blackwood said. "You demonstrated tactical thinking and threat assessment above your rank. That's worth noting."
"Thank you, sir."
"However." The Commander's tone hardened. "You also demonstrated that you lack the physical capability to back up your analysis. Tactical thinking doesn't matter if you can't execute. You need to be stronger, faster, and more capable before that intelligence becomes useful in real combat."
"Yes, sir."
Blackwood studied him for another long moment. Then nodded once.
"Five-Star. Reach Five-Star and demonstrate continued tactical improvement. Then come back and we'll discuss training. That's the best I can offer you."
It wasn't a yes. But it wasn't a no either.
"Understood, sir."
Blackwood turned away, already moving on to the next thing. "Everyone back to your positions. We're doing guard-breaking drills next."
The students dispersed. Varen gave Casimir a long look—not hostile, but definitely reassessing—before returning to his training position.
Casimir walked to the edge of the yard and set down the practice sword.
Elise was standing nearby, arms crossed, golden eyes sharp.
"That was stupid," she said quietly.
"Maybe."
"You could have been hurt."
"I wasn't."
"This time." She uncrossed her arms. "Casimir, what are you doing? Really? You can't just decide to be serious one day and expect everything to change."
"Why not?"
"Because that's not how it works! Because I've spent years working for this, and you think you can just… just show up and compete?"
Her voice was rising. She caught herself, lowered it again. Checked to make sure nearby students weren't listening.
"I'm not trying to compete with you," Casimir said quietly. "I'm trying to survive."
Elise stared at him. "What does that mean?"
It means in six months, if I fail, the empire falls and you die screaming. It means every wasted day is another step toward apocalypse. It means I don't have the luxury of gradual improvement.
"It means I have six months," he said instead. "And I'm not wasting any more time."
She studied his face. Looking for something. Trying to understand what had changed.
"You're different," she finally said. "Since the letter. You're… I don't know. Different."
"Yes."
"Is this real? Or is this you panicking and pretending to try until Father stops paying attention?"
Fair question. The old Casimir would absolutely do that.
"It's real."
Elise's expression suggested she wanted to believe him. But years of disappointment made belief difficult.
"Fine," she finally said. "Prove it. Show up every day. Train every day. Advance. And maybe—maybe—I'll believe you've actually changed."
She walked away before he could respond. Returned to her training position where Blackwood was already demonstrating the next drill.
Casimir watched for a moment. Then turned and left the yard.
He had two classes this afternoon—both remedial level, both filled with students who were there because their families paid for them to be. The old Casimir would have attended those, if he attended at all.
The new Casimir had better things to do.
He needed to find a cultivation method. Something that prioritized speed over safety. Something that would let him reach Five-Star in three months instead of the year or more it would normally take.
Something dangerous.
Thorne had said there were methods. Had offered to point him toward them.
Time to collect on that offer.
Casimir walked back toward the academic building, golden eyes fixed forward, mind already calculating the fastest route between Four-Star and survival.
Six months.
The clock was ticking.
And he'd learned to hate the sound.