By direct order of Duchess Sophia, the first to put pressure on him was Albert, his tutor and guardian since childhood. No one in the Douglas estate dared contradict him—least of all when it concerned the heir. Albert, a descendant of the maternal line, had served the family for three generations; his loyalty was as unyielding as the steel he wielded. He was responsible not only for the young duke's safety but also for shaping him into a warrior.
Sophia had given the order with absolute authority, leaving no room for objection.
"A weak body breeds a weak mind," she had said that morning, watching from the balcony as sunlight spilled across the fields.
Albert carried out her command with characteristic severity. When he entered Lusian's chambers, his presence alone filled the space: the scent of leather, the metallic clink of armor, the weight of duty in every precise movement.
"The reason you fell ill is simple: you lack training," he said bluntly, his gaze allowing no argument. "From today onward, you will move that body—even if I have to drag you to the training grounds myself."
Lusian tried to protest, still wrapped in the lethargy he mistook for weakness.
"I… still feel unwell. Just one more day," he muttered, voice low, more to himself than Albert.
"There is no 'one more day.'" Albert stepped closer, a wall of authority. "Lost time is dangerous. Every moment you waste puts you further from surviving this world."
Lusian swallowed, knowing argument was futile. Yet something sparked inside him—the first flicker of defiance, reminding him that even in a borrowed body, his mind could still choose its path.
Before he could respond, Albert shoved him toward the training field.
The courtyard stretched wide before him, sand mixed with stone underfoot, surrounded by low walls and watchtowers where soldiers drilled in swordsmanship and spellcraft under the commander's sharp gaze.
"Greetings, Young Master Lusian!" the knights shouted in unison as he stepped forward.
The sound echoed off the walls, pressing down on him. Shame wrapped around him like a heavy cloak. He was no longer a player behind a screen—he was a young duke, bound by expectations he had yet to understand.
Albert appeared beside him, scooping up two swords with a sharp twist of his wrist.
"You still have not learned, Lusian. You must conduct yourself according to your status. Today, you will understand what training truly means."
He tossed one of the swords at him. Lusian caught it by reflex, staggering under its weight.
"Master…" Lusian muttered, lowering his gaze. "…I can't feel mana."
Albert frowned, appraising him with sharp disdain.
"You can't?" he whispered. "Or is this merely another excuse to avoid training?"
Without warning, the air around Albert vibrated with raw energy. His fist ignited in crimson mana, crackling with power and scenting the air with ozone.
"Let's find out."
The first blow struck Lusian square in the chest, hurling him backward. A second hit slammed into his abdomen, knocking the air from his lungs. He rolled across the sand, swallowed by dust and the echo of restrained laughter.
The pain was real. Not numbers on a screen. Not controller vibrations. Iron crushing flesh, a metallic taste in his mouth, ears ringing.
So this is dying… for real, he thought, struggling to rise.
Then he felt it.
Something inside him stirred—a primitive current awakened by the strike. The blow had not merely hurt him. It had awakened him.
Pain became vibration, and from the void, a cold, viscous energy coursed through his veins. Black mana, thick as ink, seeped from his skin—first in threads, then waves that warped the light around him. The air smelled of ozone and ash.
Remembering what he knew from the game, he understood: everyone was born level one—weak, fragile, vulnerable. Advancement came only through training and nourishment. Mana-rich foods—high-level monster meat, energy-saturated herbs—were key to rapid growth. Common humans barely reached level twenty or twenty-five by age fifteen. Nobles, raised on mana-laden banquets, could surpass level forty with ease.
Lusian, at fifteen, was already level forty-five—a midpoint between cadet and legionary.
Magical affinity, however, could not be gained through food or training. It was a hereditary gift, passed through the maternal line, binding the bearer to a primordial element: water, fire, earth, air, light, darkness, ice, or lightning. Those with affinity channeled mana with ease, reducing spell costs and amplifying elemental power.
That was why the god-blessed heroes Lusian remembered from the game were more than adventurers. Combining level with affinity, they could alter the fate of Kuria itself.
Now, in this borrowed body and with this unfamiliar power, Erwin realized survival depended on more than skill—it required adaptation to something far deeper and more dangerous than he had ever imagined.
According to his memories, Albert had been loyal to villainous Lusian—always respectful, always obedient. Here, he showed no mercy. No help. No hesitation.
"Are you going to train properly," Albert said, stepping forward, shadow engulfing him, "or are you going to take a beating?"
Lusian rose unsteadily, ragged breath filling his lungs. Something inside him now pulsed with force. Albert's strike had done more than punish—it had awakened dormant mana, the very energy he had been unable to feel until now.
Game knowledge and instinct fused into a single impulse.
Speed. Strength. Power.
A dark glow wrapped his muscles. The ground cracked beneath his boots. He coated his sword in the same energy, the blade dripping liquid shadows.
With a guttural shout, he extended his hand. Seven black spears formed, floating in perfect formation before launching toward Albert.
The old man smiled. Flames wrapped his sword, each spear disintegrating into sparks upon contact.
"Good. You finally remember," Albert growled, pride and severity mingling. "Now we can train."
Lusian's heart pounded—but fear was gone. He had awakened. For the first time, he felt his own power within reach.
Moments later, he improvised a water spell, concentrating without control. Steam burst around him, crackling in the air—only for his mana to drain brutally, leaving him nearly empty. Magic outside his affinity weakened him further. In real combat, such waste was lethal.
"It's waste," Albert said, his voice dry, edged with cold amusement. "And on the battlefield, waste dies."
From the balcony, Sophia watched silently, hands trembling but holding back. Thunder stamped restlessly.
"If you strike him once more, Albert…" she muttered through clenched teeth, "…you will taste my wrath."
Still, she did not intervene. Deep down, she sensed the fire within Lusian—a new strength, a change that could not yet be explained.
Hours later, the sun had shifted, shadows stretched long across the courtyard. Lusian lay on the ground, exhausted, body slick with sweat, dust, and bruises. Every muscle screamed—but within him glimmered quiet satisfaction: he had crossed a limit.
Albert watched silently, arms crossed. To him, Lusian was more than a student. In many ways, he was the grandson he had never had.
And perhaps that was why seeing him battered hurt so much.
Part of Albert wanted to call it a day, but he could not. Lusian was not an ordinary boy—he was the heir of Douglas, a future duke in a world that punished weakness. If Albert did not forge him now, his life would be forfeit.
So Albert remained firm.
Erwin, pale and trembling, felt death brush against him with every breath. Every grain of sand beneath his skin reminded him of his fragility.
Suddenly, Adela rushed in, skirt whipped by wind, a white tiger at her side. She knelt, hands trembling, offering two vials: one glowing green with healing light, the other deep blue, infused with mana and mint.
Garet stepped forward, frowning.
"You shouldn't be so harsh, Albert. He hasn't fully recovered yet," he said.
Albert wiped his sword, eyes cold.
"He's young. He can endure it. He must grow stronger," he said.
"If anything happens, I'll hold you accountable," Garet countered, hand on his hilt, tension palpable.
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with unspoken electricity. Two of the duchy's strongest men opposed—not with swords, but ideals.
Still kneeling, Lusian drank the green potion. Heat spread through his body, dulling pain, leaving him tingling with energy and exhaustion.
"What level am I?" he asked calmly.
Adela blinked.
"Last measurement was forty-five, my lord."
Lusian nodded simply.
"Thank you."
A word he had never spoken before. Simple, honest. Acknowledgment of those around him. In his eyes—once clouded by arrogance—something had changed: understanding. Respect. The first sign of what he might become if he survived both the training and the world that now claimed him.