The training hall smelled of sweat and old wood.
It hadn't changed.
The long beams overhead were still cracked in the same places. The floorboards still dipped slightly near the sparring ring. Even the instructors stood where they always had—arms folded, eyes bored, waiting for mediocrity.
In my first life, this hall had been a battlefield.
Not because of war.
Because this was where weakness was carved into you.
Or burned out.
I stepped into line with the other trainees.
No one looked at me twice.
Good.
That was useful.
Master Helion entered moments later.
Tall. Severe. Immaculate posture.
In three years, he would be transferred to the Capital Guard.
In six, he would die during a palace purge ordered quietly by the Queen.
I had held his body after that battle.
He had apologized for failing me.
He had not known I would fail him first.
"Pair up," Helion ordered.
No speech.
No warning.
Just impact.
The trainees moved quickly.
I did not.
Lian Varos approached with a smirk.
Of course.
History liked patterns.
"Try not to cry this time," he muttered.
I bowed my head slightly.
He mistook it for submission.
It wasn't.
It was calculation.
We stepped into the sparring circle.
Wooden practice blades were tossed to us.
I caught mine easily.
My grip felt strange.
Smaller hands.
Less callus.
No muscle memory in this body yet.
But the knowledge remained.
And knowledge wins before strength does.
"Begin," Helion said.
Lian lunged instantly.
Aggressive.
Overcommitted.
Same flaw he would carry into adulthood.
I remembered exactly how he moved.
Where he leaned too far.
Where his left knee angled inward under pressure.
He swung high.
Predictable.
I stepped back half a pace.
Not enough to show skill.
Just enough to avoid clean impact.
The blade grazed my shoulder.
Pain.
Real.
Sharp.
But I had known worse.
Much worse.
The courtyard trainees snickered.
"Same as always."
"Pathetic."
Good.
Let them believe that.
Lian grinned and pressed forward again.
Faster this time.
Trying to finish it dramatically.
He aimed for my ribs—
The same spot he had broken years ago.
Not today.
I pivoted slightly.
Minimal movement.
His strike cut air.
My blade tapped his wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough.
Helion's eyes sharpened slightly.
Interesting.
Lian frowned.
He hadn't expected contact.
He swung again.
Wider.
Sloppier.
Frustration had always been easy to summon in him.
This time, I stepped inside his guard.
A calculated risk.
My blade struck his shoulder lightly.
A scoring hit.
The room went quiet.
Just for a second.
Helion raised a brow.
"Continue," he said evenly.
Lian's ears reddened.
He attacked recklessly now.
And that was when I made my first decision of this new life.
Not to win.
Winning changes perception.
Winning invites attention.
Attention invites scrutiny.
And scrutiny too early kills plans.
So I allowed his next strike to clip my thigh.
Stumbled intentionally.
Overbalanced.
He knocked the blade from my hand.
It clattered loudly.
He shoved me back.
I hit the floor.
Laughter resumed.
Helion's voice cut through it.
"Varos wins."
Of course he did.
He extended a hand mockingly.
I ignored it and stood on my own.
Humiliation tastes different when you've already died.
It loses its power.
After drills, as the trainees dispersed, Helion's voice stopped me.
"Ren."
I turned.
"Yes, Master?"
His gaze lingered on me longer than it ever had before.
"You've improved."
Not praise.
Observation.
"Thank you, Master."
He studied me another moment.
As if sensing something misplaced.
Then he dismissed me.
Small changes ripple.
That was the first one.
I walked home through the lower eastern district.
Narrow streets.
Laundry lines.
Vendors shouting over one another.
In my first life, I had left this place and never truly returned.
I had built walls around myself.
Around ambition.
Around loyalty.
Not again.
The apartment above the herbal shop still creaked when I opened the door.
My mother was at the small table, mending a uniform sleeve.
Her hands were thinner than I remembered.
More tired.
She looked up.
"Ren."
Just that.
No rank.
No expectation.
Just my name.
Something in my chest tightened unexpectedly.
She had died before I made General.
Illness.
Quietly.
Without ceremony.
I had not been there.
Because I had been protecting someone else's throne.
"I'm home," I said.
My voice almost betrayed me.
She smiled faintly.
"Training go well?"
"Yes."
Lie.
Truth.
Both.
She returned to stitching.
I watched her for a long moment.
Ten years.
I had ten years to change everything.
Not just the throne.
Not just the Queen.
Everything.
That night, I lay awake staring at the cracked ceiling.
In my first life, I had believed strength meant rising through the system.
Climbing ranks.
Earning trust.
Serving faithfully.
And when the Queen had needed a scapegoat—
I had been perfect.
Strong enough to blame.
Loyal enough not to resist.
This time, loyalty would be currency.
Not identity.
There were three paths before me:
Rise through the military again.
Enter the palace early.
Or disappear into the sects and build power outside the crown entirely.
In my first life, I had chosen the first.
Predictable.
Straightforward.
Fatal.
This time
I would combine them.
Military reputation for legitimacy.
Hidden strength for leverage.
Palace proximity for control.
No more blind service.
Only strategy.
Somewhere in the Imperial Palace that night—
A young princess likely studied under candlelight.
Preparing to inherit a throne she believed was secure.
She did not know she would one day execute the man who built it for her.
She did not know he was already walking toward her again.
But this time
Not as shield.
Not as sword.
As rival.
I closed my eyes.
The smell of iron still lingered in memory.
The Queen's cold smile still burned.
But beneath it now
Something steadier formed.
Not rage.
Not yet.
Purpose.
I had been the Empire's strongest General.
And it had not saved me.
This time
I would become something stronger.
Something untouchable.