It's been two days since my meeting with the commander, and I've done nothing but rot in this room.
Not because I wanted to.
I tried to sneak out more than once—each time caught by Liana before I could even reach the hallway.
Apparently, I'm still "recovering." At least, according to her.
Not that I could complain.
I mean, aside from preventing this entire fortress from being blown off the map in a dungeon explosion that could kill even an S+ rank Aura user…
I had absolutely nothing to do.
Easy life, right?
Of course, I didn't actually stay idle.
I was still training—just not where Liana could catch me.
Push-ups. Sit-ups. Basic mobility drills. Anything I could manage in the limited space of this small room.
Even if this body was weaker than average in this world, it was still leagues above my old one on Earth.
It took me two whole days to get used to its weight, movement, and feel.
My joints stopped aching. My muscles finally obeyed. I could finally say—
I had some control over this body now.
And today, Liana finally allowed me to step outside.
The training ground was waiting
I stood up and walked to the old wooden cabinet in the corner of my room.
Every time I opened it, it let out a low groan—like an old man waking from a cursed slumber.
One of these days, I swore it would collapse in on itself and crush me.
Yet, somehow, it still stood. Just like everything else in this worn-out fortress.
Inside it rested my sword.
A beautiful, obsidian-black katana with a faint violet sheen across its curved blade.
The hilt was wrapped in deep indigo cloth, worn but firm to the grip, and the guard was shaped like a rising crescent moon.
It wasn't flashy.
But it was elegant—dark, precise, and sharp enough to drink the morning light.
Just the sight of it made something stir in my chest.
Maybe it was because, in my past life, I had always admired katana-wielding anime protagonists.
The kind that sliced mountains in half or cut down enemies from a hundred meters away with a single, effortless stroke.
To have one now...
Was kind of cool, honestly.
Kael didn't use the signature Thorne family style—the Imperial Fang.
It was a spear-based martial art, meant for long-range domination and explosive force.
But no matter how hard Kael trained with a spear, it just didn't work. His body wasn't built for it—his instincts clashed with its flow.
So, after trying everything he could, he finally turned to the katana.
And it clicked.
Fluid, fast, and precise—this weapon fit him.
His mastery in swordsmanship, now at the Intermediate level, was proof of that.
He didn't have a fully developed sword style—no named forms or legendary techniques.
But he had built a solid foundation.
Enough to fight. Enough to survive.
And maybe… enough to improve.
After strapping the katana to my waist, I stepped out of the room, letting the door creak shut behind me.
For the first time since I arrived here, I wasn't lost in confusion or grief.
And so—for the first time—I took a proper look at the world around me.
Morvath Vigil.
This ancient fortress stood tall… yet tired.
The stone walls were cracked in places, worn down by age and weather.
Its black spires reached into the sky like jagged spears, and moss grew over the crevices like nature reclaiming its prize.
But despite the decay, there was beauty.
A silent majesty.
The gothic architecture whispered stories that had long turned to dust.
Heavy arches. Intricate carvings.
Massive columns etched with runes that no longer glowed.
In the novel, Morvath Vigil was merely a backdrop—just the place where Kael was exiled, and where the dungeon overload occurred.
But now… I had Kael's memories.
I knew its truth.
This fortress was ancient—far older than the Thorne family itself.
Built in the Age of Sovereigns, back when Elves, Humans, Dwarves, and Demi-Humans lived in fragile harmony.
An era when mythical beasts still roamed the skies.
Dragons clashed in the clouds.
The earth trembled beneath Titans.
It was a time of chaos and wonder.
And in that chaos… one being brought the world to its knees.
Not just a dragon.
A calamity.
A force of destruction so pure that even other dragons fled from it in terror.
Its name was lost to time—erased from record.
But Kael's memories carried the tale:
> "Wherever it flew, death followed.
Mountains shattered, rivers evaporated, and entire cities turned to ash.
Even the gods watched in silence."
It was here, at Morvath Vigil, that the final battle took place.
The fortress wasn't built after the war.
It was built for it.
Forged by the hands of dwarves, carved into the land with the strongest runes known to mortal kind.
Elves brought their oldest magic.
Beastkin offered their primal strength.
And humanity… brought their greatest warrior.
The only human being in recorded history to ever reach SSS+ Rank.
He fought at the front—his aura burning like a second sun.
In the end, they won.
The calamity was slain.
But no one left that battlefield alive.
Even the great warrior—the first Thorne, the ancestor of Kael's bloodline died
Only ruins remain now.
Shadows of war, etched into every stone of this forgotten place.
And I, Kael Thorne, walk on the graves of legends.
I reached the training ground.
Dozens of soldiers were already scattered across the field—running drills, sparring with practice swords, and shouting commands with discipline drilled into their bones.
It was a scene of order. Precision. Strength.
But the moment they noticed me, that rhythm broke—just a little.
Some paused mid-motion to glance in my direction.
Others kept training… but their eyes flicked toward me, their movements stiffening.
Their stares weren't hostile.
But they sure as hell weren't friendly either.
Cold. Dismissive.
Like they were looking at someone who didn't belong.
And honestly? They weren't wrong.
According to Kael's memories, the original Kael never bothered to connect with anyone here.
No greetings. No cooperation.
He trained alone. Ate alone.
Ignored the instructors.
Refused to follow even basic formation orders during drills.
A "noble brat" who thought himself above everyone.
So, yeah.
It made sense.
They didn't like me.
And now, if I just walked over and said,
> "Hey, mind if I train with you guys?"
They'd probably spit in my direction.
So I did what any sane person in my situation would do.
I ignored them.
I started my own warm-up.
Stretching my limbs slowly.
Loosening the stiffness in my joints.
A little light cardio came next.
My body still felt foreign—but not weak anymore.
After a few minutes, I broke into a jog.
I began running laps around the training field—
a wide rectangular ground, probably three to four times the size of a football field.
Roughly 300 meters long and 150 meters wide, give or take.
The stone walls surrounding the field were high and scarred, like everything else in Morvath Vigil.
But the soil beneath my boots was firm.
Used.
Trained on for years.
Each step pounded rhythm into my breath.
One foot after the other.
Steady. Focused.
Letting my body settle into its weight and movement.
I didn't care who was watching.
Let them stare.
I wasn't here to win hearts.
I was here to survive.
My lungs burned.
Each breath was sharp, dry, and ragged.
My shirt clung to my back, drenched in sweat.
My legs… they felt like they'd snap with the next step—trembling under me like cracked steel.
But I didn't stop.
I didn't know how many laps I'd run.
I didn't care.
I just ran.
Until my body screamed.
Until my vision blurred.
Until I couldn't take another step.
Because I remembered something—
A line from the novel.
"The body grows strongest when pushed to its breaking point."
And this world…
This wasn't Earth.
In this world, mana existed everywhere—
In the air.
In the soil.
Even in the blood of monsters and men.
It flowed like invisible currents, seeping into everything.
And more importantly—
It responded to effort.
That's why everyone trained like this.
Not just to sweat or break a limit—
But to tear down their body…
So mana could build it back stronger.
Every time the muscle tore from strain—
Mana from the surrounding air would rush in,
Mending. Reinforcing. Evolving.
The more pain…
The more adaptation.
And here, at the edge of the Darkwood Forest,
where monsters thrived just beyond the walls—
the air was thick with mana.
Wild. Potent. Heavy.
Perfect for training.
So I kept going.
Letting my body fall apart—
So it could be rebuilt.
I gritted my teeth as my calves threatened to give out.
My throat burned, begging for water.
But I kept running.
Because weakness wasn't just a burden here—
It was a death sentence.