Aaron gritted his teeth as he dragged a sandbag across the estate's training yard. It weighed more than he did. His arms trembled, legs burned, and sweat drenched his plain tunic.
This wasn't magic.
This wasn't glamour.
This was pure, mindless, painful work.
"Come on," he hissed. "Just a few more feet…"
With a final grunt, he dropped the bag next to the others and collapsed onto the dirt, gasping like a fish tossed ashore.
The stars were still faintly visible in the morning sky. Constellations he didn't recognize blinked above the training grounds—sigils of old Aetherwyn mages, supposedly. Their gazes seemed to mock him.
"Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, ghosts," Aaron muttered. "I'm trying."
---
Over the past week, he'd built a routine:
Wake before sunrise.
Run laps around the estate.
Carry sandbags to the training circle.
Swing wooden swords until his hands blistered.
Practice posture, breathing, balance.
He had no teacher. No guide. Just half-remembered martial arts videos from Earth, and dusty manuals left by dead ancestors.
Yet every day, he felt his body change—slightly leaner, a little faster, marginally less likely to faint mid-swing.
The estate's staff watched in stunned silence, whispering among themselves.
> "He's training like a madman…"
"Doesn't he know nobles hire instructors for this?"
"What is he planning? An uprising?"
Aaron ignored them. He didn't care what they thought.
In a world where monsters breathed fire and demons raised armies, being helpless was a death sentence—even if you weren't the hero.
He didn't intend to be a hero. He just wanted to survive.
That meant getting stronger. No excuses.
---
One afternoon, while practicing punches against a tree wrapped in cloth, something strange happened.
He threw a jab—more focused than usual. His weight aligned. His breathing was sharp.
And the moment his fist connected—
CRACK.
The trunk split slightly.
Aaron yelped and shook his hand. "Ow, ow, ow! What the hell?!"
He didn't feel stronger. But the impact had been absurd.
He looked at his hand. No bruising. No injury. Only a faint warmth under the skin.
"…Don't tell me I've been strengthening my body with magic this whole time?"
---
Later that evening, he found himself reading a discarded volume in the manor library:
"Flowing Starlight: Aetherwyn Body Techniques"
According to the book, the Aetherwyn bloodline had once trained their bodies to absorb celestial mana passively during physical exertion. It made their muscles dense, durable, and subtly enhanced.
The secret had been lost.
But here he was—accidentally recreating it just by trying not to be fat.
Aaron slammed the book shut and stared at the wall.
"I am... accidentally inheriting ancient forgotten techniques by just doing sit-ups. That's absurd."
His reflection in the glass door showed a slimmer face, sharper shoulders.
He looked like a beginner swordsman now. Still not fit. But no longer a spoiled piglet.
He blinked.
"…I'm a trope. I've become a walking trope."
---
That night, outside his window, the stars blinked again.
The same sigil—the Aetherwyn crest—glowed faintly in the sky. The glyph under his floor pulsed once more.
And deep within the sealed vaults beneath the estate, a lock clicked open—undone by bloodline resonance.
He didn't hear it.
He was too busy snoring, mouth wide open, completely passed out from exhaustion.
---
End of Chapter 4