Time in the vault wasn't just strange—it was utterly silent.
Leon stepped through into the gray, endless space of the Dimensional Hourglass. The world outside would move forward three hours.
In here? Four months and three days.
More than a hundred days with nothing but himself, the floor, and two steel blades that didn't care how exhausted he felt.
There were no practice dummies. No targets. No progress bars telling him he was getting better.
Just Leon. Alone. Moving.
And the silence.
At first, he was terrible. Clumsy swings, awkward footwork. No one to fight against. There was no real way to tell if he was improving. Just the sound of his own breathing and the messy rhythm of trial and error.
Am I actually getting better at this?
Is any of this working?
Doubt crept in. Some days, he practiced with focus. On other days, he would get frustrated and yell at nothing. He lost track of time inside time.
No injuries to learn from. No soreness to measure progress. No way to know if he was wasting his time.
Just movement.
But slowly—gradually—something started to change.
His footwork got cleaner. His balance improved. He stopped swinging wildly and started cutting with purpose. He stopped stumbling after turns and started flowing from one move to the next.
He couldn't see the improvement. But he could feel it.
Each step, he knew precisely where his weight was. With each swing of the blade, he felt more in control.
Instinct is built upon repetition. Muscle memory is born not from being naturally strong, but from pure stubbornness.
The vault didn't test his body. It tested his willpower.
And somehow, he'd passed.
When he blinked back into the real world, it felt like waking up from a long, quiet dream.
Three hours had passed.
His room looked the same. The soup was still warm. The floorboards still creaked.
Leon stood still, letting reality settle around him.
No new muscles. No dramatic transformation. Still a skinny seven-year-old.
But when he moved—just a small step, a shift in his stance—he felt it.
Control was getting better.
Precision was getting sharper.
Leon was gaining confidence.
Not the kind you bragged about.
The kind you just carried.
He collapsed onto the bed and passed out immediately, his mind exhausted in ways his body couldn't understand.
The sun was coming up when Leon finally woke.
He stretched, blinked sleepily, then let a slow smile spread across his face.
Last night, just before falling asleep, he'd tested something on a hunch.
The daggers had slipped back into his soul-inventory like they belonged there.
Smooth.
Easy.
His cheat system was definitely working.
"I love this world," he muttered, rolling out of bed.
He washed up, got dressed, slung the soup pot over his back like precious cargo, and headed outside.
Same streets. Same stalls. Same world.
But this time, he moved like he actually had a plan.
The soup stall was busy again.
Grayridge's best source of hot food had drawn its usual crowd—tired workers, exhausted mothers, skinny kids clutching coins like they were treasure. The smell of warm broth filled the square like a blanket.
Leon worked quickly. Ladle. Bowl. Coin. Nod. Repeat.
This was his routine now.
It wasn't exciting, but it was working.
Until the screaming started.
A single, sharp shriek cut across the street—high and wrong, the kind of sound that made you freeze before your brain figured out what was happening.
Then came the shouting.
Then everyone started running.
People scattered like someone had set off a bomb. Market stalls tipped over. Baskets went flying. A wheel of cheese rolled loose and knocked over a kid.
Leon blinked, still holding a bowl.
"What the—?"
Then he saw it.
A goblin. Pale green, short, snarling. Dirty blade in one hand. Blood on the other.
Behind it were more.
Dozens of them.
Pouring in through the broken southern wall, shrieking with excitement and murder in their eyes.
The guards? Nowhere to be seen.
The vendors? Running for their lives.
A woman fell in front of his stall, clutching her bleeding arm. "My son—my son's still—" She never finished. A goblin jumped on her from behind, blade flashing.
Leon flinched as her scream cut off.
Another goblin laughed—wet and nasty like a sick crow—and went after the following person: a man trying to defend his stall with a broom.
It didn't work.
Leon stepped back, eyes wide, gripping his ladle like it could somehow help.
No.
Usually, during monster attacks, he was hidden away—in sewers, alleys, places too forgotten for monsters to bother with.
But now? He was here. In the open. On the main street. And he'd been noticed.
One of the goblins stopped running. Sniffed the air.
Its red eyes locked onto Leon.
Not the stall. Not the soup. Him.
Leon's stomach dropped. The goblin hissed and charged.
The goblin charged—snarling, low, fast.
People screamed around him. Stalls crashed over. Blood splattered the stones.
But Leon didn't move.
He didn't panic.
Instead, a grin spread across his face—tight, sharp, electric.
Finally. About time.
God, please let this training actually work, or I'm about to become goblin food.
He reached inside himself with practiced ease.
Fwip.
Twin daggers appeared in his hands, pulled from his soul-vault like they were part of him.
Cold steel. Familiar weight. No hesitation.
The red Ring of Minor Regeneration warmed on his finger—steady and reassuring.
Small cuts? No problem. Big ones? Don't get hit. Simple enough.
His feet moved into position automatically.
"I've been waiting four months for this," Leon muttered, eyes locked on the goblin. "Let's see what you've got."
The goblin lunged—blade first, screaming.
Clang!
Leon sidestepped, the blade scraping past his shoulder.
Fast, but sloppy. Just anger and instinct. I can work with that.
He ducked under the next swing—whoosh—and rolled to the side, coming up with a stab at the goblin's ribs.
Thunk.
The blade hit, but barely. Leon's wrist jarred from the impact. Damn. Too shallow. I'm still working with seven-year-old arms here.
The goblin shrieked and spun, slashing wildly.
Leon twisted away—smooth, tight, deliberate. Pure reflex.
"You're going to have to try harder than—"
CLANG!
The goblin's blade nicked his forearm.
The ring warmed.
The cut healed in seconds.
"—that," Leon finished, shaking his arm and realizing it was fine. He laughed. "I love having backup. Didn't even hurt."
Another overhead slash. Wild. Desperate.
Leon danced sideways, boots sliding on stone.
He countered—low and clean—blade sweeping under the goblin's guard.
Shlick.
Blood sprayed. The goblin stumbled back, screaming.
Leon followed, staying close. I'm not running. Not today.
"This is why you don't rush into a fight without a plan."
The goblin snarled, limping, panicked now.
It lunged again.
Leon pivoted—almost slipped on the blood—but caught himself, spinning hard.
One dagger to the back of the knee—crack!
The second to the neck—shhk!
The goblin jerked twice, then collapsed at his feet.
Leon stood over the body, breathing easily. Not from being tired.
From being calm.
He looked at the blood on his blade.
I can do this. I'm not helpless anymore.
He let out a breath. "Training was worth it."
Another shriek echoed from down the street.
Leon's head snapped toward the sound. Another goblin, charging.
He didn't hesitate.
The daggers spun in his hands as he stepped forward, eyes focused.
Let's make this one cleaner. No panic. No luck. Just control.
I trained for this. Time to see if it actually stuck.
And just like that, he was moving again.