Charles sat alone in his study as the morning orblight slanted across the worn desk. His gaze fell to the wooden sword mounted on the wall—the Hardenwood Warblade.
Battered. Stained. Still solid.
Garrick had gifted it to him on his fifteenth birthday, probably out of guilt. It wasn't just a stick of wood. It was memory—tempered in mana over weeks, weighted and balanced for a warrior who couldn't yet wield steel. A blade meant for beginners.
He rose and lifted it from its mount, brushing the dust from the grip. It felt heavier than it used to. Or maybe he'd just grown stronger.
"Foundation Rank 5," he muttered, rolling the hilt in his palm. "Still not enough."
For all his sleepless training, all the drills and cold exposure, the System's brutal regimen, and nights beneath flickering array stones… he was still chasing shadows. Still short of Core Realm.
Which is why he was headed for the central castle training grounds—where the vassal houses sent their prized sons and overconfident daughters to become knights. He needed fresh rhythm. Real opponents. New flaws to shatter.
But before he could leave, memories surged—memories that weren't his.
They came from Charlemagne Ziglar.
Whispers of another life bled into his thoughts: breakfast tables filled with silence, servants who watched without seeing, and a father who never returned home. Duchess Evelyne had died birthing him. Her light snuffed out, leaving the Northern Keep a cold, hollow thing.
Duke Alaric, once fire and fury, had become a war-ghost—present on paper, absent in soul. Garrick took up the mantle at twenty-one: Core Realm Rank 4, earth and fire. Glaive prodigy. Seraphina wasn't far behind: Rank 1, fire and wind, a strategist and golden darling of Ziglar.
And Charlemagne?
Nothing.
No affinity. No aura. No potential.
Priests tried. Failed. Whispers spread. Tutors quit. The boy was declared unblessed.
But three lights never dimmed:
Wendy, once noble herself, read him stories when no one else remembered his name.
Elmer, the Duchess's old knight, taught him to fall—and to rise.
Anya, head maid and hurricane, made sure he never starved for warmth.
On his fifteenth birthday, gifts arrived.
Seraphina sent a discount elixir.
Garrick sent the wooden sword.
His father sent nothing.
Elmer broke every rule and gave him a contraband blue crystal—dense with dormant energy.
He dropped it in his bath. Drank the elixir.
He screamed. Convulsed. Bled from his eyes.
But his dantian opened.
He clawed upward from nothing, inch by inch. Alone. Every breath a rebellion. Every step a war against fate.
Until the betrayal.
The one person he trusted most—the girl who whispered futures and sang him hope—drove the betrayal in while he looked away. Shattered his dantian in a single blow.
Charlemagne Ziglar died that day.
Charles was born in the ashes.
He stepped into sunlight, the Hardenwood Warblade strapped to his back, and made his way to the courtyard—where noble scions in polished gear already postured and sparred.
They turned as he arrived.
Mocking smiles. Whispered names.
"Isn't that the cripple?"
"Didn't he fail his Awakening twice?"
"Why's he carrying wood?"
Charles smiled back.
Let them talk.
He'd show them what rebirth looked like.
He'd break their rhythm. Crack their pride. Remind them that ashes weren't the end—they were the beginning.
The past still whispered.
But Charles didn't look back.
He only looked toward the blade.
Toward power.
Toward war.
The skies over Davona's northern duchy held a pale, silver sheen in the early spring—mist curling along the stone like the breath of ghosts that refused to leave. The courtyard stones of House Ziglar steamed faintly beneath the shy warmth of morning light, while dew clung to the blades of grass like scattered fragments of yesterday's frost.
Before the first servant stirred, before the guards changed shift, Charles was already awake.
It was the third dawn since he had begun his System's daily quests, and the prompts now flickered behind his eyes like old friends—and tyrants.
[System Notification: Daily Quest Initiated]
– Sword Forms: 0/100
– Meditation (Yin-Breath): 0/1 hour
– Pain Resistance Drill: Incomplete
– Mock Combat Victory: Pending
He dressed without thought, motions precise. The tunic clung to his back damp with effort before the sun even touched the sky. Gone was the listless, bruised boy who once trudged through these grounds, shoulders bowed beneath invisible burdens.
That boy had died the night he was betrayed. In his place stood someone else.
Charles Alden Vale, former CEO. Now reborn, not by mercy, but by vengeance, grit, and the cold logic of a System that made no exceptions.
He made his way toward the outer ring of the training grounds—the neglected zone where weeds split the flagstones and no noble youth bothered to tread. The inner circle buzzed with bloodline flexing and noisy displays of qi, but he ignored them. Always had. Always would.
Instead, he retrieved the same wooden training blade Garrick had tossed at him a year ago. Solid grip. Balanced weight. Weather-worn, but still better maintained than the warped sticks left on the public rack.
He exhaled slowly.
Then moved.
The blade cut arcs through chilled morning air, his breath flowing in rhythm with motion. Each step, each twist of the wrist, flowed with a quiet authority honed by discipline, muscle memory, and the precise corrections of the System. There was elegance now. Precision. Control. He didn't need a crowd—he needed mastery.
Still, the eyes came.
Whispers at the edge of the courtyard. Disdain wrapped in silk. Mockery behind polished boots.
The same noble-born pests who once made him bleed for sport.
They were watching.
[System Tier Training Plan: Level 1]
– 100 precision slashes
– One-legged Qi balance hold (5 min)
– Cold exposure (shirtless, 30 min)
[Level 2 Tasks Unlocked]
– Advanced footwork (uneven terrain)
– 1v3 mock duels
– Illusion-array meditation
[Level 3 Tier – Conditional Access]
– Qi Flow through Five Meridian Gates
– Mid-combat weapon switching
– Blindfolded reactive sparring
It was brutal. Relentless.
And Charles loved every second of it.
He was mid-form—stance fluid, breath steady—when the crunch of boots disrupted the harmony.
"Well, look who's back. The duchy's favorite punching bag."
Ben Reglan.
Of course.
With Rowel, Kent, and Mylen trailing behind like flies orbiting rotting meat. The same four who used to knock him into the mud for fun. The same ones who never learned.
They laughed. They pointed. Waiting for the routine to play out. For Charles to freeze, to shrink, to pretend not to hear.
But he didn't pause.
He finished his form—blade slicing the air with crisp finality—before turning toward them. Slowly.
Eyes like razors.
Posture like steel.
Ben cocked his head. "Still flailing around like a cripple trying to summon pity?"
Charles's mouth twitched—almost a smile. "Jealous that I still draw breath without crying in your father's wine cellar?"
The courtyard froze.
The tension was electric. Then—
Ben lunged.
Faster than before. But not fast enough.
Charles moved.
There was no tremble in his blade this time. No hesitation. No apology.
Crack.
Ben's sword went spinning. His knees slammed into the dirt.
Gasps echoed around the yard.
Dust rose. Silence reigned.
Charles stood over him, wooden blade resting casually against his shoulder. His voice was calm—so calm it stung.
"This is where the weak stand now."
He turned without waiting for a reply.
And resumed.
Slash.
Breathe.
Slash.
Breathe.
Let them watch. Let them sneer. Let them choke on their own disbelief.
He was not done.
He was only beginning.
Echoes of Humiliation
From the corners of the training yard, disdainful glances flickered like hidden daggers. Half-sneers. Snorts. Mockery carved into silence.
And the memories returned.
Flashback One: The Mock Spar
He was nine when they first broke his ribs.
It had started as a mock spar—harmless on the surface. Or so he thought.
Orchestrated by the sons of Baron Solvek and Viscount Reglan, the older boys had circled around him in the central ring while the instructors were conveniently "called away." A jest, they claimed. A lesson for the "sickly noble runt" to toughen up.
He remembered the sting of the cold steel practice sword pressed against the back of his neck. The laughter echoing like a bell toll at a funeral.
They had shoved him between them like a toy, a plaything tossed back and forth.
Wooden swords cracked into his legs, his ribs, his chest. When he cried out, they only laughed harder.
"Come on, Charlemagne! Swing your twig! Or are you going to faint again?"
He did faint—just as the final strike drove deep into his side.
Dalton, the old arms master, found him slumped in the dirt, unconscious.
No punishments. No inquiries.
It was just boys being boys. Nobles being nobles.
Flashback Two: The Broken Dream
He was thirteen when it got worse.
By then, most boys his age had already sensed the first stirrings of inner energy—had already begun forming the foundation of their dantian, their spiritual core.
But Charlemagne Ziglar?
Still nothing. Still hollow.
That Spring Equinox, while others enjoyed their half-holiday, Charles stayed behind—alone—practicing stolen footwork drills from a manual he wasn't allowed to read. Each stance was wrong. Each step stuttered. But he tried. He bled. He believed.
Then the voices came.
"There he is. Practicing again, like a little fool."
"Maybe if he dances long enough, the heavens'll pity him."
He turned just as four figures emerged from behind the armory.
Ben Reglan led them—muscle-bound, smug, and stupid. A hammer with a tongue.
Behind him: Rowel, Kent, and Mylen. Vultures in training leathers.
Charles froze, wooden sword half-raised.
"Didn't know ghosts trained," Ben sneered. "You move like one—pale, slow, and already dead."
Laughter.
Mockery.
Charles drew a shaky breath. "Leave me be."
Ben stepped closer, voice dipping into venom. "Still pretending you'll awaken? Still clinging to that dream?"
He leaned forward.
"Tell us the truth. Did your dantian ever stir? Ever hum? Ever even twitch?"
Silence.
Charles's grip whitened on the blade.
"Even the stable boy's son felt a flicker," Mylen said with syrupy pity. "But not the trash Duke's son."
Then came the final cut.
"Maybe your mother's blood cursed you," Ben whispered. "She died the day you were born, didn't she? Maybe she took your future with her."
That did it.
Charles lunged. Not with form or grace—but fury.
The wooden blade lashed toward Ben's ribs.
Ben sidestepped. His fist thundered upward.
CRACK.
Charles's jaw twisted. He dropped to the ground with a groan.
They didn't stop.
A kick to the ribs. Another to his thigh. His spine.
Rowel flung the training sword away. Kent pinned his arms.
Ben crouched beside him, sneering.
"You're not one of us. You'll never be. A branch with no root. A Ziglar who can't even awaken."
Then he dragged Charles across the dirt—over cracked stone, past the training post—slamming him into the weapon rack.
"This is your place," Ben hissed. "Outside. Always watching. Always behind."
A final punch to the gut.
Laughter followed like hyenas.
Charles lay there, vision spinning, the sky spiraling above like it was laughing too. Blood mixed with dirt at the corner of his mouth.
He didn't cry.
Not anymore.
He clenched his teeth and whispered the only words left.
"I will remember."
Dalton found him again that night. Another excuse. Another lie: "He slipped while sparring."
And again, no one cared.
Now.
The present.
Charles's grip on the wooden blade tightened.
Ben Reglan attacked again.
Sixteen now. Still the same thick-headed clown. Still flanked by his trio of chuckling shadows.
They expected a performance. A trip. A tremble.
Instead, Charles didn't flinch. His blade continued flowing, a rhythm calm and surgical.
"You still flailing at dummies like you're dancing with ghosts?" Ben jeered. "Try a real opponent—or afraid you'll snap those twiggy wrists?"
Charles froze mid-strike. His blade hovered.
He turned.
Eyes met eyes.
No rage. No fear.
Only cold calculation.
"So petty and childish," Charles said, voice as smooth as silk draped over a dagger.
Ben blinked. That wasn't the cousin he remembered.
Something had changed.
Something dangerous.
Ben growled. "I'll make you eat those words."
He lunged.
His sword came down in a wide arc—sloppy, brutish.
Charles moved only his arms.
With a flick and twist—
CRACK.
Ben's sword exploded from his grip and flew through the air, landing with a hollow clatter against Rowel's chest. The boy yelped, dropped like a sack of turnips.
Gasps rippled through the training yard.
Charles hadn't moved his feet. Hadn't raised his voice.
And he had just humiliated the loudest brat in the duchy with a single motion.
Ben stood frozen. Face red. Fists trembling. "You… you cheated!"
Charles didn't answer. He turned, casually shouldered his training blade, and walked toward the weapon rack.
No one dared block his path.
He grabbed a spare iron longsword—plain, dull, the kind used by guards, not heirs. It felt right.
Past the edge of the yard, past the stables, past the great oak—into the woods.
There, in the quiet shade, he exhaled.
The past was behind him.