Two months passed.
There was no dramatic breakthrough.
No sudden awakening.
No hidden master descending from the mountains.
No whisper from the system telling me I was "ready."
Just time.
And repetition.
Every morning before dawn, I woke up on my own—no servants, no reminders. My body learned the rhythm before my mind did. Stretch. Breathe. Move.
Push-ups turned from trembling failures into controlled sets. Running changed from humiliating gasps into steady, burning strides that carried me around the estate grounds while the sky was still dark.
I didn't count days.
I counted sessions.
Miss one, and I felt it immediately—not guilt, but discomfort, like a gear slipping out of alignment.
At first, the staff had watched in disbelief.
Then curiosity.
Then acceptance.
The duke's heir trained.
Every day.
Without shouting.
Without quitting.
Without demanding praise.
By the end of the first month, they stopped whispering and simply adjusted.
The guards unlocked the yard for me before I arrived.
The kitchen quietly altered my meals—less sugar, more protein, fewer heavy sauces. I hadn't ordered it. Someone had simply noticed.
My mother, I suspected.
The changes were impossible to ignore.
At the start, I had been five foot three—short, soft, round in all the wrong places. A body shaped by indulgence and neglect.
By the end of the second month, I stood at five foot eight.
The growth had been… unsettling.
It hadn't come with pain or fanfare. One morning, my sleeves felt shorter. A week later, my trousers no longer fit properly. The tailor had been summoned twice already, his polite confusion growing harder to hide.
My shoulders had broadened slightly—not from muscle bulk, but from alignment. My posture had straightened. My neck no longer disappeared into my collar when I relaxed.
I wasn't thin.
I wasn't sculpted.
There was still softness around my waist, a hint of fat clinging stubbornly where it always had.
Skinny fat, I would have called it in my old life.
But it was different now.
The weight wasn't dead.
It moved when I moved.
My body felt… usable.
Alive.
I caught my reflection in the mirror one evening after training, shirt damp with sweat.
Black hair clung to my forehead, longer than before. Red eyes stared back—clearer, sharper. My face had changed subtly: cheeks less round, jawline beginning to assert itself, though still softened by youth and remaining fat.
Not handsome.
Not yet.
But no longer ugly.
More importantly—no longer helpless.
I turned sideways, examining my profile.
"Acceptable," I murmured.
My status screen had barely budged.
.===Status=== Name: Aurelian von Edevane Potential : D rank [SEALED – DESTABILIZING] Rank : G Strength : G+ Agility : G+ Stamina : G Intelligence : G Mana capacity : G Luck : E Charm : G ==========
The changes were almost insulting.
Two months of pain for a few plus signs.
And yet… I wasn't frustrated.
Because I could feel the difference in ways numbers couldn't express.
My breathing recovered faster.
My balance was steadier.
My movements wasted less effort.
Even my mind felt sharper—not smarter, but quieter. Less prone to spiraling.
Training had done what anger never could.
It had given me patience.
The family noticed.
They couldn't not.
My younger sister still dragged me into games whenever she could, but now she complained that I ran too fast.
"That's cheating!" she accused, hands on her hips as I caught her with ease.
"You said I was slow," I replied mildly.
"That was before!"
She stared up at me, squinting. "You got taller again."
"So did you," I said.
"That's different."
She hugged my waist without warning, arms not quite reaching all the way around anymore.
"…You're harder," she muttered thoughtfully.
I choked. "Phrasing."
She laughed, oblivious, and ran off again.
My older sister noticed in silence.
She trained in the main yard sometimes, her movements crisp and deadly even without mana. The first time our schedules overlapped, she paused mid-swing and stared at me openly.
"You grew," she said.
"Yes."
"You lost weight."
"Yes."
"…Why?"
The question wasn't casual.
It was suspicious.
I met her gaze, unflinching. "Because I was weak."
She searched my face for mockery, for excuses, for sarcasm.
She found none.
"…Hmph," she said finally, turning back to her practice. "Don't stop halfway."
"I won't."
She didn't reply—but she didn't leave either.
My father spoke to me exactly once during those two months.
It was late evening. I was leaving the training yard, muscles aching pleasantly, when he appeared at the edge of the path like he'd been there all along.
He looked at me for a long moment.
"You've changed," he said.
"Yes, Father."
"Is this a phase?"
The question was blunt. Practical. Almost kind, in its own way.
"No," I replied.
He nodded once.
"Good."
That was all.
But when he walked away, his steps seemed… lighter.
I didn't touch mana.
Not once.
The system remained silent unless I called it.
Crimson Vow slept like a blade sheathed just beneath my skin. Sovereign of Silence hummed quietly, unused.
False Crown remained active at all times, my rank and talent presenting exactly as the world expected.
A weak heir slowly improving through effort.
Nothing more.
Nothing threatening.
Exactly how I wanted it.
At night, when the estate was quiet, I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about the future.
The academy loomed closer with every passing week.
Sixteen.
Awakening ceremonies were done. Rankings would be reset. Everyone would start at the bottom again.
But this time…
I wouldn't be starting from zero.
Not physically.
Not mentally.
Not emotionally.
And when I finally stepped into that place of fate, I wouldn't be the boy who lashed out because he couldn't keep up.
I rolled onto my side, muscles sore, body heavy with earned exhaustion.
Two months wasn't enough to change destiny.
But it was enough to change me.
And that, I had learned, was the only starting point that mattered.