The courtyard was silent.
Not with peace, but pressure.
A tension carved by discipline, effort, and isolation.
Lucien stood alone beneath the ancient training tree where his grandfather once taught sword stances. The roots of that tree twisted like veins, each a memory, each one soaked with sweat from generations past.
And now, it bore witness to him.
His shirt lay tossed aside on the stone wall. His torso glistened—cut, bruised, but not broken. Mana vapor clung to his skin like steam, rising with every breath he exhaled.
He wasn't training to impress.
He was training to survive.
Clang!
The dull echo of wood meeting steel reverberated as he repeated the drill. Over and over. Sword swings, footwork, mana channeling—again. Again. Again.
His fingers trembled. His palms burned.
But his eyes—those crimson mirrors of something ancient—remained sharp.
> "Again," he muttered.
He stepped forward. Slashed. Twisted. Flowed into a feint, then slammed the wooden blade into a phantom opponent's chest.
Sweat poured.
His knees buckled slightly—but he forced himself back up.
Across from him, four wooden training dummies stood. Each carved with runes. Each designed to mimic different opponents.
He activated them all.
One surged with brute force—heavy, wide swings.
Another darted like a rogue—evasive, erratic, stabbing with short blades.
The third flung low-level spells—minor fire bolts and wind pressure bursts.
The last was purely defensive, mimicking a tank with perfect form.
He charged into them like a storm.
And they responded in kind.
Within seconds, Lucien was a blur of movement. Parrying. Dodging. Countering.
His mana flowed like quicksilver now, drawn through the refined circuits he'd been carving into his core with days of relentless training.
The bruises he bore were not setbacks. They were evidence.
His growth wasn't dramatic. It wasn't a flash of light or a level-up jingle.
It was real.
Earned.
With pain.
---
Proficiency Panel: [Lucien Arkanveil]
Unique: Primordial Proficiency Panel – Lv. Max
Sword Mastery – Lv. 9 → 10 (Evolution available)
Mana Control – Lv. 10 → Evolved: Refined Mana Circuits
Footwork – Lv. 8 → 9
Combat Awareness – Lv. 7 → 8
Spellcasting (General) – Lv. 6 → 7
Adaptive Weaving – Lv. 5 → 6
New Evolution Prompt:
> [Sword Mastery Lv. 10 → Evolve into "Arkanveil Flow Style – Foundation"]
Accept? Y/N
Lucien stared at the message.
This was it.
The result of thousands of hours across two lifetimes.
Swordsmanship was more than a weapon to him—it was meditation. Focus. Power.
He accepted.
The moment he did, his body froze.
And then it burned.
Information exploded in his brain—sword forms, breathing techniques, micro-adjustments of weight and pressure.
And not just one style—but the birth of one.
The Arkanveil Flow Style.
It wasn't his grandfather's brute force technique. Nor his brother Aleron's knightly defense patterns.
It was something uniquely his—built on adaptability, deception, and controlled aggression.
He dropped into the first stance instinctively.
And moved.
The blade cut the air like a brush on canvas. Smooth. Unpredictable. Flowing from slash to block to spiral to riposte with no wasted motion.
A dancer of death.
A ghost with form.
The dummies barely reacted before they were cleaved apart—runes sputtering.
Lucien stood amidst the broken wood, chest heaving, eyes burning with quiet fire.
---
He didn't smile.
But he felt it.
That clarity.
His body still ached. His mana was nearly spent. But his spirit—his will—had sharpened.
He walked toward the shaded platform nearby, where a small basin of water shimmered. He splashed his face, stared into the reflection.
Golden hair damp. Red eyes unwavering. Scars from training fresh.
But deeper than that—was change.
The boy who had once lived and died on Earth…
The villain reborn with memories of another life…
He was becoming something neither world could define.
Not just a planner.
Not just a devourer.
> A force.
Behind him, faint footsteps approached. He didn't turn.
> "You're not resting," said a voice—Aleron.
Lucien smirked. "Neither are you."
His brother chuckled softly, then tossed him a mana-infused towel. "Mother said you'd burn out at this rate."
> "I'd rather burn than rust."
Aleron didn't argue. He simply nodded, pride flickering in his gaze.
> "You're different," he said after a pause. "Stronger. Not just physically."
Lucien didn't deny it. He dried his face and leaned back against the bench.
> "I need to be," he said. "What's coming won't wait for us to be ready."
His brother's expression darkened. "You've seen something?"
Lucien didn't answer directly. Instead, he looked toward the western sky, where clouds loomed over distant mountains.
> "The world doesn't give warnings. Only trials."
Aleron stood beside him, silent for a time. Then he placed a hand on his younger brother's shoulder.
> "Whatever comes, we face it together."
Lucien glanced at him.
> "Together," he agreed softly.
For a long moment, the two stood there—brothers bound by blood, training, and now… purpose.
And somewhere deep inside Lucien, something stirred.
Not a Trait.
Not a system prompt.
But conviction.
He was more than a reincarnator.
He was Lucien Arkanveil.
And the world was about to learn what that meant.