Snow fell heavily across the northern frontier long before sunrise, covering the fortress walls beneath layers of white while freezing winds swept through the outer battlements hard enough to force even armored soldiers to tighten their cloaks during patrol rotations, but despite the brutal cold pressing constantly against the city, movement had already begun within the inner training grounds.

Torches burned along the edges of the stone arena.

The ground had been cleared manually before dawn.

And standing at the very center of it—

Was Lucien Valcroix.

A long breath escaped him slowly, visible immediately within the frozen air as he adjusted his grip around the wooden training sword Malen had handed him only moments earlier.

The weapon felt awkward.

Not because it was heavy.

Because it wasn’t familiar.

In his previous life, Lucien—then Ren Takeda—had never touched a sword seriously even once, his world having revolved around office buildings, overwork, fluorescent lights, and endless exhaustion rather than combat or physical discipline, and even after awakening inside this world, most of his recent growth had come through mental adaptation, political survival, and system rewards rather than personal strength.

That—

Would no longer be enough.

Malen stood several meters away watching him silently.

The Peak Knight’s massive frame looked almost immovable beneath the dim torchlight, his presence alone enough to create unconscious pressure within the training ground despite the calmness in his expression.

Behind him, several loyal knights observed quietly from the edges of the arena while Gandalf remained seated near the stone steps with his beard spread across his robes like snow itself, his old eyes reflecting faint amusement.

Lucien rolled his shoulder once.

The wound from the assassination attempt had already healed completely thanks to the system potions.

The poison inside his body had vanished as well.

For the first time since arriving in this world—

His body truly belonged to him.

And now—

It needed to become stronger.

Malen finally spoke.

"You understand what this means?"

Lucien met his gaze calmly.

"Yes."

The knight’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"No."

A pause.

"You understand the idea of strength."

Another pause.

"But not the cost of building it."

Silence settled briefly.

The surrounding knights remained still.

Because everyone present understood the difference between inherited authority and earned capability.

Lucien’s title made him lord.

But titles alone did not survive battlefields.

Malen stepped forward slowly.

"The body of a knight is not built quickly."

A pause.

"It breaks first."

Then another.

"And only afterward becomes stronger."

Lucien listened carefully.

Malen continued.

"Magic can shortcut many things."

A slight glance toward Gandalf.

"But the knight’s path cannot be cheated."

Another step.

"Pain."

"Repetition."

"Control."

"That is the foundation."

Lucien tightened his grip around the training sword slightly.

"I know."

Malen’s gaze remained steady.

"No."

A pause.

"You don’t."

Then—

Without warning—

The Peak Knight moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

Lucien barely saw the motion before the wooden sword struck his own weapon hard enough to send violent impact through both arms, forcing him backward across the frozen stone ground.

Pain exploded through his wrists instantly.

The training sword nearly slipped from his hand.

"Again," Malen said calmly.

Lucien steadied himself immediately.

Then stepped forward.

Another strike came.

This time from the side.

Lucien reacted late. 𝘧𝑟𝑒𝑒𝘸𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝓁.𝘤𝘰𝓂

The wooden blade slammed into his ribs.

Hard.

Not enough to cripple.

Enough to hurt.

His breathing tightened instantly.

"Too slow," Malen stated.

Then again.

Another strike.

Another impact.

Another failure.

Within minutes Lucien’s arms burned from strain while bruises began forming beneath his training armor, his breathing growing heavier as the reality of physical combat revealed itself far more brutally than theory ever could.

Malen did not slow down.

Did not soften.

Because soft training created dead knights.

The surrounding soldiers watched silently.

Not mocking.

Not dismissive.

Because despite his weakness—

Lucien continued standing back up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

After another exchange sent him crashing onto one knee, Malen finally stopped briefly.

"What are you doing wrong?"

Lucien breathed heavily.

"My reactions aren’t fast enough."

"No."

Malen’s answer came instantly.

"You’re thinking."

Lucien frowned slightly.

The Peak Knight continued.

"Your mind moves before your body."

A pause.

"You hesitate between observation and action."

Another pause.

"That hesitation gets people killed."

Lucien steadied his breathing slowly.

Because Malen was right.

He analyzed instinctively.

Calculated constantly.

But physical combat—

Did not allow endless thought.

Malen pointed his wooden sword toward him again.

"Knights train until movement stops requiring permission from the mind."

The words settled heavily.

Then—

Training resumed.

Hours passed.

The snow continued falling.

Lucien’s movements slowly became steadier, though still far from refined, his body adapting painfully through repetition while Malen corrected every mistake without mercy.

Foot placement.

Balance.

Breathing.

Grip.

Timing.

Everything mattered.

And everything hurt.

Eventually Lucien collapsed fully onto the frozen ground after another brutal exchange left his arms nearly numb from repeated impacts.

For several seconds—

He simply breathed.

The sky above remained gray and endless.

Snowflakes landed against his face before melting slowly from body heat.

Malen approached quietly.

"You want power quickly."

Not a question.

A statement.

Lucien exhaled slowly.

"Yes."

The knight looked down at him.

"So does every corpse buried beneath these walls."

Silence followed.

Then Malen extended a hand.

Lucien grabbed it.

Pulled himself upright again.

Because stopping now would mean accepting weakness.

And Lucien refused that.

Not after everything already set in motion.

Not after the hidden headquarters.

The industrial plans.

The future he intended building.

None of it would matter if he himself remained incapable of surviving this world.

Training resumed again.

This time—

Without the sword.

Malen shifted toward physical conditioning instead.

Running.

Striking drills.

Body stabilization.

Controlled breathing techniques designed specifically for aura development.

Lucien’s muscles burned continuously.

Several times his legs nearly gave out entirely.

But each time—

He forced himself forward again.

The loyal knights watching from nearby began exchanging quieter glances as the hours passed.

Because noble heirs rarely trained like this.

Most abandoned serious knight training once they realized natural talent alone would not carry them far enough.

Lucien did not.

Even when exhaustion became obvious.

Even when pain slowed his movements visibly.

He continued.

And slowly—

Respect began forming.

Not because he was strong.

Because he endured.

By late afternoon the snowstorm had weakened slightly, though the cold remained vicious enough to freeze water left exposed for only minutes, and Lucien’s entire body now felt unbearably heavy as exhaustion spread through every muscle.

Malen finally called a halt.

"Enough."

Lucien stood breathing heavily.

Sweat mixed with melting snow across his training clothes despite the freezing weather.

Malen observed him quietly for several moments.

Then spoke.

"You’ve begun."

Lucien frowned slightly.

"Begun?"

The Peak Knight nodded once.

"Today your body accepted the first step."

A pause.

"You are now walking the path toward becoming an Apprentice Knight."

Not there yet.

But approaching.

Lucien understood immediately.

This world valued progression earned through foundation.

Not empty titles.

Gandalf finally rose from his seat nearby, leaning lightly upon his staff while observing Lucien with thoughtful eyes.

"You remind me strangely of young mages," the old man said calmly.

Lucien looked toward him.

"How?"

Gandalf smiled faintly beneath his enormous beard.

"Most talented individuals rely too heavily on talent."

A pause.

"But those who know weakness..."

Another pause.

"They grow differently."

Lucien remained silent briefly.

Because weakness—

He understood very well.

From both lives.

The old mage continued softly.

"Do not rush your foundation, My Lord."

Malen nodded slightly beside him.

"For once, the old man speaks correctly."

Gandalf snorted quietly.

One of the few signs of humor the ancient mage ever displayed.

Lucien allowed himself a faint exhale afterward while looking across the snow-covered training grounds surrounding them.

His body hurt.

Every movement felt heavier than before.

But beneath the exhaustion—

Something else existed now.

Not strength.

Not yet.

But direction.

And direction—

Was where all power truly began.

Far away beyond the western mountains, hidden valleys waited silently beneath layers of snow while workers purchased from Karhold slowly approached the frontier under guarded escort, and deep within House Valcroix, royal investigators continued tearing apart lies that had remained hidden for years.

But here—

Inside the frozen training grounds of the north—

Lucien Valcroix had finally taken his first true step toward becoming more than merely a surviving exile.

He had begun becoming dangerous.

End of Chapter 19