The night air was still, save for the faint rustle of the banners above and the quiet drip of dew forming on the training court tiles. Moonlight bled across the courtyard in pale streaks, casting long shadows behind the broken pillar where Adam stood, still facing his sister.
His throat was dry. He'd put everything on the line—his dignity, his soul, and frankly, a considerable amount of pride—for just one chance. And she'd given it. One sentence. A single shot.
But before he could say it, before he could waste the opportunity on the wrong angle, he needed to know for sure.
His lips parted.
"...Dear sister," Adam said slowly, his voice low, almost hesitant, "when you wield your flames… do you feel short of breath? An intense migraine? Sweat pooling in your palms?"
He wasn't sure what reaction he expected.
But it certainly wasn't Laylee whipping her head toward him like a predator scenting blood.
In one fluid motion, she drew her sword from the scabbard at her hip—steel catching the moonlight with a deadly gleam—and in the blink of an eye, it was pressed against his throat. The edge of the blade kissed his neck, sharp enough to draw a line of red across the pale flesh of his double chin.
His entire body went rigid.
"W-W-Wait—!"
"Who are you?" Laylee asked quietly, eyes unreadable. "What did you do to my brother?"
The question hit harder than the steel.
Adam didn't know whether to scream or pass out. His heart was slamming against his ribs so loudly he was certain she could hear it. He tried to raise his hands slowly, trembling, palms open in surrender.
"I—I am your brother," he said weakly. "The fat one. The stupid one. The one who nearly choked on a peach pit last month because he was trying to eat three at once—with the stones still inside!"
Laylee's eyes narrowed. She didn't pull back.
"I told the servants the juice dripping down my chin was because of the peach, not blood from biting my own tongue," he blurted out. "I also once tried to hide a goose in my room because I thought I could raise it as a pet. You found it, didn't you? You and Crystal both chased it out and it bit your ankle."
Laylee blinked.
Her sword lowered.
"…Hmph."
Adam sagged like a balloon losing air.
"That's him," she muttered. "No demon would willingly admit to the goose incident."
He tried to speak, but only a wheeze came out. He clutched his knees, chest heaving.
"I swear," he gasped between breaths.
"Then talk," Laylee said, folding her arms. "If you're really him… if you're really you, then how the hell would a mana-less man like you know what I'm going through?"
Adam straightened.
This was it. Time to lie again.
He glanced at her—no, stared at her, with the kind of sincerity only a professional bullshitter could pull off.
"I've been having dreams," he said softly. "Lately. Strange ones. Like glimpses of a future I haven't lived. Visions. Sometimes clear, sometimes foggy. But in them, I saw… you. Suffering. Struggling. And then… solving it."
Laylee was silent, but he could see her thinking.
"I don't know why," he added, "but they feel real. Real enough that I had to say something."
"...Hmph."
He took a breath.
Then delivered his sentence.
"Your shortness of breath is from unstable mana flow; the migraine is because you're forcing your breakthrough to Tier 6 too quickly, and the sweating is your body trying to vent the excess—your mana's boiling inside you, trying to calm itself down."
Laylee's brow twitched.
He continued before she could interrupt.
"You've been pushing too hard. You're brilliant, but your mana's chaotic because your mind is chaotic. You need to meditate. One hour a day, for a week. Not to cultivate, but to rest. To balance. Do that, and your mana, body, and mind will sync. Then the breakthrough to Tier 6 will come naturally."
Silence.
Adam didn't breathe.
He stood there, watching her like a man awaiting his final judgment.
Laylee looked down at her hands. She flexed her fingers. Turned them over.
"…You sound awfully sure of this," she said.
"I saw it," he replied. "In the dream."
She stared at him a long time.
Then, finally, her voice dropped to something softer. "…And in those dreams of yours. When I reached the end of my path. What… what was I like?"
Adam blinked.
He remembered. Laylee the Crimson Mage. The fiery genius of the Blake bloodline. The woman whose flames burned through mountains and melted steel mid-air. Her final boss fight had been a nightmare.
His lips curled into a small, warm smile.
"You were the strongest fire magician in the world," he said. "They called you the Crimson Sun."
Laylee's eyes widened ever so slightly. A breath hitched in her throat, but she masked it quickly.
She turned around, brushing invisible dust from her glove.
"…Go back to your room," she said, voice cool. "Get rest."
Adam blinked. "Wait, so you—?"
"If what you said is true," she continued, not looking back, "then I owe you. That doesn't mean I believe you yet."
He nodded slowly.
"That's fine," he said. "I don't need a favor. It's normal for a brother to help his sister."
Laylee didn't answer.
He turned, walking back toward the corridor, legs still a little shaky. The cut on his neck still stung. His nerves were still fried.
But he'd survived.
And if the system wasn't lying, he'd just earned the first step toward everything he'd ever wanted.
Behind him, in the moonlit court, Laylee stood still.
She stared at her palms.
Then at the stone tiles where Adam had just been standing.
She didn't speak.
But her thoughts lingered, deep and unmoving.
Can someone… really change that much in a single day?