The morning light seeped into Caelan's room with a stubborn gentleness, casting long rays over the carved runes and worn stone. As he stirred under the silk sheets, a thought crossed his mind: luxury was a prison, just dressed up nicely.
He sat up with a sigh, staring at the ceiling as if answers might be hidden among its ancient symbols. One month. That was all the time he had left before the real story began—the start of the novel he barely understood.
No timeline. No cheat sheet. No second chances.
Just him, his death flags, and the tick of a cruel clock.
He slid out of bed, shivering as his feet hit the cool stone. Magic hummed softly from the hearth, a weak enchantment this early in the day. A servant must've peeked in and left.
Caelan pulled a training tunic over his head and checked himself in the mirror, smoothing down his hair. "Man, I really am handsome," he muttered with a half-smirk. "Still alive. Let's keep that going."
The courtyard was quiet except for the birds chirping and the occasional rustle of wind. Mist floated low over the cobblestones as Caelan began his routine. He ran laps until his lungs burned and did push-ups and squats until his limbs shook. It wasn't magic. It wasn't graceful. But it was real.
Real strength didn't come from birthrights. It came from hard work.
"Hundred push-ups, hundred sit-ups, hundred squats, and a long run," he grumbled. "Every. Single. Day. No breaks."
After five hours of training, he collapsed in the grass and let out a bitter laugh. Sweat clung his hair to his forehead, and his tunic stuck to him like a second skin. "Come on, Caelan. You're still weaker than a drunk goblin."
But weakness could be worked on. It could be shaped into something stronger.
Later that morning, the knight commander arrived.
"Your Highness, you called," Veylor said bluntly.
"Commander," Caelan wiped his brow. "I need you to teach me how to use a sword."
Veylor tossed a wooden training sword at him. "It would be my honor."
Training with Veylor felt like sparring with a boulder that insulted your grip. Every swing Caelan attempted was met with a sharp block or a punishing counter.
Veylor moved with the skill of a seasoned warrior, striking with controlled force, pushing Caelan to react faster than his muscles could handle. Caelan's arms trembled as he barely deflected a downward slash, feeling the sting of the wooden blade graze his forearm.
"Keep your guard up!" Veylor barked, stepping in for a quick jab to Caelan's ribs. The breath whooshed from Caelan's lungs, and he stumbled back.
"You're too stiff," Veylor said, circling like a hawk. "This isn't a dance floor."
Caelan wiped the sweat off his brow and smirked, "I'm better at fighting than dancing, anyway."
"Too bad your swordplay doesn't show it."
Caelan gritted his teeth, adjusting his stance. With renewed determination, he lunged forward, managing a clumsy strike that Veylor easily sidestepped.
"You'll get there. Eventually," Veylor said, a hint of approval creeping into his tone.
Bruised and breathless, Caelan grinned despite himself. "Not today. But someday."
By evening, he was in the western gardens, meditating beside a mana spring. Water affinity flowed easily for him—it bent and twisted at his will, smooth and responsive. Lightning was more unpredictable, dancing and sparking like a child throwing a tantrum.
Still, they obeyed him.
More today than yesterday. That was enough.
"I am improving, that's good, but not enough," he muttered while clenching his hand.
Night fell, bringing study. He flipped through old scrolls detailing past entrance exams. Tests of combat, intellect, and instinct. Competitors from every race would attend—elves, beastkin, even shape-shifted dragons.
And here he was, barely able to last a round against his own knight commander.
Caelan leaned back in his chair.
"I have no idea how to win," he admitted aloud.
Then he stood.
"But I know how to prepare."
His muscles ached. His magic surged. His eyes stung with exhaustion.
But his will remained.