The estate had settled into the kind of quiet that comes after a storm - not peaceful, but heavy with the weight of things left unsaid and dreams that had died slow, painful deaths.
Both Fenix and Abigail had returned to their rooms after what passed for dinner in their fallen household. It had been a simple meal - thin root broth that was more water than substance, strips of dried meat tough as leather, and bread that had been grilled over an open fire until it was crispy on the outside and still soft within. But to two children who had spent days scrounging through garbage for scraps, it tasted like the finest feast in the world. More than that, it tasted like 'home'.
Abigail had fallen asleep almost the moment her head touched the pillow, curled up under thin sheets that still carried the faint lavender scent of better days. Her breathing was deep and steady - for the first time in weeks, she was sleeping without nightmares clawing at her dreams.
But Fenix couldn't sleep.
He sat on the edge of his narrow bed, forearms resting on his knees, staring into the darkness with eyes that saw too much. The events of the day played over and over in his mind like a broken record, but one thing stood out above all the humiliation and anger: those mysterious words that had echoed in his thoughts.
The system - or whatever that strange presence was - had told him something important.
"To awaken one's Aura Core, one must first know their Will."
Will. That single word had been bouncing around his skull for hours now.
He whispered it to himself as he leaned forward, his breathing shallow with concentration. There was no instruction manual for this, no ancient scroll filled with wisdom, no magical crystal that would whisper the secrets of power into his ear. There was only him, alone in the dark, trying to figure out how to become something more than what he was.
But what exactly 'was' Will?
From what he remembered of Greg's stories, it was the fundamental force that powered all aura users. The foundation that every warrior, mage, and fighter built their strength upon. It was described as a soul's deepest desire made manifest in the physical world. But how did someone actually 'find' it? How did you reach into yourself and pull out something you'd never seen before?
He needed to figure it out, and soon. Because in this brutal world where strength determined everything, aura wasn't just power - it was survival itself. Without it, he would always be nothing more than a hollow echo of who he could become.
Fenix stood up with sudden determination.
He was wearing nothing but loose cotton pants and a simple undershirt. Despite never having trained a day in this new body, his arms were lean but defined, his chest tight with hidden muscle. It was strange - even though the original Fenix had been considered weak and pathetic, his body had always maintained a certain natural athleticism, like a blade that remembered how to cut even when it was sheathed.
His previous life had been filled with pain, weakness, and crushing regret. But that same life had also taught him something valuable: the importance of control. Of movement. Of pushing yourself beyond what you thought was possible.
He grabbed a pair of worn leather boots from beside his bed and pulled them on with grim determination.
---
The estate grounds stretched out before him like a forgotten battlefield. The training field that had once been the pride of the Ackerman family - a perfect rectangle of manicured grass where future warriors had honed their skills - was now overgrown with weeds and marked by years of neglect. But even in its current state, it remained impressive in scope.
Three hundred meters wide, easily.
He stepped onto the field quietly, the pre-dawn air brushing against his bare arms like the whisper of a ghost. Everything was painted silver by moonlight filtering through thin clouds, making the broken statues and crumbling archways that surrounded the training ground look like silent guardians watching over the dead.
No one else was awake yet. The entire estate slept around him.
He started with a gentle jog around the perimeter, his feet finding their rhythm on the uneven ground.
One lap. Then another.
By the third circuit, his pace had picked up. His breathing grew deeper and more controlled. His legs began to remember what it felt like to move with purpose, to burn with effort and push through the discomfort.
The wind bit at his exposed skin, but he welcomed the sharp sensation.
'This is nothing,' he told himself as his boots pounded against the earth. 'I've survived worse than this before.'
In his previous life, running had been his escape. Not professional - he'd never been good enough for that. But it was the one thing in his broken existence that he'd had complete control over. Even when his body was failing him, even when the world was crushing him under its weight, he could still force himself to put one foot in front of the other and keep moving forward.
Four laps. Five. Ten. Twenty.
Time became fluid, stretching and compressing as he lost himself in the rhythm of movement. His legs burned, his lungs worked like bellows, and sweat began to bead on his forehead despite the cool air.
And slowly, people began to notice.
---
Voices drifted down from the estate's broken balconies and cracked windows.
"Is that... who I think it is?"
"No way. That's the first lord's son?"
"What the hell is he doing out there?"
"The useless one is... running? At this hour?"
At first, it was simple curiosity - the kind of mild interest people show when they see something unusual but not particularly important. Then it shifted to mockery as more servants and guards gathered to watch the spectacle. Finally, it became genuine disbelief as the hours passed and Fenix showed no signs of stopping.
But Fenix didn't acknowledge their presence. He didn't look up at the windows where faces pressed against glass to get a better view. He didn't slow down or speed up to spite them. He simply continued running, lost in his own world of controlled breathing and steady movement.
Five hours passed like this.
His legs were screaming in protest. His chest felt like it was on fire. His arms swung at his sides like dead weight, and sweat had soaked completely through his shirt, making it cling to his skin like a second layer. His boots were caked with mud and grass stains, but still he moved forward with mechanical precision.
And while his body pushed itself to its limits, his mind dug deeper into the mystery that consumed him.
'Will. Will. What is it really?'
It wasn't just about survival - that was basic instinct, something even animals possessed.
It wasn't raw strength - that was just a tool, a means to an end.
It wasn't anger or hatred - those were just reactions to pain.
He needed something else. Something that came from a deeper place inside him.
His breathing hitched as his foot caught on a loose stone. He stumbled forward, arms windmilling to keep his balance, then recovered and continued without missing more than half a step.
The crowd of watchers had grown substantially by now. Servants who had nothing better to do, guards who were supposed to be on duty but found this more interesting, even some of the minor relatives and hangers-on who had remained at the estate after the family's fall from grace. Their eyes followed his every movement, their judgment pressing down on him like physical weight.
And then he felt something new.
A spike of pressure, sharp and cold as winter steel. It slammed into his awareness like a physical blow.
This wasn't aura - not yet. But it was 'intent'. Pure, focused killing intent directed at him like an arrow aimed at his heart.
His eyes snapped toward the crowd of watchers, pupils contracting as he scanned their faces. Someone up there wasn't just watching him with idle curiosity or mild mockery. Someone 'hated' him. Really, truly wanted him dead.
But before he could identify the source, the feeling faded like smoke in the wind.
Still, it left its mark. One more reminder of exactly where he stood in this world's cruel hierarchy.
Useless. Forgotten. Mocked. A name without power, a bloodline without respect.
He clenched his fists and finished his final lap, then headed back toward the main building without a word to anyone.
---
That night, after scrubbing the sweat and grime from his body with cold water and eating the plate of leftovers that Abigail had thoughtfully saved for him, he sat cross-legged on his bed in the lotus position.
Earlier, Abigail had asked him with innocent curiosity, "Why are you training all of a sudden? You never cared about that stuff before."
He had just smiled and given her a simple answer: "Figured it was about time I caught up with everyone else."
She hadn't pressed for more details, seeming satisfied with his explanation.
But now, alone in the quiet darkness of his room, he stared down at his open palms with intense concentration.
They were callused from the day's work, dirty under the nails, visibly trembling with exhaustion. Weak hands that had never held a real weapon or channeled real power.
And yet... something was stirring beneath the surface.
He thought again about the concept of Will, approaching it from every angle he could imagine.
At first, he had tried to understand it logically, like solving a mathematical equation or deciphering a complex puzzle. He had attempted to break it down into component parts, to analyze it like a scientist studying a specimen.
But aura wasn't a calculation or a formula. It was pure expression - the deepest part of a person's soul made manifest in the physical world.
So what was he, really, at his core?
Was he Fenix Ackerman, the broken boy from a fallen noble house?
Or was he the soul of someone else entirely - a man who had been given an impossible second chance at life in a world that didn't want him?
He thought about Abigail, sleeping peacefully in the next room. Her small shoulders that carried too much weight for someone so young. Her tired smile that tried so hard to hide her pain.
He thought about Kai and Abel, his cousins who looked at him like he was something disgusting they'd found on the bottom of their boots.
He thought about Uncle Khan, with those cold eyes that had never once seen him as anything more than an embarrassing mistake.
He thought about the whispers from today's crowd of watchers. The heat of their judgment burning against his skin. The crushing weight of their contempt.
And most of all... he thought about 'that' moment. The final moment of his previous life, when he had died alone and helpless, with nothing but regret clawing at his throat like a living thing.
His hands slowly closed into fists.
The memories came faster now, like a dam bursting inside his mind. His own weakness. The prision walls that had become his entire world. The crushing loneliness of knowing that no one would miss him when he was gone.
And here he was again, standing on another edge, facing another kind of death.
But this time... this time he wasn't going to just lie down and wait for the end.
His breathing slowed and deepened.
One long inhale, drawing air deep into his lungs. Then a controlled exhale that seemed to carry away some of the tension in his body.
His heart began to pound - not with anxiety or fear, but with something much more powerful. 'Intent.'
What was his Will? What was the deepest truth that lived at the center of his being?
It wasn't a desire for strength, though that would come.
It wasn't a thirst for revenge, though he had been wronged.
It was something simpler and more fundamental than either of those things.
'Resolve.'
The unshakable, unrelenting resolve to endure whatever came next. To survive not just physically, but with dignity intact and purpose burning bright. To carve out a path forward even when the entire world said he had no right to exist.
Resolve wasn't peaceful or calm. It wasn't the gentle acceptance of a monk or the quiet wisdom of a sage.
It was rage refined into something useful. Fear faced and conquered. Despair looked in the eye and firmly denied.
The moment that realization crystallized in his mind, his chest began to heat up. Not from external warmth, but from something deep inside him, like a forge fire suddenly roaring to life.
And then—
A flicker of something impossible.
A spark of pure energy.
A pulse of 'life' itself.
He gasped as his vision blurred and trembled, reality seeming to bend around the edges.
And then it 'exploded'.
A brilliant crimson haze burst from the center of his chest like a geyser of liquid fire. It spread outward in rippling waves, wrapping around his entire body in a cocoon of raw, unstable energy that made the air itself seem to vibrate.
His aura. His own personal piece of the universal force that governed this world.
It wasn't calm or controlled like the masters in Greg's stories. It roared like a wildfire, pulsed like a living heartbeat, crackled with barely contained power that threatened to tear itself apart.
But at its center, holding it all together through sheer force of will, was 'him'.
Fenix raised one trembling hand and watched in fascination as crimson energy danced across his skin like living lightning. His fingers twitched, then slowly closed into a fist that glowed with inner fire.
A smile spread across his face - not arrogant or cruel, but deeply, genuinely satisfied. The smile of someone who had just proven to themselves that they were capable of far more than anyone had ever imagined.
He whispered into the darkness, his voice hoarse from exhaustion but filled with quiet triumph: "Finally."
A soft knock came at his door - probably Abigail, awakened by the energy he was unconsciously radiating - but he didn't answer. He was too focused on the incredible sensation of power flowing through his veins like molten gold.
The aura began to fade after a few more seconds, the brilliant crimson light dimming until it was just a barely visible shimmer around his skin. The overwhelming heat settled into something more manageable, like embers cooling after a great fire had burned itself out.
But it was real now. He had touched it, opened the door, proven that he wasn't just some powerless extra character doomed to watch from the sidelines.
Fenix Ackerman had awakened his Aura.
And this was only the beginning of what he would become.