Kael sat at the head of the long, cold dining table, a silver fork balanced loosely in his hand as the first course arrived.
Cream of mushroom soup. Warm bread, slightly crisp. Red wine stew, and a thick-cut slice of smoked Bayenan ham, still steaming from the spit.
This wasn't simulation. This was real food—dense, complex, and sinfully rich. His stomach stirred in shock as the first spoonful passed his lips. The flavor burst across his tongue like a memory he'd never had.
He didn't even like mushrooms back on Earth.
But Earth hadn't offered much choice.
Just nutrient paste and industrial rations in his sublevel housing unit—meals so synthetic they came with legal disclaimers.
Kael closed his eyes for a moment and let himself enjoy the taste.
This world… This game—whatever it had become—wasn't a prison.
It was a second chance.
He was still chewing when the maid approached again, careful not to interrupt.
Beside her, the steward Ancor gave a short bow and stepped into place behind Kael's chair like a shadow.
"Wine, my lord?" the maid asked.
Kael nodded, and she filled his glass with local red.
As he sipped, he tapped the system panel open in his vision and ran a casual scan across the room.
Three servants. All non-combatants.
[Unit Scan: Lilian – Lv. 2 | No class]
[Unit Scan: Merri – Lv. 3 | Cook's Assistant – Noncombatant]
[Unit Scan: Ancor – Lv. 7 | Steward – Support Class]
Kael's brow lifted.
Ancor was higher-level than the others, but even he wasn't a fighter. Just another logistics role, boosted by age and repetition.
It meant what he already suspected: Lister—the man he'd become—was the only trained warrior left in the estate.
"Ancor," Kael said, setting down his cup, "I want to ask about the Ambret family."
The steward straightened. "Of course, my lord."
"What's our relationship with them?"
Ancor's hesitation was telling. "Your father had little contact with Viscount Ambret. The families… rarely interacted."
That confirmed it.
The original Lister had been chasing Anna Ambret without any formal connection. A nobleman's obsession. And a foolish one.
"And in terms of rank?" Kael asked. "Are they higher than us?"
The steward's face twitched. "Viscount Ambret is a royal appointee. He serves as the ducal treasurer. His title is administrative. It is not… hereditary."
Kael leaned back.
So that's how it was.
Lister was a noble by bloodline—his family was one of the seven legacy houses of Veyre. Ambret's was a bureaucratic elevation. A temporary nobility.
"Remind me," Kael said, swirling his wine, "what's our place among the seven?"
Ancor looked startled. "We are—were—among the oldest, my lord. The House Merrick founded its name on the blade. The original Lord Merrick trained the ducal line in swordsmanship. Our family's technique is still recognized by the martial guild."
"And now?"
Ancor hesitated again.
"Now?" Kael pressed.
"Now we are… diminished. When your father passed, the last three family-trained warriors left. There was no income to support them. Without a clear heir, the estate lost its footing."
Kael felt the wine go bitter on his tongue.
So that was it.
No warriors. No allies. No inheritance beyond the name and the house. He was the last swordsman of a dying line.
Which made his duel with Quentin even more suicidal.
"And the other noble houses?"
"Still standing," Ancor said. "House Connar now leads the legacy families in power and influence. Their daughter—Lady Erika—was once considered a suitable match for you."
Kael snorted.
Of course she was.
That's how aristocracy worked—marry strength, inherit titles, preserve power. The fact that Lister had wasted his reputation fawning over Anna instead of forging an alliance told him everything about the man whose body he now wore.
"Tell me," Kael said, "how many warriors do we employ?"
Ancor dropped his gaze.
"Just me?" Kael asked.
Silence.
Then Ancor gave a slow, reluctant nod.
"Understood," Kael muttered, pushing away his plate.
A moment of silence passed.
Then: "Ancor."
"Yes, my lord?"
"Do you know where I can acquire breathing techniques?"
The steward blinked.
"Breathing… techniques, my lord?"
Kael nodded. "Like the Merrick family's own. Passive training methods. Not flashy swordplay—foundational work. Things that affect your stats directly."
Ancor looked deeply confused. "But… those are heirlooms, my lord. The breathing techniques are secrets—each family guards their own. It is said the Connars still hide three. Perhaps the Wren family has one left, if the rumors are true."
"And in the city?" Kael asked. "Open market?"
"None," Ancor said, shaking his head. "Such skills are not sold. They're earned—or inherited. Even a basic breathing method is more valuable than gold."
Kael clenched his jaw.
That matched his expectations.
In Divine Wake, these "breathing techniques" were treated like throwaway passives in early-game content. Nobody cared about them because they scaled slowly. Low-level stat gains. Long grind.
But in late-game, they were gods.
Every serious player had tried to hunt them down in the archives. Quest rewards. Ancient ruins. Early content long deleted from the updated servers.
Now Kael was here—in the earliest timeline, in the world before the expansion pack launched. And the very things players spent years trying to reclaim were still available… if he could find them.
He needed more.
More passives.
More breathing methods.
More stats that scaled under the system radar.
But no one else seemed to even know what they were worth.
"Keep an ear open," Kael said. "Any mention of breathing methods. Or foundation techniques. I don't care how minor. If someone has one, I want to know. And I will pay."
Ancor looked stunned. "But my lord, you—"
"Don't question it."
Ancor bowed. "Yes, my lord."
That night, Kael moved fast.
He packed light—his blade, rations, dried meat, a water skin, and a journal he'd found in the old study that might help him map the city's under-layers.
He didn't need allies.
Not yet.
He needed levels.
He needed skills.
And if he was going to kill Quentin Weyland in one strike, he needed his own legacy to begin now—not in ten years after defeat and disgrace.
Not as the "one-armed master."
But as the last sword of Merrick.
He pulled the cloak over his shoulder, strapped the blade to his back, and gave the estate one last glance before stepping into the shadows.
The house was quiet.
Empty.
Waiting.
He wouldn't be gone long.
But when he returned—he'd bring the blade back to life.