Night fell heavy over Velmont City. The world outside his window glowed with mana-lights and neon signs, faint streaks of violet and gold painting the streets. Yet inside Raviel's room, the atmosphere was suffocatingly still.
He sat at the desk, Arctic's faint blue light illuminating his pale face, his reflection caught in the glass of the darkened window. White hair, purple eyes—rare beauty, admired by strangers. But he knew better. That wasn't strength. That wasn't power. It was… decoration.
His fingers drummed against the desk, restless. His mind refused to rest, replaying every moment of the day like a broken film reel.
The confrontation with Wilson. The knife at his throat. Charlotte's face in the holograph, smiling weakly from a wheelchair. Wilson's desperation—so easy to exploit. So easy to twist.
And that was the truth, wasn't it? He hadn't "won" because of skill. He hadn't forced Wilson into a corner with his power. No, it was desperation. Wilson's need for his daughter's life had been his only weapon to wield.
Raviel exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. His hand ran across his neck, where the faint scar from the poisoned blade had almost been. His life… balanced on another man's trembling hand.
He scowled. "Pathetic."
What had he really done today? Made a deal. Spent money that wasn't truly his. Spoken cold truths as if he were untouchable.
But he wasn't untouchable.
He replayed the scene again—what if Wilson hadn't cared for Charlotte? What if he had pressed the poisoned edge instead of the blunt one? What if the guards in Hashphere had insisted harder, had noticed his hesitation, had seen through his mask of calm?
He swallowed hard, the thought bitter. "I'd already be dead."
Not a hero. Not a villain. Just a weak man, hiding behind borrowed beauty and empty words.
His knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the desk. A laugh—dry and humorless—escaped him. "Transmigrated… into a world of monsters and gods… and I can't even throw a proper punch."
Others—those protagonists in books, the so-called chosen—woke up with muscle memory, skills, sword techniques etched into their brains. They swung weapons like they were born with them, controlled mana as if it flowed in their veins since birth.
And him?
Nothing.
No instincts. No training. Just a hollow body with affinities he didn't understand and a void affinity that felt like it was staring back at him more than he could wield it.
He rubbed his face with both hands, fingers digging into his skin. He hated this feeling—the gnawing, festering awareness that he had nothing in this new world. Not strength. Not knowledge. Not belonging.
"I'm nothing," he whispered to the silent room. "Just a fraud walking on borrowed time."
The memory of Charlotte's faint smile twisted in his chest. Wilson, trembling, knife in hand, begging. He had manipulated it like a genius, yes—but only because desperation had given him leverage. Not because of him. Not because of Raviel's own power.
If Charlotte hadn't existed… he would've walked into that shop and died.
That truth struck him harder than the poison ever could.
For a long moment, he just sat there, staring blankly at the faint flicker of mana-light on the wall. His mind clawed for an answer, some justification—but none came. Just the truth: he was weak.
And slowly, as the realization sank in deeper, the bitterness turned into self-loathing.
He hated how easily he had played the monster in front of Wilson, yet behind it all he was trembling. He hated how others looked at his rare beauty as if it meant something, when in reality, he couldn't defend himself from a D-rank fighter if his life depended on it.
Most of all, he hated himself for being exactly what he had always despised—someone who talked like a predator, but in reality, was prey.
His breath slowed. His eyes burned, but no tears came. Only a cold, gnawing resolve as he whispered to the shadows of his room:
"This ends. I'll find a way… even if I have to tear myself apart to learn."
The night pressed on, silent witness to the vow of a man who loathed his weakness more than death itself.
Raviel didn't sleep that night. Not because of hatred. Not because of fear.
But because every time he closed his eyes, the same truth gnawed at him.
He hadn't earned this body. He hadn't done a single thing to train it. He had only manipulated a desperate man, spoken sharp words, and hidden behind masks.
That wasn't strength. That wasn't survival.
And if he wanted to claw his way out of being nothing more than prey, then tonight would not be spent lying in bed.
Before dawn's first light, he pulled his hoodie over his head, slid Arctic onto his wrist, and descended the building. The reception hall was quiet, save for the faint hum of mana-crystals embedded in the walls.
The receptionist, a tired-looking woman with auburn hair tied back, looked up from her tablet when he approached.
"Uh… can I help you, sir?"
Her eyes flicked briefly to his hood, his sharp features half-hidden. Raviel kept his voice calm, casual.
"The training room. Where is it?"
She blinked, surprised. "The training room? It's in the east wing, sublevel two. You can access it with your Arctic. Are you… sure you want to train this early?"
Raviel simply nodded once, no wasted words.
As he turned away, his mind clicked. Of course. A body like this—lean, sculpted muscle even in its baseline state—didn't come from idleness. The person he had replaced must've trained daily, perhaps obsessively. And if this body could handle it, then so could he.
The training room greeted him with a low hum and pale blue light. Holographic projectors flickered alive as he entered, displaying rows of training routines, mana-assisted equipment, and even sparring programs. Sleek racks of dumbbells sat beside mana-resistance bands and pressure-adjustable machines that glowed faintly with inscriptions.
He watched one holographic video first—a calm instructor explaining proper form for mana-resistance push-ups, pull-ups, and squats. Basic movements, but brutal when combined with mana load.
Raviel studied every detail, piecing it together like he had always done—like when he used to sit on the floor as a child, secretly watching his father train. Like when he had read The Last Inheritor, memorizing the protagonist's regimens.
He dropped to the ground. No hesitation.
"Push-ups," he muttered. "One thousand."
The first hundred went smoothly. His arms held steady, breath even. He braced himself against the mana-resistance set at Level 2. Sweat began to bead on his forehead.
At two hundred, his chest burned, and his arms trembled slightly. He clenched his teeth, focused on the rhythm of his breath.
By five hundred, his hoodie clung to his body, soaked through. His shoulders screamed, veins bulged, but his movements stayed sharp—form never collapsing.
How?
Most people would be half-dead by now. Yet his focus never wavered. It wasn't normal. This wasn't adrenaline, nor cliche "system cheats." It was something else.
He ground through nine hundred, every repetition a battle. And then, with a guttural growl, slammed his chest to the floor for the thousandth time.
He didn't stop.
Pull-ups came next—mana-weighted, bar glowing faintly. His hands tore raw as the bar bit into his palms, but he hung there, dragging his body up again and again until his vision blurred.
Then squats. Then dips. Then planks under mana-pressure fields that made every second feel like a minute.
His muscles screamed. His lungs burned. But his mind—his mind was still.
No wandering thoughts. No distractions. Just pure focus, a tunnel that refused to break.
By the end, his body collapsed onto the mat, trembling and drenched in sweat. His vision swam, heart pounding like a drum.
And yet his mind remained eerily clear.
He stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling raggedly.
"…Why?" he rasped. "Why didn't I lose focus? Not even once."
Even though his muscles were torn raw, even though he had pushed past limits most trained fighters would never dare, something in him kept him anchored.
The body was weak by status, yes. But not by discipline. Not by capacity.
It was as if… this body was built for enduring. For sharpening itself against the grindstone of pain.
Raviel let out a harsh laugh, somewhere between bitter and relieved. "So… this is the only thing I have, huh? The only thing that's real."
He rolled to his side, forcing himself to sit despite the screaming ache in his legs. His hands shook, skin raw where calluses had split.
And yet, deep inside, for the first time since coming here—he felt something that wasn't self-loathing.
It wasn't pride. Not yet.
But it was a beginning.