The first morning of my crash preparation program began at dawn with the unpleasant discovery that Julius Vaelorian's body was in even worse condition than I'd thought.
I'd barely made it through twenty push-ups before my arms gave out, leaving me face-down on the marble floor of my room, gasping like a landed fish. The irony was bitter—I'd written Julius as physically imposing when it served the plot, but the reality was that years of debauchery and lazy living had left him with all the muscle tone of overcooked pasta.
"Pathetic," I muttered, pushing myself to my feet. Three days wasn't enough time to build real strength, but it might be enough to stop being completely useless.
A knock at the door interrupted my self-recrimination. "Young Master?" Joseph's voice carried a note of concern. "I heard a crash."
"Come in. And bring whoever you've arranged for combat training."
Joseph entered followed by a man who looked like he could wrestle a bear and win. Grizzled, scarred, with arms like tree trunks and eyes that had seen too much violence to be impressed by noble titles.
"Young Master Julius," Joseph said formally, "this is Sergeant Korren Blackstone, formerly of the Royal Desert Rangers. He's agreed to provide… intensive instruction in survival combat."
Blackstone looked me up and down with the kind of assessment reserved for livestock at market. His expression suggested he found me lacking.
"Three days," he said bluntly. "Joseph says you want three days to learn enough combat skills to survive alone in hostile territory." He snorted. "Might as well teach a butterfly to fight dragons."
"Can you do it or not?" I asked.
"I can teach you enough to maybe not die immediately," Blackstone said. "But it won't be pretty, and it won't be pleasant. You willing to bleed for it, Young Master?"
I thought of Mathias Windrider's sword, of my father's cold threats, of readers who'd called my story boring. "Make me bleed. Just make sure I learn something from it."
The next three hours redefined my understanding of pain. Blackstone started with basic footwork, then moved to simple strikes, blocks, and grapples. Every mistake earned me a wooden practice sword across the ribs or a takedown that left me eating dirt.
"Your problem," Blackstone said as I picked myself up for the dozenth time, "isn't just that you're weak. It's that you fight like someone who's never been in real danger. You hesitate, you overthink, you pull your punches." He demonstrated by casually deflecting my clumsy sword thrust and putting me on my back again. "In a real fight, hesitation kills you."
"So what do I do?"
"Stop thinking like a noble. Start thinking like someone who wants to live." He helped me up, which was probably the most gentle thing he'd done all morning. "Look, I can't make you strong in three days. But I can maybe make you vicious. Sometimes vicious beats strong."
The afternoon was devoted to what Blackstone euphemistically called "practical magic assessment." It was less diplomatic than his phrasing suggested.
"Show me your mana manipulation," he ordered.
I held out my hand and tried to remember how Julius's magic was supposed to work. In my novel, most nobles had substantial magical reserves that allowed them to enhance their physical abilities or cast combat spells. I concentrated, feeling for that warm sensation I'd experienced when writing my training plans.
A tiny violet spark appeared in my palm, flickered weakly, and died.
Blackstone stared. "That's it?"
"That's it," I admitted.
"Sweet merciful gods. I've seen children with more mana than that." He rubbed his forehead. "Can you at least maintain basic enhancement magic? Physical reinforcement?"
I tried again, pouring everything I had into strengthening my muscles. For about ten seconds, I felt slightly more capable. Then the magic exhausted itself and I nearly collapsed from the effort.
"This explains so much," Blackstone muttered. "No wonder you fight like a pampered house cat. You've got barely enough mana to light a candle, let alone enhance yourself for combat."
The realization was crushing. I'd assumed that being in Julius's body would come with typical noble magical advantages. Instead, I was magically weaker than most commoners. It was like being born into a world of guns with only a slingshot.
"Is there anything I can do to improve it?"
"Not in three days. Maybe not ever. Mana capacity is mostly innate." Blackstone looked genuinely sympathetic for the first time. "But look at it this way—you'll never get overconfident about magic saving you. That's an advantage, in its own way."
The second day focused on desert survival and basic equipment usage. Joseph had worked miracles with his purchasing power, acquiring military-grade gear that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime.
My new traveling outfit included enchanted clothing that regulated temperature, boots designed for sand and stone, and a pack that was both lightweight and impossibly spacious thanks to expansion charms. The water purification crystals alone had cost enough to buy a small house.
"The horse is… interesting," Joseph said as we walked to the stables.
Interesting was diplomatic. The creature waiting for me was clearly part warhorse, part monster. She stood seventeen hands high, with muscles like steel cables and eyes that suggested she'd bite anyone who annoyed her. Her coat was desert tan with darker spots, and she had the look of something that could run forever without tiring.
"Her name is Tempest," the stable master explained nervously. "Former cavalry mount, retired after she kicked three officers and bit a general. No one's been able to ride her since."
I approached slowly, remembering that horses could sense fear. Tempest watched me with obvious suspicion, ears pinned back in warning.
"Easy girl," I murmured, offering her a sugar cube from my pocket. "We're both outcasts, aren't we? Neither of us playing by the rules anymore."
She sniffed the sugar, then my hand, then fixed me with a stare that seemed to weigh my soul. After a long moment, she accepted the treat and allowed me to stroke her neck.
"I'll be damned," the stable master whispered. "She hasn't let anyone touch her in months."
Maybe Tempest recognized a kindred spirit—someone who'd been written off as difficult but was really just waiting for the right partnership.
The third day was devoted to route planning and final preparations. I spread maps across my desk, tracing the path to the Whispering Wastes. The journey would take me through the Thornwood Valley, across the Ember Bridge, and into the neutral territory where the three kingdoms' borders met in disputed wasteland.
"The first two days should be relatively safe," I explained to Joseph as we went over the route. "Royal roads, established inns, regular patrols. But once I cross into neutral territory…"
"Bandits, monsters, and worse," Joseph finished grimly. "Young Master, I still think this is madness. Even with the best equipment, you're one person traveling alone through some of the most dangerous territory on the continent."
"I know." I folded the map carefully. "But some things can't be shared, Joseph. Where I'm going, what I'm seeking… it has to be done alone."
That evening, I sat down to write letters. One to my father, explaining my sudden departure as a spiritual retreat and quest for self-improvement. One to the academy, requesting a brief delay in my enrollment due to "family circumstances." And one to myself—or rather, to Kim Jiwon, the failed author who'd created this world.
*If you're reading this, it means something went wrong in the desert. I want you to know that this wasn't despair or giving up. This was the first real choice I've made since waking up in this impossible situation. Win or lose, at least I'm finally writing my own story.*
*Don't let them make you small again.*
*-Julius (or whatever we're calling ourselves now)*
I sealed the letter and left it in the desk drawer. Insurance, of sorts.
Before dawn on the fourth day, I stood in the courtyard with Tempest saddled and ready. My equipment was packed, my route memorized, and my resolve as firm as I could make it. Joseph waited nearby with final supplies and undisguised worry.
"The emergency signal crystals are in the side pouch," he said for the third time. "If you activate one, it will send your location to the closest Adventurer's Guild outpost."
"I remember."
"And the healing potions are wrapped in silk to prevent breakage during rough travel."
"I remember that too."
"And if you don't return within two weeks—"
"Joseph." I turned to face him directly. "If I don't return within two weeks, assume I'm dead and move on with your life. Don't send search parties. Don't inform my father of the details. Just… remember me as someone who tried to be better than he was."
Joseph's composure cracked slightly. "Young Master…"
"Take care of the estate," I said, mounting Tempest. She stood steady despite her reputation for troublemaking. "And if anyone asks why I left, tell them I finally found something worth the risk."
The sun was just beginning to rise as I rode out through the estate gates. Behind me, the Vaelorian mansion sat like a monument to old power and older sins. Ahead lay unknown dangers and a weapon that might not even exist outside my imagination.
But for the first time since waking up in this world, I felt like I was moving forward instead of just reacting to circumstances. Every step Tempest took carried me farther from the life Julius had lived and closer to the life I might choose to build.
The Thornwood Valley stretched ahead, still shrouded in pre-dawn mist. Somewhere beyond it lay the Whispering Wastes and the ancient tomb where Orion waited in electronic dreams.
I urged Tempest into a steady canter, eating up the miles with mechanical efficiency. The desert would test every assumption I'd made about strength and survival. It would strip away every pretense and reveal whether I was truly capable of becoming someone worth the name I wore.
Three days of preparation against a journey that could kill me in a hundred different ways. The odds were terrible, the plan was insane, and I'd never been more certain that I was doing the right thing.
After all, what was the point of being transmigrated into your own story if you didn't take the opportunity to make it more interesting?
The road stretched ahead like a promise and a threat, and I rode toward it with something that might have been hope.