The first thing Toru felt was pain.
Not the dull soreness after a good workout, but a sharp, splitting agony that clawed through his skull like a burning needle. His eyes shot open to find not the white ceiling of his Tokyo apartment, but rough stone blocks cracked with age.
Where am I?
Before he could rise, a torrent of memories slammed into his mind.
A boy coughing blood onto silk sheets.
Knights shaking their heads in disappointment.
Nobles whispering behind painted fans: "The prince is weak. A shame to the throne."
A man with a neatly trimmed beard watching coldly—Chancellor Byron.
Toru gritted his teeth, clutching his head. These weren't his memories. And yet, they were.
> This body… belonged to the First Prince of Targaryen. Fragile. Sickly. Everyone expected him to die young.
But one detail made Toru freeze. Again and again, he heard people calling this body's name: Toru.
He blinked.
Wait. What? His name is Toru… just like mine?
A chill crawled down his spine. He had read stories about isekai before, but this—landing in another world, in another body, with the exact same name—felt like a cruel cosmic joke. Or perhaps, destiny.
He raised his hands. Thin, pale, trembling. So unlike the muscular arms he had sculpted with years of training. Even tugging at the blanket made his limbs shake.
I used to bench a hundred kilos. Now I can barely lift a spoon…
A bitter laugh escaped him, but it quickly faded. Because along with despair, something else stirred—a spark he knew well. The same fire he had once seen in his clients' eyes when they fought through exhaustion in the gym.
Images flickered across his mind:
Correcting a client's push-up form.
Shouting encouragement: "One more rep! Don't quit now!"
Watching their faces light up when they finally hit their goals.
That was who he was. A trainer who built people up. A soldier who endured through sweat and pain during mandatory military service. A man who refused to quit.
His lips curled into a thin smile.
"If this body failed, then I'll make it succeed. If this kingdom waits for me to die… I'll make it live."
The door creaked open. A girl stepped in carrying a tray with steaming soup. Her hair was tied neatly, her maid uniform patched from many repairs.
"Your Highness," she whispered with relief. "You're awake. Thank the heavens…"
Her name surfaced from the flood of memories: Elira, his personal maid since childhood. Loyal, mocked for serving a prince everyone thought useless.
Toru stared at her, then smiled faintly. "Yes, I'm awake. And I won't be sleeping away my life anymore."
Elira blinked at him, confused.
He reached for the spoon. His hands trembled, the soup nearly spilling before it reached his lips. Elira rushed forward, alarmed. "Please, allow me—"
"No," Toru cut her off firmly. Though sweat beaded on his brow, he steadied the bowl with both hands and drank. The warmth slid down his throat like victory. "If I can't even hold a spoon, how am I supposed to hold a kingdom?"
Elira froze. That was not her prince speaking. There was fire in his eyes, something both strange and alive.
Setting the bowl aside, Toru looked at his trembling hands. His jaw tightened.
"Elira," he said, voice calm but commanding. "Bring me two buckets. Wooden ones, the kind used for water. And a sturdy stick."
Her brows furrowed. "Buckets? A stick? What for, Your Highness?"
A smirk tugged at his lips. "We're going to build a gym."
Elira could only stare, wondering if her prince had lost his mind.
---
That night, Toru lay back on the bed, his body still weak but his mind blazing. More fragments of memory flickered through him—harsh drills during military service: running until his lungs burned, crawling through mud with a pack on his back, falling and getting up again because an instructor screamed in his ear.
And then, the gym. His clients. The ones who had cursed him, cried during brutal sessions, but later hugged him in tears of joy when they finally transformed.
> Training. Consistency. Disciplbegi
These were the pillars of his life. They had shaped not just his body, but his spirit.
Now, they would rebuild this body—and this kingdom.
"Progressive overload," he murmured with a chuckle. "In my world, it's just science. Here, they'll call it a miracle."
His eyes closed. For the first time, Toru didn't feel like a stranger trapped in someone else's weak body. He was Toru the trainer, Toru the soldier, and Toru Targaryen—the heir of a crumbling throne.
And tomorrow, the first step toward change would begin.