The morning air of Dravoryen was damp and heavy, carrying with it the faint chill of mist rolling over the hills. From the high windows of his chamber, Toru could see the pale sunlight struggling to pierce through the fog. He sat at the edge of a grand bed, its silk sheets faded and worn, staring at his own trembling hands.
Once, in his previous life, those hands had been firm, veins running beneath skin hardened by years of lifting weights and training clients. They had been the hands of a personal trainer who knew how to shape strength out of weakness. Now, they looked frail—thin, almost fragile.
Yet Toru's eyes did not waver. Where once they might have reflected despair, now they gleamed with burning resolve.
"This body is weak," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely louder than the distant caws of crows outside. "But I will not let it remain this way."
The door creaked open softly. A young girl stepped inside, balancing a tray with a steaming bowl. Her shoulder-length black hair framed a pale, worried face. But when her eyes landed on Toru sitting upright, her lips parted in disbelief.
"Y-Your Highness... you're awake." Her voice trembled.
Toru recognized her instantly: Liora, the maid assigned to him since childhood. In the fragmented memories he inherited, he knew she had tended to him tirelessly, often weeping in silence whenever his sickness grew worse.
"I thought..." Liora's eyes glistened, her hands tightening around the tray. "I thought you wouldn't make it through the night."
Toru gave her a faint smile, the kind that carried both warmth and determination. "I'm still here, Liora. Don't cry."
The girl bit her lip, lowering her gaze to hide her tears. To her, this felt different. The Toru she had served all her life had been frail, passive, barely able to speak without trembling. But now his tone—firm, steady—was like hearing the voice of someone reborn.
She placed the tray on the table beside him. The simple porridge smelled bland, but Toru didn't mind. He scooped a spoonful, swallowing slowly as his thoughts turned to the larger picture.
"Liora," he asked suddenly, his voice steady. "Tell me. What is the state of the kingdom?"
The question made her blink in surprise. "The... the kingdom, Your Highness?"
"Yes. Dravoryen."
Her hesitation was telling. She shifted nervously before answering. "Things are... hard, my prince. Harvests are failing. Our iron mines lie nearly abandoned because no one dares work them anymore. Merchants prefer to sell their goods to stronger neighbors. And..." Her voice dropped, almost to a whisper. "Even the nobles whisper of turning away from the crown."
Toru set down his spoon. The words struck him like a soldier's blow. In his past life, he had pushed struggling clients to rise from their lowest point, had seen broken bodies become whole again. But now, he wasn't training a single person. He was staring down the collapse of an entire kingdom.
"If nothing changes," he thought grimly, "Dravoryen will crumble before winter."
Another knock broke his thoughts. This time, a tall man entered, his blond hair neatly tied back, robes of modest blue draped around his shoulders. He carried a bundle of documents with the precision of one who lived by order.
"Your Highness," the man greeted curtly, bowing just enough to be polite. "I am Elandor, your court secretary. I've come to deliver the financial report."
Toru nodded. His memories of the old prince painted Elandor as sharp-tongued and skeptical, a man who tolerated his prince only out of duty. The way Elandor's cool eyes scanned him now confirmed it.
"Go ahead," Toru said firmly.
Elandor spread the papers across a nearby table. "The royal treasury will last three more months at most. Taxes are dwindling, trade is stagnant, and foreign merchants bypass our markets entirely. Without immediate reform, Dravoryen will not survive."
The words hung heavy in the chamber. Liora lowered her head, biting her lip, while Elandor's gaze remained fixed on Toru, as though daring him to falter.
But Toru did not falter. He inhaled slowly, recalling the countless times he had steadied nervous clients before their first workout, the countless drills of military training where panic was a soldier's deadliest enemy.
"If that's the case," he said evenly, "then our first step is clear. We start with the people."
Elandor raised a brow. "The... people, Your Highness? Forgive me, but what do you mean?"
Toru rose, though his body quivered with weakness. "If the people believe their prince is too frail to protect them, their faith will wither faster than any crop. That ends now."
With slow, deliberate effort, Toru planted his feet on the ground. His legs trembled under the weight of his own body, but he clenched his jaw and forced them to move.
Liora gasped. "Your Highness! Please, you'll hurt yourself!"
Toru managed a faint grin. "I used to run marathons. I can handle five steps."
His first step was shaky, his balance nearly collapsing. The second was steadier. By the fifth, sweat poured down his temple, his breath ragged—but he remained standing. Upright. Alive.
Memories of his military training surged within him—commands drilled into his bones: back straight, lungs steady, weight on your stance.
Elandor, for the first time, blinked in surprise. "What... are you doing, Your Highness?"
"Proving that I will not stay in bed like some dying invalid," Toru declared, his voice hoarse yet unwavering. "I will train this body. From this day forward, I will not be the weak prince of Dravoryen."
The chamber fell silent. Liora's eyes brimmed with awe, while Elandor's cold mask cracked, just slightly, into something like disbelief.
Toru straightened as much as he could and looked at them both. "Prepare an empty room in the castle. I will turn it into a training hall."
"A... training hall?" Liora repeated, confused.
"Yes." His lips curved into a determined smile. "A place to strengthen the body. I'll build what I can from wood, stone, whatever we have. Call it... a gymnasium, if you will."
Images filled his mind: barbells made of stones tied to wooden poles, sandbags for lifting, ropes for climbing. Crude, perhaps—but effective. He had built strength out of nothing before. He could do it again.
Elandor's brows knit together. "With all due respect, Your Highness, should you not be concerned with politics, alliances, and trade negotiations rather than... indulging in muscles?"
Toru turned his gaze sharply toward him, eyes gleaming with conviction. "Elandor, a ruler who cannot master his own body cannot master his kingdom. If I remain weak, why should anyone follow me? Strength inspires loyalty. And loyalty builds nations."
His words cut through the silence like a blade. Liora clutched her hands to her chest, moved to tears, while Elandor lowered his gaze for the first time, unsettled by the fire in his prince's voice.
Toru moved to the window, his breath still ragged, but his stance unbroken. Far beyond the mist, he could see faint outlines of villages clinging to survival.
Dravoryen will not fall, he vowed inwardly. Not while I still breathe.
Yet even as he made that vow, a whisper carried by the wind reached the castle walls: rumors of Veyland, a powerful neighboring kingdom, preparing to expand its borders. And Dravoryen, weak and fragile, was the easiest prey.
Toru clenched his fists. He did not yet know when the storm would strike, but he had taken his first step.
And the world would soon see that the weak prince of Dravoryen was weak no longer.