Elias lingered at the edge of the training yard, watching the soldiers move through their drills. Wooden swords clashed, shields raised and lowered in practiced arcs, feet stamping the ground in rhythmic precision. Dust rose with every charge and retreat, catching the morning light in fine particles that sparkled like gold.
He measured their motions, the discipline in their swings, the timing in their parries. Compared to them, his body felt soft, untested. On Earth, he had known the strategies of empires—Roman legions marching in perfect formation, Spartan hoplites drilling relentlessly, Athenian soldiers practicing phalanx maneuvers, even the agility routines of samurai or Persian cavalry—but here, the flesh had to meet the theory. Knowledge could plan battles, but the body had to endure them.
Elias flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders, and glanced down at his legs. He had run across ruined streets, climbed over rubble, and survived physical strain in his youth, but never had he trained systematically for war. Never had he truly tested himself against someone who could strike or defend with skill.
Taking a deep breath, he approached Lord Hadrien, who was observing the yard from a shaded veranda. "Lord Hadrien," Elias began, careful not to interrupt, "I… wish to join the soldiers in training. A change of pace, to work my body… I never had the chance to try this in my hometown."
Hadrien raised a brow, curiosity flickering across his face. "You? With them? And why?"
Elias hesitated briefly, then met Hadrien's gaze. "I want to understand my own limits… to feel what it is like to move as a soldier does. To endure, to build strength. My knowledge can guide men, but I must first know what the body is capable of. Without that, theory is hollow."
Hadrien studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Very well. But start slowly. Observe, endure, and do not strain beyond your limits. You may join, but learn first, push later."
The following days became a regimented routine for Elias. Each morning, he ran laps around the outer walls, feet pounding the cobblestones, lungs burning with exertion. At first, even a single lap left him winded, his legs trembling. But he persisted, adding weight when he could—an old pack stuffed with stones, a breastplate borrowed for short intervals, a wooden sword to mimic real combat heft.
Curious eyes followed him. Soldiers began to whisper among themselves. Some, emboldened, attempted to match him on his morning runs. "Let's see if the foreigner can tire," one joked, laughing as he sprinted beside Elias. But their laughter soon turned to wheezing and staggering. By the second lap, most were hunched over, hands on knees, gasping for air, muttering curses under their breath. Elias, maintaining a steady rhythm, glanced at them with a faint, amused smile.
Afternoons were spent with drills: footwork, basic parries, stances, and swings. He shadowed the soldiers, mimicking their motions, feeling the resistance of wood, the pull of muscles he had long neglected. Each motion was repeated until it became second nature, until he could anticipate the recoil, the counterweight, the rhythm. He experimented subtly—altering grips, adjusting stances, combining movements—always cautious not to draw unwanted attention, but curious how far his body could adapt.
Elias quickly learned the value of balance and core strength. He ran hills with weighted packs, practiced lunges with logs over his shoulders, and climbed the walls' battlements repeatedly. His joints ached in ways unfamiliar, and each day he returned to his quarters exhausted, muscles screaming in protest. Yet with every pang of pain came understanding. He was learning endurance, the flow of motion, and the mechanics of fatigue—the invisible backbone of a soldier's capability.
Evening routines were dedicated to reflection and study. Elias mapped his progress, noting weaknesses, planning improvements, and cataloging techniques from his Earth experience that might translate into Orravian combat. He observed the soldiers' formations and stamina, cross-referencing them with the running, climbing, and lifting he performed, noting where efficiency and resilience could improve. He experimented with pacing, using short sprints to simulate bursts of combat, and longer distances to condition stamina for prolonged skirmishes.
The soldiers' curiosity never faded. Some began to approach him after drills, asking questions about his endurance, his breathing, or how he managed to recover so quickly. Others simply watched him in quiet awe as he continued to run laps long after they had collapsed on the ground, hands on knees, dripping sweat. One bold recruit even challenged him to a lap with armor on—he lasted half the distance before surrendering with a laugh, gasping for breath.
Hadrien occasionally observed from the veranda, nodding silently at Elias' persistence. He did not intervene, allowing Elias to discover his own limits. Their relationship, once defined by chains and suspicion, had subtly shifted. Recognition had replaced wariness. Mutual respect was slowly taking root—not through authority, but through dedication, resilience, and the willingness to endure pain to gain mastery.
Weeks passed. Elias' body adjusted. Endurance improved, movements became smoother, fatigue lessened, and his coordination sharpened. But the real lesson was understanding: how a soldier's body responded to stress, how rhythm and timing influenced stamina, and how even the sharpest mind relied on the body to execute its will.
Elias of nowhere had begun a transformation—not to become a soldier, but to know himself in the truest sense. And with each stride, each swing, each exhausted gasp of air, he drew one step closer to mastering the instrument that would carry his abilities into the reality of Orravia's unforgiving world.
Observation, endurance, experimentation: these became his tools. And though the soldiers could not match his strange routines or unrelenting pace, they learned to respect the silent figure who tested himself beyond expectation, bending the limits of his own body, one lap, one swing, and one aching step at a time.