The morning light streamed gently through the tall windows of the Solheim estate, wrapping the marble halls in golden warmth. Leon rubbed his neck as he walked, the faint ache from days of training lingering in his mind or so he thought.
But after a few more steps, he stopped.
He rolled his shoulder. Then bent his knee.
No sharp stabs of pain. No heaviness in his limbs.
"…Weird," he muttered under his breath. "A few hours ago, I could barely move."
He flexed his hand, expecting the dull sting of soreness, but there was nothing. His body felt… light. Too light.
Something inside him had changed.
Shrugging it off for now, he made his way to the dining hall. His family was already seated his father at the head of the table, his mother on the other side, and his three brothers chatting idly.
"Good morning," Leon said politely, bowing slightly before sitting down.
His father gave a small nod, the usual stoic expression on his face. His mother smiled gently. But his brothers especially his second still eyed him with quiet disbelief.
The frail little brother who had never lifted anything heavier than a spoon… was now training daily.
Breakfast went smoothly, filled with the clinking of cutlery and the faint hum of conversation. Yet Leon's mind was elsewhere. The memory of his two systems still lingered like a pulse behind his eyes.
When the meal ended, he stood and bowed again before leaving the hall. His steps echoed through the grand corridors as he headed toward the training grounds.
But then—
A voice.
Faint. Whispered. Almost like it came from inside his head.
"You're walking already? Hmph. Not bad… for a weakling."
Leon froze mid-step. His breath caught. He turned his head slowly, eyes scanning the hall — empty.
"…Who's there?"
No answer. Only silence.
Then, in the corner of his vision, something flickered.
A faint, glowing orb hovered near the shadows by the wall — its aura black and smoky, pulsing with a dark crimson hue. And inside its center, a faint silhouette of a helmet — the kind worn by knights of old.
Leon stumbled back, his heart pounding.
"Wh–what the hell?! A ghost?!"
He waved his hands frantically. "I swear I didn't disturb any graves or!"
The orb tilted slightly, as if unimpressed. Its voice was rough, gravelly, and carried an ancient weight.
"Pathetic. You're the one who chose me, and yet you tremble like a leaf."
"Ch–chose you?" Leon stammered.
Before he could question further, another light bloomed beside the first — a second orb, this one glowing with a calm, cerulean hue. It radiated warmth, like moonlight reflected on still water.
A voice deep, wise, and steady echoed softly in his mind.
"Dark Knight, you're frightening the poor boy again."
"He's not a boy," the darker orb growled. "He's my wielder. He should stand proud."
"He's seventeen," the light orb replied dryly. "Barely a sapling. Control your theatrics."
Leon's mouth fell open. "Wait, wait, WAIT— you two can talk?!"
The blue orb pulsed faintly, as if smiling.
"We are the consciousness of your chosen paths," it said. "I am the Sorcerer — the echo of every seeker who once pursued knowledge before you. And that impatient one beside me is the Dark Knight — the shadow born from will and sacrifice."
Leon blinked, trying to process it. "You mean… my classes are sentient?!"
"Naturally," said the Sorcerer orb. "In this world, power responds to will. When you claimed both paths, fragments of their souls answered your call."
"Tch. Don't make it sound so poetic," grunted the Dark Knight. "The boy wanted strength. I simply answered."
Leon rubbed his temples. "So I didn't just choose a class… I awakened two spirits."
He still couldn't believe it. In the original game, classes were just lines of code abilities and numbers. But here, they had voices, personalities, and emotions.
This world truly wasn't just a game anymore.
The Sorcerer's light dimmed slightly, its tone softening.
"Do not fear us. We are here to guide you. Your will summoned us, and in return, we will shape you into something greater."
Leon nodded faintly, still reeling. "Guide me, huh…?"
"Then let's start now," the Dark Knight interrupted, its tone sharp. "You've been slacking. Move your legs to the training grounds."
"I was already going there," Leon muttered under his breath.
The orb only chuckled darkly.
The training field was alive with the sound of steel. Soldiers and servants moved about, practicing forms, swinging wooden swords, and hauling sandbags. The air was thick with dust and effort.
Leon stepped inside, greeted by the familiar sight of the stern old instructor, Garret, who had trained him before.
"Back again, young master?" Garret asked, eyebrow raised.
Leon nodded, rolling his shoulders. "Yes. I need to train harder."
"Good. Let's begin."
Time blurred.
Sweat ran down Leon's back as he swung the wooden sword again and again, each motion guided by two voices in his head.
"Too slow. Put your weight behind it," barked the Dark Knight.
"Focus on your breathing," murmured the Sorcerer. "Magic begins with rhythm — even in movement."
Leon followed both, his strikes becoming sharper, smoother. His muscles no longer screamed as before instead, they adapted, molded, strengthened.
Minutes turned into hours. The sun climbed higher, and still he didn't stop.
By the time he finally paused to catch his breath, his shirt was soaked through, his chest heaving.
"Not bad," Garret said approvingly. "Your form's improving faster than I expected."
Leon smiled faintly, pride glinting in his eyes but that pride was short-lived.
A shadow fell across the ground before him.
He looked up his elder brother, Ardan, stood with a wooden sword slung over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"So it's true," Ardan said. "You've been training for real."
Leon straightened, wiping sweat from his brow. "Yeah… I'm not backing down this time."
Ardan's smirk widened. "Then prove it. Spar with me."
Leon hesitated. His heart raced. His hands trembled slightly.
But the Dark Knight's voice cut in, cold and sharp.
"Accept. A warrior who runs from challenge will never wield me properly."
"Fine," Leon said quietly. "Let's do it."
They faced each other on the sand, wooden blades at the ready. The air between them grew heavy.
Ardan's stance was firm, confident — that of someone who had trained his entire life. Leon, in contrast, looked tense. But within him, two presences stirred.
"Focus," whispered the Sorcerer. "Watch his movements. Anticipate."
"And strike without hesitation," snarled the Dark Knight. "Pain means nothing."
The signal was given.
Wood clashed.
Ardan struck first — fast, precise. Leon barely parried, the force jarring his arms. He stumbled but didn't fall.
Again and again, the swords met, echoing across the training grounds. Dust rose with each step, sunlight glinting off sweat and motion.
Leon's breathing quickened, his arms burned, but his mind was clear. The Dark Knight guided his strength; the Sorcerer sharpened his focus.
For the first time, he felt both power and purpose.
When the spar finally ended, Leon's knees hit the ground, chest heaving — but Ardan's wooden blade was lowered.
"You've improved," Ardan said, smiling faintly. "I thought this was just another one of your phases. But…"
He rested a hand on Leon's shoulder. "You're really trying this time."
Leon managed a small, tired grin. "Guess I am."
As Ardan walked away, the Dark Knight chuckled proudly.
"You lasted longer than I expected. Not bad, boy."
And the Sorcerer's calm voice followed softly
"Every step forward, no matter how small, is still progress."
Leon looked up at the blue sky, the wooden sword still trembling in his grip, and whispered—
"…Then I'll keep moving forward."