Thirty-one days. Seven hundred and forty-four hours.
That was the math. But the reality was sweat, frost, and the kind of bone-deep ache that made getting out of bed feel like a victory.
The sun had not yet risen over the jagged horizon of the Forsaken Realm. In a fallow field on the outskirts of Hage, the air was cold enough to bite, turning breath into thick plumes of fog. Yet, Lencar stood bare-chested, steam rising from his shoulders as if he were a furnace.
He stood perfectly still, his eyes closed, listening to the rhythm of his own body.
He was in "Mage Mode." A month ago, the siphoned mana from Yuno had felt like a crushing, alien burden—an ocean trying to fit into a bucket. Now, after thirty days of relentless Mana-Forging 2.0, it felt different. It was still heavy, but it was a familiar weight. Like a well-worn rucksack or a favorite coat. He didn't just carry the mana anymore; he wore it.
"Phase A," he muttered to the cold air. His voice was rough with morning fatigue.
He dropped into a push-up stance, his palms flat against the frosted dirt. The cold burned his skin, a sharp contrast to the internal heat of the mana.
This was the foundation. The unglamorous, painful truth of his strength.
He willed the mana to resist him. He commanded the energy to push down against his spine and limbs with the force of a falling mountain. It wasn't just magic; it was gravity.
He pushed.
One.
His muscles, woven with the experience of fighting a storm every morning, screamed in protest. The repetition was just as agonizing as it had been on Day One. That was the secret of progressive overload—it never got easier. You just got stronger.
Two.
Every fiber of his being was being compressed. He gritted his teeth, a vein throbbing in his temple. He wasn't thinking about mana structure or another data point now. He was thinking about survival. He was thinking about the burning in his triceps and the way the dirt dug into his palms.
Three.
He didn't collapse. His arms didn't tremble. He moved with the slow, inexorable power of a hydraulic press. Up. Down. Up. Down.
By the time he completed a full set of fifty, his body was vibrating. When he finally let his chest hit the dirt after the last rep, the impact felt like stone hitting stone. The ground shuddered slightly.
He rolled over, staring up at the dim, purple-grey sky. He panted, watching his breath drift away.
He felt good. Not happy, exactly, but satisfied. The kind of satisfaction that comes from building something with your own hands. He looked at his arms. He hadn't gained the bulky, showy muscle of a common laborer. Instead, he looked dense. Compact. Like he was carved from ironwood rather than flesh.
At fifteen, he possessed the structural integrity of a veteran knight. And he had earned every ounce of it in the mud.
He stood up, the frost melting instantly around his feet from the sheer metabolic heat his body was radiating. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and cracked his neck.
"Next," he whispered.
Phase B—the "Drain" phase—had evolved.
A month ago, casting his siphoned spells had been a clumsy, nauseating affair. The [Towering Tornado] had knocked him on his ass. The [Magic-Sealing Chain] had drained him dry in minutes.
Now, it was a tactical gauntlet.
He moved to the edge of the woods, where the trees grew thick and gnarled. He opened his grimoire.
"Wind Creation Magic: Towering Tornado."
He didn't just cast it; he braced for it. He leaned forward, digging his heels into the dirt. The massive column of wind erupted from his palm, punching a hole through the canopy.
Recoil in 3... 2... 1.
The kickback hit him. Instead of fighting it, Lencar rode it. He allowed the force to slide him backward across the clearing, turning the recoil into a rapid retreat. It was ugly, artless, and terrifyingly effective.
He snapped the book shut, cutting the spell. He landed in a crouch.
"Chain Magic."
He fired an iron-grey chain at a sturdy branch thirty feet up. The link wrapped tight. Lencar yanked, not to pull the tree down, but to pull himself up. He flew through the air, swinging like a pendulum, landing silently on a high branch.
He looked down at the forest floor.
He wasn't a "Wind Mage" or a "Chain Mage." He didn't have the finesse of Yuno or the cruelty of Revchi. He was a technician. He used spells like industrial tools—hammers, drills, winches. It wasn't elegant, but it worked.
Then came the part he dreaded. The Toggle.
"Heretic Mode," he whispered.
Click.
The world went silent. The mana vanished. The comforting weight of power was stripped away, leaving him feeling naked and light. The nausea that used to plague him was gone, replaced by a dull, thrumming headache behind his eyes—a processing fee he was willing to pay.
He was a ghost now. No mana signature. No presence.
He moved through the trees, jumping from branch to branch using only his physical strength. He was silent. Fast. A predator that couldn't be sensed by magical means.
Click.
The ocean of siphoned mana rushed back, flooding his veins with high-pressure power. The headache spiked, then faded.
He dropped from the tree, landing with a heavy thud that cracked a root.
"Two modes," Lencar murmured, dusting off his hands. "One weapon."
He checked the position of the sun. It was time.
Lencar finished his morning routine and headed toward Hage Village. He had put on a fresh tunic and carried a small sack of his family's surplus flour under his arm—a delivery for the church.
It was a good cover. It kept him integrated with the community. It made him look like a dutiful son, a good neighbor. It gave him a reason to be near the "Chaos Variables" that were Asta and Yuno.
As he approached the village center, however, the atmosphere shifted.
Usually, Hage in the morning was a quiet affair—the sound of goats bleating, the smell of woodsmoke, the chatter of old women at the well.
Today, it was loud.
A crowd had gathered by the ancient Grimoire Tower. It was a sea of nervous teenagers and whispering parents. The air was thick with anxiety.
Lencar slowed his pace, blending into the edge of the crowd. He kept his face calm, masking the sudden spike of alertness in his mind.
In the center of the throng, he spotted them. The familiar shock of Asta's grey hair, vibrating with energy. The tall, aloof silhouette of Yuno, standing like a statue amidst the chaos.
"What is this?!" Asta's voice pierced the morning air, loud enough to wake the dead. "A battle before the exam?! That's not fair! The Capital is totally far away! We need time to walk!"
Lencar's eyes narrowed. A battle?
He moved closer, weaving through the villagers.
The old Tower Master, Drouot, stood on a crate near the notice board. He looked flushed and flustered, holding a piece of parchment that bore the heavy wax seal of the regional magistrate.
"Ahem! Silence! Please!" Drouot waved his hands. "By decree of the regional magistrate, Lord Fungen!"
The crowd quieted down, but the tension remained.
"Due to the... ahem... 'unprecedented number of hopefuls' from the Sosie-Hage region this year," Drouot read, his voice trembling slightly, "the Capital has issued new directives. They believe it is a 'waste of resources' to have so many commoners travel to the exam, only to fail. They wish to maintain the... 'prestige' of the main event."
A murmur of indignation swept through the crowd. "Waste of resources?" a farmer grumbled next to Lencar. "They mean they don't want our kids cluttering up their city."
Drouot continued, avoiding eye contact with the hopeful teenagers. "Therefore, a qualification battle will be held in Hage in exactly one week's time!"
Asta grabbed the edge of the parchment, scanning it frantically. "It says... it says it's an elimination tournament! And only the top two finishers will be granted travel passes and official recommendation for the Entrance Exam!"
The air went still.
Lencar felt a cold drop of realization slide down his spine. He did the calculation instantly.
Total Contestants: Approximately 50.
Available Slots: 2.
Primary Contenders: Asta (Anti-Magic), Yuno (Four-Leaf Wind), Lencar (Replica).
This wasn't in the script.
In the original story—the one Kenji Tanaka remembered—everyone went. Asta and Yuno traveled together. They faced challenges on the road, but they got there.
Why has it changed? Lencar thought, his mind racing. Is it because of me? Or is it simply that having three high-potential anomalies in one backwater village triggered a flag in the system?
The nobility was filtering them. They were trying to cull the herd before it even reached the gates.
"Two slots," Lencar whispered to himself.
This was a disaster. It was a zero-sum game.
Yuno, with his four-leaf clover and immense mana, was a lock for the first slot. No one in this village could touch him.
That left one slot. One ticket out of the mud.
And Asta—the protagonist, the boy with the anti-magic sword—needed that ticket.
So do I, Lencar thought.
He looked at Asta, who was already screaming at Yuno about how he would win. He looked at Yuno, who was staring at the horizon, unbothered.
Lencar felt a strange emotion welling up in his chest. It wasn't fear. It wasn't anger.
It was excitement.
For a month, he had been training in a vacuum. He had been punching rocks and trees. He had been guessing at his progress.
This isn't a hassle, Lencar realized, a small, dangerous smile touching his lips. This is a beta test.
He needed to know. He needed to see how his siphoned Wind Magic stacked up against Yuno's natural talent. He needed to see how Asta's sword interacted with his spells. He needed data on the competition before he stepped into the ring with the Captains.
The nobles wanted to filter the peasants? Fine. Lencar would show them exactly what kind of "waste" they were dealing with.
He turned and walked away from the crowd. He didn't say a word to Asta or Yuno. He didn't need to. The conversation would happen in the ring.
As he walked back toward the edge of the village, his mind was already shifting gears.
One week. One hundred and sixty-eight hours.
He had to optimize. He had to prepare for specific matchups.
Against Yuno: Direct confrontation is suicide. His output is higher, his control is perfect. I have to use Heretic Mode to negate his big spells, then close the distance physically.
Against Asta: Magic is useless. His sword will eat my Tornado. I have to rely on Mana-Forging. I have to out-brawl him. I have to be faster, stronger, and meaner than the boy who never gave up.
He reached his fallow field. The wind howled through the dry weeds.
Lencar dropped the sack of flour. He stripped off his tunic.
"Tournament is here," Lencar commanded himself.
He dropped into his stance. The mana flared around him, invisible but heavy.
He wasn't robotic about this. His heart was pounding. His hands were sweating. He was scared that he might lose, that his second life might end in a mud pit in Hage.
But that fear was fuel.
"I'm not staying here," Lencar promised the empty field. "I'm not dying a potato farmer. If there are only two tickets, then I'm taking one. And I don't care who I have to step over to get it."
He began to push. One rep. Two reps.
The sun finally crested the horizon, illuminating the sweat on his back. The Prodigy of Method was preparing for his first real war.