I woke up convinced two things had happened.
First, I was dead.
Second, someone had replaced my body with a worse version as a joke.
Every muscle screamed when I tried to move. Not sharp pain—deep, suffocating, all-encompassing soreness, like even my bones were exhausted. I lay there on the marble floor, staring at the ceiling I still couldn't see, breathing shallow and regretting every decision that had led me here.
Then the system chimed.
[Recovery Accelerated]
[Endurance +1]
"…Worth it," I croaked.
A shadow loomed over me.
Aria crouched beside my head, holding a waterskin and something that smelled aggressively medicinal.
"Drink," she said.
I tried to sit up. My body vetoed the motion instantly.
She sighed and tilted the waterskin to my lips. "Careful. If you aspirate, I'm not carrying you."
The water was cool. Too cool. It burned on the way down, like my insides were sore too.
"How long was I out?" I asked.
"Four hours," she said. "You stopped responding around minute ninety of sparring."
"That feels… generous."
She smirked. "You didn't die. That's a win."
She handed me a small vial next—thick silver liquid, faintly glowing.
"What's this?"
"Ambrosia. Drink it or don't. You'll regret not drinking it."
I drank it.
Warmth spread through my chest, then my arms, then everywhere. The pain didn't vanish—but it dulled, pulled back just enough to be tolerable. Like someone had turned the volume down from unbearable to cruel.
[Minor Regeneration Active]
[Endurance +1]
I exhaled. "I hate how much I like this."
"You'll love it later," she said, standing. "When you're stronger."
I groaned. "Please tell me day two is lighter."
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then smiled.
"No."
By the time I could stand without shaking, she made me walk laps around the hall. Not run. Walk. Slow, controlled movement, correcting my posture every time I slouched.
"Recovery is training," she said, tapping my spine when I leaned forward. "You're teaching your body how to rebuild properly."
"Feels like I'm teaching it resentment."
"Good," she replied. "Resentment lasts longer than motivation."
We ate after that. Slowly, I could feel it—my body knitting itself back together. The pain receded in layers, leaving behind something heavier.
Strength.
"Do you have any weapons in your inventory?" she asked.
"I have a small knife," I said. "I—I don't know how to use it properly though."
The idea of using a weapon against another person made my stomach twist.
She grinned.
"Let's fix that."
For the next four hours, she drilled me without mercy.
She made me summon the knife again and again until it felt natural in my hand. Grip. Angle. Wrist alignment. Foot placement. Slashes. Stabs. Feints. She corrected everything.
"Your off-hand matters," she said, knocking my left arm into position. "Deflect. Control space. If it's just hanging there, it's dead weight."
My forearms burned. My shoulders screamed. My mind struggled to keep up.
"Weapons," she explained calmly, "are force multipliers. Even if you're weak, you can kill—or survive against—someone three times stronger than you if you know how to use one properly."
We continued for another hour.
Then the system chimed.
[New passive skill unlocked:
Knife Techniques Lv.1]
[Due to continuously training your knife skills, you can now effectively wield knives, daggers, and short swords.]
[New active skill unlocked:
Continuous Knife Slash Lv.1]
[Performs a rapid barrage of knife slashes.
Inflicts Bleed.]
I froze.
Aria noticed immediately.
"Oh?" she said. "You felt it, didn't you?"
I nodded slowly. "Yeah. It's… clearer. Like my hands know what they're supposed to do."
"Good," she said, stepping back. "Then we stop drilling."
She rolled her shoulders and summoned a knife of her own—longer than mine, curved slightly, worn smooth from use.
My pulse spiked.
"We spar," she said.
"Wait—now?"
"Light sparring," she corrected. "I won't kill you."
"That's not comforting."
She took her stance.
"Show me the skill."
I swallowed and activated it.
The world narrowed.
I stepped in and slashed—once, twice, three times—too fast for me to consciously track. The blade sang through the air, each cut flowing into the next. It wasn't wild. It was controlled. Intentional.
She backed away, parrying cleanly, steel ringing against steel.
"Not bad," she said, eyes sharp. "You're committing properly."
She countered—quick, shallow strike aimed at my forearm.
I reacted without thinking.
My off-hand snapped up, knocking her wrist aside.
The impact stung.
But it worked.
She smiled.
There it is.
We circled. She pressured me now, forcing movement. Forcing decisions. Every mistake earned a tap. Every hesitation, a reminder of how close a real blade would be.
I was slower.
She was better.
But I wasn't lost.
Patterns surfaced again—weight shifts, shoulder tension, the way her foot turned before she advanced.
I moved earlier.
Our blades crossed.
For a brief moment, mine touched her sleeve.
She stepped back and raised a hand.
"Enough."
My chest heaved. Sweat dripped onto the marble. My fingers trembled—not from fear, but overload.
She studied me for a second.
"You didn't freeze," she said. "You didn't panic. And you didn't overcommit."
She nodded once.
"That's progress."
I sank down onto the floor, knife resting across my knees.
"How many days left?" I asked.
She looked up at the endless ceiling.
"Just one, but it's going to be the hardest."
And for the first time since entering the training room, I wasn't sure if that excited me or terrified me more.