Richard's eyes fluttered open slowly, adjusting to the sharp brightness that pierced the room.
'Is this…the afterlife?' he rasped in a dry, reedy voice.
'Young Master? Are you awake?'
I-I know that voice.
'Lucien? Is that you?'
'You're awake! Thank the Heavens, Young Master!' Lucien's reply was laced with genuine relief.
Richard pushed himself upright. The deep, chronic ache that had been his constant companion for decades was suddenly absent.
He looked across the room. The heavy oak furniture, the arranged desk, and the thick velvet curtains--all seemed too familiar.
No way…
He lifted a trembling hand, running it over his face and chest. Smooth skin. No scars, no burns.
His heartbeat accelerated, as he realized the truth.
This was his bedroom, untouched by time… the very same space he had slept in as a child!
But....how?
Richard didn't utter another word. He simply sat, desperately trying to map the impossible journey that had deposited him back at the point of origin: The Duchy of Frostpeak.
--
[Flashback - The Duchy of Frostpeak]
The Serdin family was a name synonymous with magical power across the continent, renowned for its formidable lineage of mages.
They held sway over a vast territory located east of the Falconridge Kingdom--the formidable Duchy of Frostpeak.
Richard was the sole heir to this influential house, a family whose history was etched in the achievements of countless archmages.
His father, Duke Voltair Serdin, was recognized as one of the most powerful mages of the era.
The Duchy held immense wealth, yet its terrain proved its most effective defense.
Beyond the eastern border of the Duchy, stood the deadly expanse of the Frostpeak Mountains, a perilous labyrinth of ice and relentless blizzards.
The west bordered the Falconridge Kingdom itself, which also presented no real threat. The King of Falconridge had personally sought a defensive alliance, a pact the Duke eventually accepted.
The northern and southern borders of Frostpeak comprised a patchwork of smaller baronies, viscountcies, counties, and smaller duchies.
Most counties and smaller territories on this side of the continent pledged fealty either to Frostpeak or to the Falconridge Kingdom. The rest maintained precarious independence.
Despite its seeming stability, the great Serdin family would, in time, fracture and their downfall could be traced to one man--the seventeenth ruler of Frostpeak, and the second to bear the Serdin name: Duke Richard Serdin.
--
[Present]
Richard's knuckles tightened.
'Lucien?' Richard called out.
'Yes, Young Master?' Lucien answered, composed and attentive.
Richard paused, gathering his thoughts.
'Why was I lying in bed?' he asked. To Lucien, the truth would be too unbelievable to explain.
'You returned from your closed-room training two days ago,' Lucien explained. 'You stated you were exhausted and retired immediately.'
'You have been in a deep sleep since then,' Lucien finished.
Ah...right...
As a child, he was rather obsessed with power and strength.
'What is the date, Lucien?' Richard continued, not letting his emotions take over.
'It is January 3rd, Year 188, Young Master' Lucien replied.
As soon as those words entered Richard's ear, he stiffened up a little.
It was real.
He had, impossibly, been thrown twenty years into the past!
He had been granted a reprieve: Time to correct every fatal error.
Following his old, solitary path would ensure the same disaster.
The immediate obstacle was how to initiate such a radical change without immediately drawing suspicion.
Then, he realized something.
If he had truly travelled back in time, his father and mother were still around!
'When's my next meal, Lucien?' Richard asked impatiently.
Lucien chuckled, 'Why, that would be in the evening, Young Master.'
'Okay, thank you Lucien, you are dismissed until then. I would like some alone time,' Richard ordered.
'As you wish, Young Master,' Lucien replied, before offering a sharp bow and leaving the room.
--
[Few hours later]
Evening finally came and Richard was summoned for the meal.
The manor was unchanged--the same torches lining the stone walls and the same ornate carpets beneath his feet.
And yet it felt wonderful.
As he entered the dining hall, his breath nearly caught.
There, seated at the table as imposing and unshakable as ever, was his father, and, beside him sat his mother, gentle and warm.
When the evening meal commenced, Richard finally found the resolve to act. Interrupting the uncomfortable silence that typically defined their family dinners, he stated clearly,
'Father, I wish to talk to you.'
The hall instantly fell silent.
Duke Voltair was caught completely off guard.
'Did you just speak?' the Duke asked, holding a mixture of disbelief and pride in his tone.
Richard's expression remained composed, though inwardly, he sighed heavily.
The fact that the mere utterance of a single sentence could so thoroughly shock a 9th-circle archmage like his father spoke volumes about his former self.
Deep down, Richard felt a wave of satisfaction at their reaction. It finally answered one of the many agonizing questions that had tormented him in his previous life: 'Did my family ever truly care about me?'
That single moment marked a change. For the first time in his life. No. For the first time in both his lives, the family dinner felt less confined.
--
[Somewhere in the Palace a few minutes later]
Clara, the newest housemaid, was sharing gossip with Beryl, a much more experienced retainer.
'Did you hear him? The Young Master, he actually spoke! I honestly believed he was mute, perhaps a strange consequence of that intense closed room training.'
Beryl rolled her eyes dismissively.
'Mute? He was purposefully avoiding us, dear.' 'He hasn't managed a complete sentence to anyone but Lucien. It is arrogance. Perhaps pure social ineptitude instead.'
An exasperated sigh came from Thomas, the Duke's personal footman, seated nearby.
'It is a tragedy. The Duke is a magnificent man, a Ninth-Circle Archmage, yet his heir shows no interest in engaging with the living world. Baron Vayne has already begun spreading rumors about the Serdins' "weak lineage" all around.'
'Well, perhaps that narrative is over,' Beryl countered with a sly smile.
'The Young Master spoke! The dam of silence has finally burst. Watch how quickly the political wind shifts now that the heir might actually be demonstrating presence.'
Thomas snorted, 'One sentence will not erase years of silence, Beryl. However, it certainly does offer a much more interesting subject for conversation. Still, should the Young Master genuinely begin to change--that would truly be magnificent.'
The servants continued to whisper in awe, and somehow, before long, every soul in the estate knew: The silent heir had finally found his voice.
--
The subsequent morning, Voltair summoned him to his private study.
'Come in,' the Duke said. 'What prompted you to speak up, son?'
Richard replied almost instantly.
'I wish to know more about the Falconridge Kingdom's Annual Tournament,' He stated without the slightest hesitation.
'And what precisely do you wish to know?' the Duke inquired.
'I would appreciate any and all information you possess regarding the event's structure,' Richard replied, maintaining his composed demeanor.
'Hmm.' Voltair leaned back in his heavy chair. After taking a slow sip of tea, the Duke began to explain.
'The tournament is primarily held to unearth hidden talent from across the nation. The King himself observes the final matches and selects a few promising individuals to serve as captains within the royal army. Others who demonstrate ability are recruited into the ranks as soldiers.'
He paused, taking another measured sip before continuing.
'On the fifth day, however, a separate, smaller contest is held specifically for participants under fifteen years of age. Most of these youths are the noble sons representing their families from the surrounding territories.'
Once Voltair had concluded his explanation, Richard had half-expected him to immediately question why someone like him would suddenly express interest in an event. To his surprise, the Duke offered no further comment.
As Richard quietly departed, Voltair did not immediately look back at his papers. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, staring intently at the closed oak door.
'A tournament?' he murmured, a faint smile gracing his lips.
'What could he possibly be thinking?' Voltair thought at first.
Voltair knew his son possessed genuine brilliance, but that brilliance had been suffocated by crippling shyness and indifference to the world. Richard's silence was a political weakness the ministers were already exploiting.
Voltair nodded slowly, a sense of satisfaction settling over him. He would certainly indulge this sudden curiosity. It was, after all, the first sign of life the boy had shown in years.
--
Richard spent the remainder of the day alone in his room, preoccupied. He could not shed the agonizing weight of his previous life's memories. The mistakes, the weakness, the public humiliation--it all remained, as a painfully sharp shard embedded in his consciousness.
He sat by the window, watching the distant lights flicker across the vast land. Snow drifted down lazily, blanketing the outdoor training grounds in a seamless sheet of white. Somewhere in those grounds, the army of Frostpeak trained endlessly, everyday, not showing even a hint of weakness.
Richard recalled how he had avoided these. He had thought true power was solely a matter of talent and potential, decided from birth. That belief had been his costliest mistake.
But, unlike last time, that would never happen again.
--
[The Next Morning]
Long before sunrise, Richard climbed out of bed.
Lucien entered the room with a lit candle, nearly dropping it in shock when he saw his young master already fully dressed in light training clothes.
'Young Master? Why are you awake so early?'
'I am heading to the training grounds,' Richard stated simply, fastening the last leather strap on his boots.
Lucien blinked, thoroughly convinced he had misheard. 'The training grounds, sir? Are you quite serious?'
'I am perfectly serious, Lucien.' Richard glanced at him.
Lucien opened his mouth to voice a protest, yet seeing the quiet, undeniable determination in Richard's eyes, he swallowed the words and nodded reluctantly. 'Then I shall accompany you.'
They reached the grounds soon after. A pale morning light was just beginning to creep over the manor walls. The air was frigid and the ground glistened with frost.
Dozens of soldiers were already engaged, running laps or performing combat drills under the watchful eye of the knight-captain, Marius.
Their movements gradually slowed as they realized who had approached.
'Is that the Young Master?'
'What is he doing here?'
'Don't tell me he is actually going to train…'
Richard ignored the low murmurs and walked towards Captain Marius. The man, tall and broad-shouldered, executed a sharp bow.
'Young Master! You honor us with your presence.'
'There is no need for formalities, Captain Marius,' Richard replied calmly. 'I will be straightforward. I intend to participate in today's training.'
Marius hesitated slightly. 'With all due respect, Young Master, these routines are demanding. They are designed solely for the soldiers.'
'That's fine,' Richard said firmly. 'Just tell me where to begin.'
After a brief pause, the knight nodded decisively. 'Understood. We commence with a ten-lap perimeter run around the grounds.'
Richard joined the line of soldiers without another word. The cold air bit sharply against his face.
The physical strain set in quickly.
His body was unaccustomed to such demanding exertion. His lungs burned, and his legs began protesting with sharp pain. Despite that, he clenched his jaw and maintained his pace. The soldiers occasionally glanced at him, expecting him to break rank and quit. He persevered.
By the completion of the eighth lap, he was drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. His vision momentarily blurred, but he refused to slow or fall behind. When the run finally concluded, he leaned heavily against a wooden post, concentrating on steadying his frantic breathing.
Marius approached, concern visible on his face. 'That is certainly enough, Young Master. You have completed far more than expected.'
Richard shook his head. 'Not yet. What is the next exercise?'
The man drew a long breath, then gave in. 'Push-ups, squats, core work.'
Richard followed the sequence--twenty repetitions for each drill. Push-ups, squats, then core training.
Once the routine wrapped up, the knight guided him toward a separate section of the field marked off for mage practice.
Several robed figures were standing in loose formation, diligently meditating with utmost concentration.
Richard sat down cross-legged on the cold ground and began to circulate his mana.
Mana was the lifeblood of all magic, the current that sustained every spell. Every mage was born with a fixed reserve of mana, housed within a chamber near the heart known as the Mana Core--or simply, the Core. This reservoir could be expanded over time through "breakthroughs", or in other words, by advancing to the next circle.
Without having a control over it, even the most gifted mage would be powerless.
Richard knew he couldn't just sit down and expect mastery over his mana to come on a whim.
His breathing slowed and deepened as he focused entirely on the internal flow. The energy was little in his younger body, but steady. It flowed through his core like a river.
He extended his hand, and a small, vibrant orb of clear blue light flickered above his palm. It wavered for a moment. A few of the nearby mages turned to watch, gossiping among themselves.
Richard ignored the voices. He was fixated on the pulse flowing through him. His mana was pure. While he was focused on it, the nearby area was filled with a strange, calming sensation, and the veteran mages who were present there were left in awe.
When he finally opened his eyes, the ambience faded instantly. The Captain, who was watching, approached him.
'Your control is truly excellent, Young Master. I had not anticipated this degree of mastery at your age.'
'It is still rough,' Richard said, flexing his tired fingers. 'Refinement will come.'
He stood up slowly. 'That will suffice for today. I will return again tomorrow.'
'Yes, sir,' the knight acknowledged, bowing slightly. 'We look forward for your regular participation.'
As Richard turned to depart, a few of the nearby soldiers offered deep, genuine bows. It was not mockery; it was respect. They might not fully comprehend the reason for the Young Master's sudden transformation, yet they could not deny his determination.
Lucien rushed to his side the instant they cleared the training grounds. 'Young Master, what has inspired this change? You have never trained with such intensity before.'
Richard said nothing and only offered him a tired smile.
Lucien studied him for a long moment before finally sighing. 'At the very least, allow me to prepare a strong recovery tonic. You will be cripplingly sore for days.'
'That would be amazing!' Richard admitted.
--
[Later that day, in the dining hall]
The rest of the family was already seated. The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the air.
When Richard entered and took his seat, a slight hint of hesitation ran over his mother's face. His hair was still slightly damp from washing, and faint bruises marked his arms.
'Richard?' his mother asked, concern plain. 'Were you, by any chance, out training, my dear?'
'Yes,' he replied calmly.
Richard continued, 'I was at the grounds testing my body.'
His father looked up from his seat at the head of the table. 'Physical training, you say?'
'Rightly so, father' Richard confirmed. 'My body is in bad condition. My top priority should be correcting that flaw.'
For a brief moment, a deep silence settled in the dining room. Then, the Duke smiled faintly, 'That's good to hear,'
His mother, too, nodded in quiet approval.
--
[Midnight]
Richard lay on his bed.
The day's rigorous training had certainly exacted a toll, yet it was a welcome, honest pain. He loosened his collar and stretched his shoulders.
It was a decent start, but, Richard's topmost concern right now was to build trust and respect. He had no reputation in the castle itself, let alone Frostpeak.
While Richard was lost in thought, Lucien entered the room quietly, holding a small tray with a steaming ceramic cup. 'Young Master, your recovery tonic.'
Richard immediately helped himself up his bed.
'Ah, impeccable timing.' Richard accepted the cup and nodded his appreciation. 'Say Lucien, what is the general sentiment regarding today's events?'
Lucien hesitated. 'The servants were quite shocked, to put it mildly. No one expected you to train alongside the soldiers. However, if I may say so, I think they were genuinely impressed.'
'That is acceptable,' Richard said, leaning back slightly. 'Let them discuss it. That is preferable to being completely forgotten.'
Lucien chuckled softly, a sound of gentle approval. 'You have changed, Young Master. It is a good change.'
Richard offered no verbal response. He simply gazed out the window, watching the snow continue to drift across the training grounds.
--
The following few days adhered to a strict, identical pattern. Richard woke before dawn, joined the soldiers for their arduous physical drills, and then trained quietly alone afterward to meticulously refine his mana control.
His body, initially fragile and rebellious, began to experience an adaptation. The deep burning in his muscles lessened day by day and his breathing grew markedly steadier.
By the end of the week, even the most skeptical ones had completely stopped questioning his presence.
'Morning, Young Master!'
'Good to see you back with us!'
The soldiers had grown accustomed to the determined figure running alongside them.
In mere days, Richard had almost completely changed the way people around him, thought of him.
It did not take long for word of this change to reach the Duke.
One evening, as Richard was reviewing a few old notes on magic, a sharp knock came at his door.
'Young Master, His Grace wishes to see you in his private office,' a butler announced from outside.
Richard stood immediately. 'Now?'
'Yes, sir.'
He followed the butler through the dim corridors of the manor. When he entered, Voltair was seated behind his massive oak desk, carefully sorting through a pile of parchment.
'Father, you requested my presence?'
Voltair looked up, before gesturing for his son to sit. 'You have been training with the soldiers everyday now, isn't it?'
'That is correct,' Richard replied in a respectful manner.
'That is entirely unlike you.' Voltair leaned back slightly. 'I'm glad you've finally woken up'
Richard met his father's eyes calmly.
'I have had sufficient time to deeply reflect, hence this change,' Richard stated.
Voltair folded his arms, considering. 'In that case, I have a matter for you to attend to.'
Richard tilted his head slightly. 'A matter?'
'A small mission,' Voltair clarified.
'There have been increasing, unusual activities recently reported in the north-western villages. I was preparing to dispatch one of our reconnaissance teams to investigate; instead, you will go.'
He paused, looking directly into Richard's eyes. 'You will be safely accompanied by Knight Captain Gareth and a senior mage.'
Richard considered the request, before giving a firm nod. 'Understood' he answered bravely.
'Good.' Voltair returned his attention to the papers. 'You will depart tomorrow morning. Report directly and only to me upon your return.'
As Richard stood to leave, Voltair added, 'And Richard--do not treat this like a lesson from a textbook. There's a difference between that, and, reality.'
'I will keep that in mind, father' Richard promised, executing a respectful bow.
Voltair watched as Richard stepped out of the room.
It was a considerable gamble on his part, but one he needed to take. If Richard was ever going to grow, his path had to start here.
---