Morning came to Brumvale without warmth.
The sky was pale, heavy with low clouds that seemed reluctant to move.
The village stirred slowly—doors creaked open, faint smoke rose from crude chimneys, and tired footsteps pressed into damp earth.
Life continued, indifferent to who suffered and who survived.
Aureliux Drafent was already awake.
He sat cross-legged inside his abandoned shed, eyes closed, breathing slow and deliberate.
Each inhale was measured.
Each exhale controlled.
Hunger still lingered in his stomach, but he no longer allowed it to dominate his thoughts.
Pain, hunger, cold—these were variables.
Variables could be managed.
He remembered Selira Drafent's final days clearly. The way her hands trembled when she tried to smile.
The way her breathing grew shallow as nights passed. No healer came. No medicine arrived.
Not because they did not exist.
But because they were not meant for people like her.
Aureliux opened his eyes.
"If I want to live," he thought calmly, "I need a body that obeys me."
Not strength.
Not talent.
Obedience.
He rose slowly and stepped outside. Morning dew clung to the grass. The air bit at his thin skin. He welcomed it.
Behind the shed, Aureliux had prepared a small clearing—nothing special.
Just flattened dirt, stones arranged in rough lines, and marks scratched into wood.
No one paid attention to it.
To others, it looked like the mess of a child.
To him, it was a training ground.
He began with movement.
Slow steps forward.
Controlled turns.
Balance adjustments.
He mimicked the way animals moved—low center of gravity, quiet steps, no wasted motion. Each shift of weight was deliberate.
He stumbled once.
Adjusted.
Again.
Minutes passed.
Then hours.
His muscles burned, but he did not stop.
When fatigue forced him to rest, he sat, breathing evenly, observing his own body like a tool being tested.
A faint translucent window shimmered briefly.
Condition Update: Minor Fatigue Detected
Adaptive Growth: +0.2%
It vanished immediately.
Aureliux did not smile.
So effort mattered.
Good.
Later, he practiced tension control.
He clenched his fists, then released.
Tightened his legs, then relaxed.
He learned how much force wasted energy—and how little was truly needed to move.
Efficiency.
That was strength.
At midday, he scavenged food—roots, insects, river plants.
Enough to keep his body functioning. Not enough to feel full.
That was intentional.
A body accustomed to comfort would betray him later.
As the sun dipped low, Aureliux climbed a small hill overlooking Brumvale.
From there, he watched the village as if it were a diagram.
Paths. Blind spots. Patterns of movement.
Who left early. Who returned late.
Where violence happened.
Where it didn't.
"Information keeps you alive longer than muscles," he murmured.
Night came.
Under the broken roof of his shed, Aureliux lay still, staring into darkness. His body ached, but his breathing was steady.
His thoughts were sharp.
He pressed a hand to his chest.
The system did not praise him.
It did not reward him.
It simply recorded.
And that was enough.
Because Aureliux Drafent was not training to be strong tomorrow.
He was preparing to survive forever.