Aldric became aware of his body before he became aware of the room.
That, in itself, was wrong.
In his previous life, waking had always been a gradual return—thoughts first, then sensation, then the dull confirmation that he was still trapped inside fragile flesh. Pain usually followed soon after. Weakness. Fatigue.
This time, awareness began in his muscles.
They were present in a way he had never experienced before. Not tense. Not relaxed. Simply… there. As if his body existed with intention, each fiber quietly aware of its place and purpose.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was carved stone, pale and unadorned. Morning light spilled in from a high window, illuminating dust motes drifting lazily through the air.
He exhaled slowly.
Alive.
That was his first conclusion.
The second came just as quickly.
Changed.
When he shifted, there was no hesitation, no lag between intent and motion. His arm lifted smoothly, weight balanced perfectly. Even the faint ache he had expected after an eight-hour ritual and two weeks of unconsciousness was absent.
Aldric sat up.
The movement was too easy.
That realization made him pause.
In his old body, sitting upright after illness or injury had always come with a brief wave of dizziness. Now, his equilibrium was flawless. His heart rate steady. His breathing even.
He pressed his palm flat against his chest.
The heartbeat beneath was strong, rhythmic—but quieter than before, as if it no longer needed to announce itself loudly just to be heard.
A sound broke the silence.
A sharp intake of breath.
Aldric turned his head.
A young maid stood frozen near the doorway, a silver tray trembling in her hands. Her eyes were wide, fixed on him as if he were an apparition.
"You—" she stammered.
The tray slipped from her grasp, clattering loudly against the floor.
Before Aldric could speak, she spun and fled down the corridor, her footsteps echoing as she shouted at the top of her lungs.
"The young master has awakened!"
Aldric winced.
"So much for discretion," he murmured.
Within minutes, the estate erupted.
Footsteps thundered in the halls. Voices overlapped, urgent and disbelieving. The door opened and closed repeatedly as servants peeked in, then hurried away to relay confirmation.
Aldric remained seated on the bed, forcing himself to stay calm.
He did not trust this feeling of ease.
The book had been clear: awakening was survival, not victory. Whatever had happened during those eight hours—and whatever he had seen—had altered him fundamentally.
But how?
A physician arrived first, flanked by two attendants. He was an older man with sharp eyes and a practiced calm that barely concealed his curiosity.
"Master Aldric," the physician said carefully, setting his bag down. "Do you know how long you've been unconscious?"
"Fourteen days," Aldric replied without hesitation.
The man blinked. "You were informed already?"
"Yes" Aldric said.
The physician studied him more closely now.
"…Good. That's good."
The examination was thorough.
Pulse. Reflexes. Eye response. Breathing. Muscle resistance.
Each test produced the same result: normal.
Too normal.
The physician's frown deepened.
"Your body shows no signs of trauma," he said slowly. "No muscle atrophy. No fever. No neurological delay."
"That's unusual?" Aldric asked.
"It's impossible," the man corrected.
Aldric said nothing.
When the physician finally left—after advising rest that Aldric knew he did not need—he was bathed, dressed, and ushered into a private sitting room.
Only then did his family arrive.
His father entered first, composed but pale. His mother followed, relief plain on her face. Neither spoke immediately.
They simply looked at him.
"You frightened us," his mother said at last.
"I apologize," Aldric replied. And meant it.
His father's gaze sharpened. "You were found unconscious in your room. The door locked from the inside. No signs of poison. No wounds."
A pause.
"The archives ward was disturbed."
Aldric met his eyes steadily.
"Yes."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, his father sighed.
"You are fortunate," he said quietly. "If you had died—"
"But I didn't," Aldric said.
"No," his father agreed. "You didn't."
That was not relief in his voice.
It was unease.
The conversation ended without confrontation, but Aldric could feel it: something unspoken had passed between them. His family knew something—not everything, but enough to understand that his survival carried implications.
Once alone again, Aldric tested himself.
Carefully.
He stood and walked the length of the room. His steps were silent, balanced. He closed his eyes and focused inward—not searching for power, but listening.
There was something there.
Not energy.
Structure.
A sense of alignment, like standing perfectly upright after years of poor posture. His body resisted strain instinctively, distributing force before damage could occur.
He lifted a heavy chair with one hand.
The weight felt… honest.
Not lighter.
Just manageable.
Aldric set it down slowly.
"So this is the Outer Craft," he murmured.
No flames. No lightning. No spectacle.
Just endurance.
He remembered the pillar turning toward him in that impossible space. The sense of acknowledgment rather than welcome.
Outer was not meant to dominate.
It was meant to withstand.
That realization unsettled him.
Power that did not announce itself was harder to control—and harder to detect.
The next two days passed quickly.
Word of his recovery spread through the estate and beyond. Visitors came bearing concern thinly veiled as curiosity. Aldric deflected questions with practiced politeness, revealing nothing.
Internally, he observed.
Hunger no longer struck suddenly. Fatigue came only after deliberate exertion. Even pain—when he pricked his finger experimentally—registered clearly but did not linger.
His body recovered faster than it should.
Not instantly.
But efficiently.
On the third morning, as he packed for the university, the book lay hidden beneath his clothes, wrapped carefully. He did not intend to bring it—but leaving it behind felt like abandoning a loaded weapon.
He paused, fingers resting on the cover.
Eight hours of agony.
Two weeks of unconsciousness.
And yet…
If he had the chance again, he would do it.
That realization chilled him more than anything else.
A knock came at the door.
"Carriage is ready, young master," a servant said.
Aldric took one last look at the room where everything had changed.
The ritual circle was gone. The stone floor pristine once more.
As if nothing had happened.
He stepped out.
The world beyond the estate gates was the same as before—students traveling, merchants shouting, life continuing unaware.
But Aldric knew better now.
There were systems beneath systems.
Forces beneath belief.
And seven pillars holding everything upright.
He had touched one.
As the carriage rolled toward the academy, Aldric closed his eyes—not to rest, but to think.
Three days.
Three days until he entered a place filled with heirs, prodigies, and future weapons.
Three days until he tested whether the Outer Craft would remain silent…
Or demand proof of worth.