Two days passed.
They did not pass heroically.
They passed with herbal medicine that tasted like boiled regret, mandatory bed rest enforced by stern maids, and a body that reminded me—every single morning—that I was no longer built for sudden movements, dramatic gestures, or dignity.
By the second day, however, something miraculous happened.
I could sit up without seeing my ancestors.
I flexed my fingers slowly, watching them obey without trembling. My ribs still ached if I inhaled too deeply, and my legs felt like they were held together by optimism and habit, but compared to before—
"This is basically peak condition," I declared to the empty room.
The empty room, unfortunately, did not applaud.
I swung my legs off the bed and stood carefully. No collapse. No dizziness. No sudden betrayal from my knees.
Progress.
After a cautious stretch that looked less like a noble warm-up and more like an elderly man greeting the morning sun, I nodded to myself.
"Alright, Rias von Leonhart," I muttered. "Let's see just how bad the damage is."
The decision had already been made.
I needed data.
Not assumptions. Not memories from the original story. Not vague impressions like 'weak body' or 'low mana'.
I needed to know exactly where I stood.
And there was only one place to do that.
The training grounds.
Getting there, however, was an adventure in itself.
The moment I stepped into the corridor, a maid nearly dropped her tray.
"Y-Young Master Rias?" she gasped. "You shouldn't be out of bed yet!"
"I'm not," I said calmly. "I'm aggressively standing."
She stared at me.
"…I will inform the butler."
"Please don't," I replied quickly. "This is a personal experiment."
She looked unconvinced.
I smiled politely. "A very quiet one."
That convinced her exactly zero percent, but she still hesitated long enough for me to make a strategic retreat down the hall.
Victory.
By the time I reached the outer courtyard, my lungs were already filing complaints. The cool morning air helped, though, and the sun was just high enough to cast long shadows across the stone paths.
The training grounds lay ahead.
Wide. Open. Brutal.
Several knights were already present, practicing forms in pairs. The sound of steel clashing echoed rhythmically, sharp and unforgiving. Their movements were efficient, refined—years of training carved into muscle memory.
The moment I stepped onto the edge of the grounds, I felt it.
The difference.
Their presence alone carried pressure. Not intentional—just the natural result of strength.
I swallowed.
"So this is the baseline," I murmured. "Good to know."
A familiar voice reached me from the side.
"You're alive."
I turned.
Caspian von Leonhart stood near the weapon racks, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He was already dressed for training, light armor fitted perfectly to his frame, sword resting casually at his side like an extension of his body.
"I've been told that's my most consistent trait," I replied.
He frowned slightly. "You shouldn't be here."
"Probably," I agreed. "But curiosity won."
His eyes swept over me, lingering on my posture, my breathing.
"You're still injured."
"Yes."
"And yet?"
"And yet," I said, "I won't die from walking."
That earned me a long look.
"…You won't gain anything here," Caspian said. "You know that."
I smiled faintly. "I'm not here to gain. I'm here to measure."
He didn't respond immediately.
Finally, he stepped aside. "Don't interfere."
"I wouldn't dare," I said sincerely.
I approached the weapon rack.
Rows of swords gleamed in the sunlight—training blades, practice weapons, some heavier than others. I reached for the lightest wooden sword available.
It still felt heavier than I remembered.
When I wrapped my fingers around the hilt, my arm trembled slightly.
"…Wow," I muttered. "You really went all-in on realism, past me."
I took a slow breath and stepped onto an empty section of the field.
No audience.
Good.
I raised the sword.
Immediately, my shoulders protested.
This body lacked endurance. The muscles were underdeveloped, and worse—poorly coordinated. I remembered Rias's countless attempts to mimic the Leonhart sword forms, copying movements his body was never meant to handle.
I tried a basic stance.
Feet apart.
Weight centered.
Sword angled forward.
My balance wobbled.
I adjusted.
Better.
"Okay," I said softly. "Let's start simple."
I performed a single downward slash.
The sword cut through the air… slowly.
The motion lacked sharpness, lacked intent. It wasn't a strike—it was a suggestion.
I exhaled.
Again.
This time, the sword dipped too far. My wrist screamed in protest.
I stopped immediately.
"Nope," I said firmly. "That's how we end up back in bed."
I lowered the sword and leaned on it slightly, breathing steadily.
So this was the reality.
No hidden strength.
No sudden improvement.
No protagonist miracle.
Just a fragile body doing exactly what it was built to do.
Fail.
I closed my eyes, centering myself.
"Alright," I murmured. "Then let's change the question."
Instead of how strong am I?
I asked—
What can this body tolerate?
I shifted my grip and raised the sword again, this time slower. No force. No ambition. Just motion.
A shallow horizontal swing.
My muscles burned.
I paused.
Another shallow swing.
Burning intensified.
After the fifth swing, my arms felt like they were on fire.
I stopped.
Sweat trickled down my temple.
"That's… five," I said. "Impressive. Truly."
From the corner of my eye, I noticed someone watching.
Kael.
The youngest Leonhart stood a short distance away, wooden sword clutched in both hands, eyes wide.
"…Brother Rias?" he asked hesitantly.
I turned toward him carefully. "Yes?"
"Are you… training?"
I considered the question.
"Testing," I corrected. "Training implies optimism."
He blinked.
Then tilted his head. "You're really bad."
I laughed.
Not offended. Just amused.
"Yes," I said. "Painfully so."
Kael frowned, clearly confused. "Then why are you smiling?"
That was a good question.
I looked down at my trembling hands.
"Because now I know," I replied.
He didn't seem to understand, but nodded anyway.
I returned the sword to the rack, resisting the urge to collapse dramatically. My legs held. Barely.
Caspian approached again, gaze sharper now.
"…You stopped early."
"Any longer and I'd have embarrassed the ground," I said.
He studied me. "What did you learn?"
I met his eyes.
"That I can't follow your path," I said honestly. "And that trying to will only break me."
Silence stretched between us.
"…And?" he prompted.
"And," I continued, "that doesn't mean I'm useless."
His brow furrowed.
Before he could respond, Lucien's voice drifted in lazily.
"Well, well. I leave for one morning and you decide to reinvent yourself?"
He sauntered over, clapping slowly. "Five swings. Truly legendary."
"I aim for consistency," I replied. "Consistently unimpressive."
Lucien chuckled. "Still. You didn't pass out."
"Give it time."
He leaned closer. "You're not trying to catch up anymore."
"No," I said. "I'm trying to survive."
Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.
The training ground buzzed with movement around us, but for a moment, I felt strangely… grounded.
I had tested my limits.
And they were low.
Very low.
But now they were defined.
As I turned to leave, my body aching but intact, a thought settled firmly in my mind.
Strength wasn't the only way to exist in this world.
And if this body could endure even a little—
Then that little was enough to begin my gambit.
I glanced once more at the training ground, at the blades flashing in the sunlight.
"…I'll find my own way," I whispered.
And for the first time since waking up in this fragile body—
I believed it.