Pain had many personalities.
Rias von Leonhart had begun categorizing them.
There was the sharp pain—loud, dramatic, and immediate. The kind that screamed stop.
There was the dull pain—quiet, persistent, and annoyingly patient. The kind that whispered you'll regret this later.
And then there was his current favorite—
The humiliating pain.
The kind that appeared after doing something as heroic as tying his shoelaces too quickly.
"…I refuse to believe this is my life now," Rias muttered as he slowly stretched his arms above his head. His shoulders trembled slightly, and he immediately lowered them with the grace of someone surrendering to gravity.
It had been three days since he visited the training grounds with Caspian present. Since then, he had made an executive decision.
If he could not become strong in the traditional Leonhart way—
He would simply become less weak.
It was not a glorious goal. It would not inspire ballads. But it was practical. And Rias, formerly a modern civilian who once considered jogging an extreme sport, had developed a deep appreciation for practicality.
The training yard he now occupied was not the main ducal training ground. That would have been suicide by embarrassment. Instead, he had located a smaller, rarely used courtyard behind the servants' quarters. It was quiet, secluded, and most importantly—
Witness-free.
"Well," he said, looking around at the cracked stone floor and slightly tilted practice dummy, "you and I will build legends together."
The practice dummy leaned slightly to one side, clearly skeptical.
Rias sighed and adjusted his stance.
Step one: Walking exercises.
It sounded ridiculous. It felt ridiculous. But his body demanded respect. So he paced slowly across the courtyard, counting each step under his breath.
"One… two… three…"
By fifteen, his legs felt heavier.
By twenty, his breathing had deepened noticeably.
By thirty, his calves burned like they were protesting unfair labor conditions.
He stopped.
"…Progress," he declared, hands on his hips as he tried not to wheeze like a broken accordion.
He waited, letting his breathing settle. That had become his biggest discovery—rest was not weakness. Rest was strategy. If he pushed too far, he would lose days of recovery.
And losing days meant losing time.
Time was the one resource he could not afford to waste.
After his breathing stabilized, he moved to step two.
Balance training.
Rias stood on one leg.
Immediately, the universe rejected this idea.
His ankle wobbled violently, his arms flailed, and he windmilled through the air like a distressed windmill before hopping awkwardly to regain stability.
"…Elegant," he muttered.
He tried again.
This time he lasted three seconds.
Then four.
Then he nearly face-planted into the practice dummy and caught himself at the last moment.
The dummy creaked ominously.
"You saw nothing," Rias whispered.
A faint giggle came from behind him.
He froze.
Slowly, he turned.
Kael von Leonhart stood near the courtyard entrance, wooden sword slung over his shoulder, eyes sparkling with poorly concealed amusement.
"…How long have you been there?" Rias asked cautiously.
Kael tilted his head. "Since you threatened the dummy."
"…I was negotiating."
Kael snorted.
Rias straightened, trying to salvage his dignity, which was currently hiding behind the dummy out of shame.
"Shouldn't you be in proper training?" Rias asked.
"I got bored," Kael said simply. "You're more entertaining."
Rias stared at him.
"I am deeply offended," he said. "And also flattered."
Kael walked closer, circling him curiously. "What are you doing?"
"Rebuilding myself," Rias answered honestly.
Kael frowned. "By falling over?"
"By almost falling over," Rias corrected. "Important distinction."
Kael considered this with the seriousness only children and future prodigies possessed.
"…Can I watch?" he asked.
"You already are."
"Can I comment?"
Rias hesitated.
"…Fine. But be gentle."
Kael grinned. "No promises."
Rias returned to his balance exercise. This time, he focused on breathing steadily, distributing his weight carefully. His ankle trembled, but he held.
Five seconds.
Six.
Seven—
He lost balance and stumbled sideways.
Kael clapped enthusiastically. "New record!"
"Thank you," Rias said dryly. "Your encouragement fuels my humiliation."
Next came step three.
Basic sword motion repetition.
Rias picked up a light wooden sword he had brought earlier and assumed a relaxed stance. Not Leonhart formal stance. Not any recognized martial posture.
Just stable.
He raised the sword slowly and performed a shallow downward cut.
His muscles strained, but he maintained control.
He paused.
Reset.
Another shallow cut.
Kael watched closely, expression shifting from amusement to curiosity.
"You're not swinging properly," Kael said.
"I'm aware," Rias replied. "If I swing properly, I'll require medical assistance."
Kael tilted his head again. "Then what's the point?"
Rias smiled faintly.
"The point is teaching my body to move without panicking."
Kael blinked. "Bodies panic?"
"Mine does," Rias said. "Frequently. Dramatically."
He repeated the motion again. And again.
By the eighth repetition, his arms trembled violently. Sweat slid down his neck. His breathing grew heavier.
He lowered the sword.
Kael frowned. "You stopped early."
"I stopped wisely," Rias corrected.
Kael crossed his arms. "Caspian never stops early."
"Yes," Rias said, wiping sweat from his forehead, "and Caspian is built like destiny's favorite child."
Kael burst into laughter.
Rias sat down on the low stone bench, stretching his sore wrists.
The courtyard fell quiet for a moment. Birds chirped faintly from nearby trees. The gentle breeze carried the scent of blooming flowers from the estate gardens.
"…Brother Rias," Kael said suddenly, sitting beside him. "Are you scared?"
Rias blinked.
"…Yes," he answered after a pause.
Kael looked surprised.
"Of failing," Rias continued. "Of being useless. Of… not surviving long enough to figure things out."
Kael swung his legs thoughtfully. "Then why keep training?"
Rias looked at his trembling hands.
"Because being scared and doing nothing is worse," he said softly.
Kael nodded slowly, as if storing that answer somewhere important.
After a short rest, Rias stood again.
"Alright," he said, clapping his hands once. "Final exercise."
Kael perked up.
Rias walked to the far side of the courtyard and pointed at a faded chalk line near the wall.
"I run from here," he said, "to that line… and back."
Kael stared.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"…You're setting very manageable expectations."
"I am a visionary."
Rias positioned himself, inhaled slowly, and began running.
It was not fast. It was not graceful.
But it was movement.
His legs protested immediately, his breathing quickened within seconds, and his chest tightened slightly—but he maintained pace. Step by step, he reached the line, turned carefully, and jogged back.
When he reached Kael again, he bent forward, hands on knees, breathing heavily.
"…Victory," he wheezed.
Kael clapped again, far too enthusiastically for such a modest accomplishment.
"You're weird," Kael declared.
"Correct," Rias said between breaths. "But functional."
They sat together in comfortable silence for a moment.
Despite the exhaustion burning through his body, Rias felt something unfamiliar stirring beneath it.
Not strength.
Not confidence.
Momentum.
Small. Fragile. But real.
He looked at the courtyard, at the dummy, at the faint footprints marking his uneven path across the stone.
"…One step at a time," he murmured.
Kael tilted his head. "What?"
"Nothing," Rias said with a small smile. "Just planning my next failure."
Kael grinned widely.
And for the first time since waking in this fragile body, Rias realized something important.
Struggle did not always mean losing.
Sometimes—
Struggle meant moving forward slowly enough to survive the journey.