By direct order of Duchess Sophia, the first to push him was Albert, his tutor and guardian since childhood. No one in the Douglas mansion dared to argue with him—least of all when it came to the heir. Albert, a descendant of the maternal line, had served the family for three generations; his loyalty was as solid as the steel he wielded. He was not only responsible for the young duke's safety, but also his combat instructor.
Sophia had given the order in a firm voice, leaving no room for argument:
"A weak body breeds a weak mind," she had said that morning, watching from the balcony as the sun lit the fields.
Albert carried out the instruction with his characteristic severity. When he entered Lusian's chambers, his mere presence filled the room: the smell of leather, the metallic clink of his armor, the weight of duty in every movement.
"The reason you fell ill is because you lack training," he said bluntly, his gaze allowing no disagreement. "Starting today, you'll move that body—even if I have to drag you to the training field."
Lusian tried to protest, still wrapped in a laziness he mistook for weakness.
"I still feel bad… maybe another day," he murmured, more to himself than to Albert.
Albert stepped closer, standing like a wall of authority.
"There is no other day. Lost time is danger. Every moment you waste here takes you further from surviving in this world."
Lusian swallowed, knowing arguing was useless. But inside him, something sparked—the first hint of defiance, a thought reminding him that even if the body wasn't his, his mind could still carve its own path.
Before he could say anything else, Albert shoved him toward the training grounds.
The training field stretched before him: a wide courtyard of sand mixed with stone, surrounded by low walls and watchtowers where soldiers practiced swordsmanship and magic under the commander's watchful eye.
"Greetings, young master Lusian!" the knights shouted in unison as he walked toward the center.
The echo of their voices bounced off the walls, and for a moment Lusian felt the weight of all those eyes fixed on him. Shame wrapped around him like a heavy cloak; he was no longer a player behind a screen, but a young duke expected to meet everyone's standards.
Albert appeared beside him, grabbing two swords with a sharp flick of his wrist.
"You still haven't learned, Lusian. You must behave according to your status. Today, you'll remember what training means," he said, tossing him a sword, which Lusian caught by reflex, staggering under its weight.
"Master…" Lusian said, lowering his gaze. "…I can't feel mana."
Albert frowned, evaluating him with disdain.
"You can't, you say? Or is that just another excuse not to train?" he muttered. The air around him vibrated with energy. Without hesitation, he wrapped his fist in mana—a bright red glow that made the air crackle and smell of ozone. "Let's find out."
The blow came fast, straight to Lusian's chest, sending him flying backward. Another strike to the abdomen knocked the air out of him. He rolled across the ground, dust rising as muffled laughter echoed around him.
The pain was real. Not numbers on a screen or the vibration of a controller—it was iron pressing into flesh, a metallic taste in his mouth, a ringing in his ears.
So this is what dying really feels like… he thought, trying to stand.
Then he felt it.
Something inside him stirred—a primal current reacting to the contact with foreign mana. The blow hadn't just hurt him… it had awakened him.
The pain turned into vibration, and from the void emerged a cold, viscous energy flowing through his veins. Black mana—thick as ink—seeped from his skin. First in threads, then in waves that distorted the light around him. The air smelled of ozone and ash.
Recalling what he knew from the game, he understood: everyone is born at level 1—weak, fragile, vulnerable. One rises only through training and nourishment. Foods rich in mana—high-level monster meat, energy-filled fruits and herbs—were key to rapid growth. Most common humans barely reached level 20 or 25 by age fifteen. Nobles, accustomed to mana-rich banquets, could surpass level 40 with little effort.
Lusian, at just fifteen, had already reached level 45: a midpoint between cadet and legionnaire.
Magical affinity, however, couldn't be gained through food or training. It was a hereditary gift, passed down from the mother, connecting the bearer to a primordial element—water, fire, earth, air, light, darkness, ice, or lightning. Those with affinity could channel mana more easily, reduce spell cost, and amplify their elemental power.
That was why the god-blessed heroes Lusian remembered from the game were not mere adventurers. Combining level and affinity, they could alter the fate of Kuria itself.
And now, in this body and with this чужой power, Erwin realized that survival wouldn't depend on skill alone… but on adapting to something far deeper and more dangerous than he had ever imagined.
From what he remembered, Albert had been Lusian's loyal right hand—faithful, respectful. Here, he showed no mercy. No one helped. No one dared.
"Are you going to train properly, or are you just going to take a beating?" Albert stepped forward, his shadow swallowing him.
Lusian staggered to his feet. His breathing was uneven, but something inside him now pulsed with strength. Albert's strike had done more than punish—it had awakened his dormant mana.
Game knowledge and bodily instinct fused into a single impulse.
Physical enhancement… speed, strength.
The spell activated almost on its own: a dark glow wrapped around his muscles, the ground cracking beneath his boots.
He coated his sword in that same energy, the blade staining with liquid shadows.
With a guttural shout, he extended his hand.
Seven black spears materialized around him, floating in a perfect circle before launching toward Albert.
The old man smiled.
With a simple motion, he wrapped his sword in fire. Flames roared to life. Each spear that struck him disintegrated into sparks.
When the last one vanished, Albert advanced, his weapon blazing like a torch.
"Good—you finally remember!" he growled, pride mixed with severity. "Now we can truly train."
Lusian's heart pounded, but the fear was gone. He had awakened—and for the first time, his power felt like his own.
Moments later, he staggered back and improvised a water spell, focusing without control. Steam burst around him, crackling in the air—but he quickly felt his mana draining at a brutal rate, leaving him nearly empty.
Each attempt to channel energy outside his affinity weakened him further, revealing a harsh truth: in this world, anyone can use any element—but doing so without affinity is a lethal waste of mana. In real combat, that waste isn't a mistake. It's a death sentence.
"So you plan to waste your mana just to avoid training?" Albert growled, a cold hint of amusement in his voice. "That irritates me."
With a gesture, his fiery aura swallowed the steam, evaporating it instantly. The heat hit Lusian like an invisible wall—suffocating, scorching. Before he could react, the next blow slammed him to the ground.
Albert didn't stop. He forced him to roll, to stand, to endure—each strike measured and lethal, his deep voice cutting through the air:
"Use only your affinity magic. Everything else is waste… and on the battlefield, waste dies."
From the balcony, Sophia watched in silence.
Each blow her son received made her clench her fists. Her hands trembled between the urge to intervene and the duty not to. Thunder, her beast, neighed uneasily.
"If you hit him one more time, Albert…" she muttered under her breath, "…you'll taste my wrath."
Still, she didn't intervene.
Deep down, she knew that fire—that spirit she saw in Lusian—was new.
He was no longer the impulsive child he once was. There was something different in him. Something… she couldn't explain.
The training went on for hours. By the time it ended, the sun had shifted, casting long shadows across the field. Lusian lay on the ground, breathing heavily, his clothes torn, his body covered in sweat, dust, and bruises. Every muscle ached—but something inside him shone: the quiet satisfaction of surpassing a limit.
Albert watched him in silence, arms crossed, dust still settling around Lusian. His hardened eyes barely hid a deeper emotion. He had seen the boy's first steps, his childish tantrums, his awkward laughter, his falls and small victories. To Albert, Lusian was more than a lord—he was, in many ways, the grandson he never had.
And perhaps that was why it hurt to see him like this.
Part of him wanted to tell him it was enough for today—to get up, shake off the sand, and go enjoy his youth while he still could. But he couldn't.
Lusian was not an ordinary child. He was the heir of the Douglas family, future duke of a land that did not forgive weakness. If he didn't train him now, didn't harden him, didn't prepare him for what was inevitably coming… then his life would be at risk. And Albert would not allow the boy he had watched grow up to die for being unprepared.
So he kept his expression firm.
Erwin, pale and trembling, felt like he might die right there. Every breath was a struggle, the air tasting like iron. The rough, dusty ground felt more real than ever—each grain scraping his skin, reminding him of his fragility.
Suddenly, Adela rushed in from the edge of the field, her skirt whipping in the wind, a white tiger following behind her. In her hands were two vials: one filled with a green liquid sparkling with healing light, the other a dark blue potion carrying the sharp scent of mint and concentrated mana. She knelt beside Lusian, hands trembling, and carefully offered them to him.
Garet, who had been watching silently, stepped forward, frowning.
"You shouldn't be so harsh, Albert. He hasn't fully recovered yet," he said, his deep voice echoing against the stone walls.
Albert wiped his sword with a cloth, not even bothering to look at him.
"He's young. He can endure it. He must grow stronger," he replied calmly.
"If anything happens to him, I'll hold you responsible," Garet shot back, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword, tension alive in every muscle.
The silence that followed felt heavy. Soldiers pretended to look straight ahead, but the air crackled with tension. Two of the most powerful men in the duchy stood opposed—not with weapons, but with conflicting ideals about a boy who could barely stand.
Still kneeling, Lusian drank the green potion. The liquid burned down his throat, then spread through his body like liquid fire, easing the pain and replacing it with a tingling mix of energy and fatigue.
"What level am I?" he asked, barely lifting his gaze toward Adela, his voice carrying an unexpected calm.
She blinked, surprised.
"The last measurement was level forty-five, my lord."
Lusian nodded, simple but firm.
"I see… thank you."
Adela froze for a moment.
Thank you.
That word—one he had never spoken to her before—now lingered in the air. In the past, Lusian would have demanded another potion or scolded whoever was slow to bring it. But the young man breathing heavily before her was no longer the same.
In his eyes—once clouded by arrogance—there now shone something different: understanding. A spark of respect for those around him… and perhaps the first sign of what he might become, if he survived both the training and the world that now claimed him.