"Seriously?"
[Given that the host has deviated severely from the intended development path, a one-time calibration is available. It may alter portions of your memories and your environment. People around you may disappear. Do you agree?]
Lucas opened his mouth, his first instinct to spit a curse right back at it.
But the words stalled out.
People around you may disappear.
His fingers twitched.
William's face—always carrying that annoying edge of arrogance. The knight academy's training grounds. The old knight's gravelly voice. Winters in the stable. Hands split open from cold—
All of it flashed through his head at once.
Those things had been real.
"After calibration," Lucas said, staring at the panel, "what do I lose?"
[Unable to predict precisely.]
"Will I keep my memories?"
[Probability of retaining the host's core consciousness is extremely high.]
He went quiet for a few seconds, then looked down at the pair of boots in his hands, the stench still clinging to them.
"…Fine. I agree."
The next instant—
White light swallowed his vision. In the moment it hit, he couldn't even tell whether he was being torn apart, or rebuilt from scratch.
Lucas heard a horn.
Not the distant call from the camp earlier—this one was closer, louder, like it detonated right against his eardrums.
Then the ground under his feet felt wrong.
Not the soft dirt outside a tent, but a training field packed hard by countless boots.
He looked down on reflex.
No servant rags on his chest now. He was wearing close-fitting chainmail.
His palms—especially the web between thumb and forefinger—were thick with calluses. Something heavy rode his hip: a real sword, the kind a knight actually carried.
"Lucas!"
A sharp, severe voice yanked him fully back into the world.
Standing in front of him was Edmund, the drill instructor of Count Avington's knightly order.
"Your assignment is to train a militia unit. On your own."
Lucas stared at him, blank.
Train a militia unit?
He was just an attendant. A boot-polisher. A tagalong.
Before he could even get his bearings, the translucent panel popped up again.
Lucas Grayson
Class: Knight-in-training Lv. 5 (30/100)
XP Pool: 0/100
"Lucas Grayson?!"
"Where's my master—William Grayson?"
For a heartbeat, everything went dead quiet.
Then laughter exploded around him.
"Master?"
"Lucas, did you drink yourself stupid last night?"
"What William?"
"Your mom pop out another little brother or something?"
Edmund's brow furrowed. His eyes went cold.
"Focus on your orders, Lucas."
"You're Baron Grayson's second son. Don't start talking nonsense at a time like this."
Lucas stood there as the chill crept up his spine, inch by inch.
"Listen carefully," Edmund said, staring him down, voice hard as iron. "This is the final lesson of your knight training. You will train a militia unit independently."
"A knight isn't someone who just swings a sword and kills. You need to know how to form ranks. How to train men. How to make a group of undisciplined rabble understand your commands."
"Otherwise, you'll spend your whole life as nothing more than a thug who can fight a little."
So this was what "calibration" meant?
He'd become Baron Grayson's second son. A knight-in-training.
And William…
William had been erased. Like someone had taken an eraser to the world itself and rubbed him out.
Lucas tried to speak. His throat felt tight.
One second ago, he'd been polishing someone else's boots.
The next, people were looking at him like it was normal for him to be the one training a militia.
The panel chimed again.
[Calibration complete.]
[Detected strong residual memory of "William Grayson" within host.]
[Warning: Target "William Grayson" does not exist in current world records.]
[Host identity: Lucas Grayson, Knight-in-training. Current task: Train militia. Have fun! Bye-bye.]
But for the rest of the afternoon, Lucas barely heard a thing.
Commands repeated in his ears. His body went through the motions on autopilot.
His mind stayed stuck on that one sentence, grinding it down until it hurt—
William doesn't exist.
No one else thought anything was wrong.
Not until the horn sounded again and training finally ended.
…
That night, Lucas barely slept.
He tried to dig up more details, but the memories felt like something heavy was pressing down on them—clear, sharp, undeniably real… and somehow untouchable, like there was glass between him and them.
He didn't ask the system again.
He already knew—there wouldn't be an answer.
That was the price.
He'd agreed. So now he moved forward.
As for William—
This wasn't the time to stop and fall apart over him.
Besides, "doesn't exist in current world records" didn't necessarily mean gone forever.
Early the next morning.
Lucas only managed to shut his eyes for a little while right before dawn.
When he opened them again, the window had turned the color of weak ash-gray light.
He didn't touch the panel.
Now wasn't the time to go crazy.
Wherever William had ended up, Lucas had to do one thing first: live like someone this world recognized as real.
After a quick wash, Lucas ate the breakfast a servant brought him and headed straight for the manor's training yard.
When he stepped onto the field, the militia were already there—standing in a line that barely deserved the name. Slouched posture, crooked spacing, zero discipline.
A few days of better food had put a little more meat on their bones, but it hadn't done anything for their spirits. They looked exhausted, dull-eyed, half-asleep on their feet.
Lucas frowned, walked up, and brought the short stick in his hand down on the shoulder of a militiaman whose stance was a mess. No hesitation. No mercy.
"Stand up straight. One line!" His voice cut clean—cold, steady, final.
He already had a training plan in his head.
It was boring work, repetitive as hell, but Lucas didn't care.
In the corner of his vision, the panel flickered like a coworker who'd just punched in and was already looking for an excuse to disappear.
Lucas ignored it.
This manor was one of Count Avington's holdings. More than five hundred serfs lived here. On paper, there were twenty "guards." In reality, only five were actually trained professional soldiers. The rest were temps with pitchforks and kitchen knives.
His job was to produce ten usable militia within a month.
The final lesson of knight training. Not swordsmanship. Not mounted combat.
Managing people.
This world's logic was simple: a knight who only knew how to kill would spend his whole life as someone else's blade. A knight who could train soldiers—that knight earned the right to hold land.
The first three days, almost nothing changed.
They still leaned. Still zoned out. Still held their spears like they were laundry poles.
But at least no one dared slack off in front of Lucas anymore.
On the morning of the fourth day, Lucas walked into the yard.
Ten militia stood—crookedly—in a line.
One was scratching his head. One yawned wide and didn't even try to hide it. The last guy in the back was straight-up leaning on the wooden fence with his eyes closed, half dozing.
Lucas didn't say a word.
He walked over and tapped the man's shoulder with the stick.
Not loud. Just a crisp little crack that somehow carried.
The man jolted upright like he'd been stabbed. His eyes went wide, and a thin string of drool still clung to the corner of his mouth.
"Stand straight."
Lucas didn't raise his voice.
No one took it lightly.
All ten men tightened at once, spines straightening on instinct.
Lucas walked down the line.
Third man—left shoulder sagging.
The stick came down.
Seventh—feet turned out like a duck.
The stick jabbed his ankle.
Ninth was technically standing right, but his hands were frozen awkwardly in front of him like he didn't know where to put them.
Lucas glanced at him.
The man immediately slapped his hands flat to the sides of his thighs.
No one made a sound.
A younger militiaman, nose red from the cold, couldn't hold it and sniffed.
In the quiet yard, it sounded ridiculously loud.
Ten pairs of eyes snapped to him at once.
The kid's face went bright red. He looked like he wanted to dig a hole and bury himself in it.
Lucas didn't react.
He focused on the first thing that mattered—getting ten men to stand in a line.
Straight.
Still.
No fidgeting. No swaying.
Everything else came later.
Form up. Face directions. Thrust drills. Conditioning runs.
Four things.
Over and over.
Until their bodies remembered without their brains getting a vote.
At the far end of the training yard, two patrolling guards had stopped without Lucas noticing.
"That the new guy?"
"Yeah."
At first they were only half-looking.
But the longer they watched, the deeper one of them frowned.
"…Why are those idiots behaving today?"