This sudden visit threw off all of Reyn's plans. He didn't know if more constables or Demon Extermination Squad members would show up, or if he was under secret surveillance. To avoid getting caught, he decided to hole up in the apartment for a few days.
With nothing else to do, Reyn started training.
At the superhuman academy, instructors emphasized physical exercises alongside fencing and supernatural lore to strengthen the body.
The Soul Transformation Ritual tested willpower, and strong will usually required a sturdy body. Rare geniuses might endure the soul's agony while physically weak, but for most ordinary people, the path meant years of training. Pushing physical limits repeatedly tempered the will, boosting ritual success odds.
The academy had countless detailed training methods, as complex as Earth's fitness programs. Endurance runs, strength work, aerobic and anaerobic complexes, plus mastering one weapon and combat style.
With money, one could buy alchemy potions. Lion Strength Potion built muscle, Muscle Relaxing Tea eased fatigue, Vigor Potion restored energy fast, even Spirit Concentration Oil slightly boosted the soul. Over a dozen such brews existed. A full course would bankrupt a modest noble family. Regular use developed superhuman physical stats, even if the ritual failed.
Reyn had never tried alchemy potions. His father, Bad, owned a mill in their hometown and was one of the wealthier folks, but income only covered his son's tuition. Potions were just a dream.
But now, he didn't need them.
In the apartment, he did an endurance complex like Earth burpees, but more advanced, combined with high-intensity moves—a souped-up bodyweight workout.
Just ten minutes in, Reyn was soaked head to toe, sweat pouring, but he kept going to test his limits. As the workout dragged on, his phone's energy charge slowly dropped.
Over two hours later, when it hit 20%, Reyn felt crushing fatigue and finally stopped. The floor was wet with sweat, he breathed like a hunted beast, steam rose from his body, limbs heavy and unresponsive.
But through the exhaustion came incomparable lightness and satisfaction!
"Such intense load, and I lasted over two hours! With my current strength and stamina, I'd snag a couple dozen gold medals at the Olympics easy!"
"Too bad I can't go back. No bragging to everyone."
Reyn shook his head regretfully, humming a tune as he headed to the bathroom. Then he went to the nearby diner and ate heartily—his huge appetite surprised the owner.
Full and rested after a couple hours, Reyn found his energy charge full again, strength fully restored, like after a long sleep.
Then he pushed himself harder.
He repeated the same complex over and over: drain strength and energy, eat, recover—and repeat.
He trained like that for nearly a week.
Once, he slipped out to the "Basil" tavern to grab the money bag, exchange it for gold shields at the bank, and stash the proceeds. Otherwise, Reyn stayed cooped up, training. He slept just two-three hours a night but ate four-five times a day, portions for two or three people.
The grueling, monotonous workouts yielded stunning results.
Reyn gained over ten pounds. His body became more proportional and solid, muscles defined, old scrawniness gone.
The biggest gain was strength. A simple home test showed he'd gotten nearly one-and-a-half times stronger. Now he could easily lift around five hundred pounds and move freely with it. If not for the cramped apartment, he could've run!
Such power outstripped some non-strength-focused superhumans.
But Reyn felt he'd nearly hit ordinary human limits. Further training, no matter how brutal, would yield only marginal gains.
"Time to prep for the Soul Transformation Ritual."
All these days, Reyn stayed vigilant. He periodically activated "Voice of All Things," listening for sounds around the house, but found no surveillance or constable visits.
It meant Pollock from the Bureau of Public Security hadn't dug deeper—at least, Reyn was no suspect.
Reyn cleaned up, donned a new suit, and looked sharp. Men's suits in the Empire resembled Earth tuxedos, but mainly worn by aristocrats and high-society rich. One cost half a commoner's monthly wage, so normals saved them for special occasions.
Reyn had bought this new one a couple days ago at a tailor near his lunch spot.
"Clothes make the man. I was already good-looking, but in this suit with this build—total model..." Admiring himself in the mirror, Reyn nodded satisfied, pocketed a few dozen gold shields and a wad of bills, and headed out.
On the curb, Reyn noticed extra attention. Passersby, men and women, whispered as they passed—some envious, some admiring.
Reyn inwardly gloated but remembered his Discord Mark. He quickly raised a hand, hailing a passing carriage, and got in.
"Where to, sir?" the coachman asked respectfully.
Reyn had decided long ago.
"Brent Street, to the 'Violet House'."
Brent Street was in the Silverstar district, near the three superhuman academies, heart of Longsand's poshest quarter. It was the city's elite shopping street. Shops sold everything a superhuman needed: alchemy stores, artisan workshops, potion apothecaries, weapon shops, rune lore stalls. Even rare demonic souls were available.
Reyn had visited Brent Street often with classmates but, broke, was always just a window-shopper. Like "broke guys know luxury cars best," he'd learned a lot eyeing the goods.
Shops on Brent Street competed fiercely. Powerful forces backed them, tied to Longsand's elite.
Among them, a few years back, opened "Violet House." Small, not too famous, but great reputation. Its supernatural goods assortment was surprisingly complete, rivaling bigger stores. Rumors said mysterious backers.
Reyn had visited "Violet House" a few times and always got a warm welcome, leaving a good impression.
The carriage quickly left Los district, crossed the Ferreglen river bridge, and entered Silverstar.
A tall tower appeared on the horizon. As the carriage rolled down wide, clean streets, it loomed closer.
Reyn activated his Soul Eye and looked at the tower.
It rose over three hundred meters. A four-sided pillar of unknown material, mostly white. Its surface had lines like patterns or channels, energy seemingly flowing through them.
The base was dozens of meters wide, tapering upward. Floors inside were hard to count. The top held a massive eye-like object floating in air. Blue energy streamed up to it constantly.
Even by day, the "eye" emitted light beams like a giant searchlight, scanning Silverstar district.
"Spiritual Demon Eye!"
"They say it's an eighth-circle spell the Silverstar Duchess made permanent on her Mage Tower. Sees vast distances, spots enemies early, unleashes terrifying magic strikes."
Reyn tried refocusing his Soul Eye for details, but suddenly the tower's Eye seemed to sense something—its "gaze" snapped toward the carriage.
"Damn, so sensitive!"
Reyn instantly deactivated his Soul Eye.
The next second, the Eye's gaze hit the carriage. Unbearable pressure enveloped it, light inside blindingly bright, piercing everything. A chill ran down Reyn's spine.
The horses, trotting steadily, slowed sharply. The coachman yelped, struggling to control the spooked animals.
Luckily, the Eye's gaze just glanced over, not lingering.
"Sir, you alright?" The coachman halted and turned, half-complaining, half-explaining: "Silverstar's fine, but that eye on the tower keeps sweeping the area, spooks the horses. Third time this year for me—one time the carriage even flipped, passenger hurt. Though the Duchess always compensates and pays out, still extra hassle, sigh..."
Reyn, still shaky, reassured him:
"I'm fine, keep going."
"As you say." The carriage moved on.
Lesson learned, Reyn no longer dared scrutinize the Spiritual Demon Eye on the Mage Tower.
Half an hour later, the carriage entered a bustling street. Traffic was thick, private cars—rare elsewhere—common here. Few pedestrians, but all sharply dressed, exuding confidence. Stark contrast to poor quarters—the river split two worlds.
Superhumans dotted the street. They carried gear, weapons; some rode exotic beasts, but no panic—locals were used to it.
Soon, the carriage stopped at a shop entrance.
"Sir, 'Violet House,' we're here," the coachman announced.
***