The silence of the hallway was broken only by the ragged, rhythmic whistling of Isaac's breath. Every few steps, he had to stop, leaning his rounded shoulder against the cold stone walls of the estate. To a healthy boy, the walk from the bedroom to the grand staircase was a matter of seconds. To Isaac, it was a pilgrimage.
"The dining hall is just below, Young Master," Hans said, his voice trailing behind Isaac like a shadow. There was no pity in the butler's tone, only a dry, professional observation of a boy struggling to move his own mass.
Then came the stairs.
Isaac looked down at the twelve stone steps—the same ones that had nearly claimed his life three days ago. In his mind, he saw the hospital stairs he was never allowed to climb. He felt a surge of stubbornness. He reached out, his dimpled hand gripping the banister so hard the wood creaked. With Hans hovering just close enough to catch him but far enough to show his distaste, Isaac began the descent.
Each step sent a jarring shock through his knees. By the time his boots hit the marble of the first floor, Isaac was drenched. Sweat soaked through his velvet doublet, making the expensive fabric heavy and cold against his skin. His face was a dark shade of red, and his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"You... made it, Young Master," Hans remarked, a hint of genuine surprise flickering in his eyes. He had expected the boy to demand a litter or simply give up and crawl.
"Thank you, Hans," Isaac gasped, wiping his brow with a silk handkerchief that was quickly becoming useless.
The butler guided him toward the heavy oak doors of the dining room. As Isaac entered, the frantic energy of the servants stuttered to a halt. Footmen holding silver platters froze. Maidservants placing crystal glasses narrowed their eyes. The air in the room curdled with visible disgust.
To them, Isaac wasn't a recovering patient; he was a ticking time bomb. They watched his calm demeanor with deep suspicion. *What is he planning?* the whispers seemed to echo. *Is he acting quiet just so he can trip the lead server? Is he going to spit in the soup once the Count arrives?*
Isaac ignored the glares. He moved to his chair—a reinforced seat at the end of the long table—and sat down with a heavy thud.
The meal was served. In front of him sat a bowl of clear beef broth, a small portion of roasted chicken without the skin, and a pile of steamed bitter greens. It was exactly what he had requested, and it looked pitiful compared to the mountain of honey-soaked pastries and grease-laden meats being served at the other empty seats.
Isaac looked at the food. He remembered the "Old Isaac" at this table: screaming that the meat was too tough, hurling crystal glasses at the chefs, and cursing the staff until they trembled.
He picked up his spoon. His movements were slow, burdened by his weight, but they were precise. He didn't slouch. He didn't shove the food into his mouth with his fingers. He ate with the quiet, practiced manners of someone who had spent years being watched by nurses and doctors—with a dignity this body had never possessed.
The room grew eerily quiet. The servants exchanged bewildered glances. The "Lazy Pig" was eating vegetables. He wasn't screaming. He wasn't throwing a tantrum. He was... eating like a nobleman.
Hidden in the shadows of the doorway, the door was cracked just enough for a single silver eye to peer through. Risha stood there, her small hand gripping the wood.
She wasn't just looking at his manners. She was looking at his Mana.
To Risha's "Omni-Sight," a person's mana was like a signature. The old Isaac's mana had been a muddy, violent brown, swirling in chaotic, jagged spikes that made her skin crawl. It was the mana of a bully—cluttered and cruel.
But as she watched him now, she blinked in confusion. The mana flowing through Isaac's heavy frame had smoothed out. It was still the color of deep earth, but it was moving in a slow, rhythmic pulse, as steady as a heartbeat. It was calm. It was... peaceful.
*Did the fall truly break something inside him?* she wondered, her heart racing. *Or did it fix something?*
She wanted to believe it, but the memories of her torn books and the bruises on her arms were too fresh. A calm mana flow didn't mean the monster was gone; it just meant the monster was being quiet.
Isaac looked toward the door, sensing a presence. Risha flinched and pulled back into the darkness, her heart hammering.
Isaac turned back to his broth. He knew that a single polite meal wouldn't erase years of trauma. He didn't just need to change his manners; he needed to prove his change of heart through blood, sweat, and the very earth beneath his feet.