Chapter 5
The sun was shining brightly, casting golden rays through the tall glass windows of the empty training chamber I'd repurposed into my private gym.
The polished marble floors were slick with sweat, and scattered across the room were the many tools I'd acquired to help me in my new routine—weights, dummies, resistance ropes, and even mana-calibrated equipment I'd personally designed.
With my [Warrior Body], a gift that boosted my physical attributes beyond what most mages could dream of, I didn't lose strength easily.
Where others would fatigue quickly, I could keep pushing, keep grinding.
And that's exactly what I'd been doing.
For two relentless hours.
Push-ups that shook the floor.
Pull-ups until my muscles trembled.
Shadowboxing against imaginary enemies with fists that cut through air like blades.
I had already gone for a 5 AM run, long before the sun broke the horizon, returning just in time to greet it.
My enchanted training suit, freshly made the day before, clung to my body like a second skin, amplifying resistance with every movement.
Sweat soaked through it, turning my breath into steam in the cool air of the hall.
Sit-ups.
Squats.
Leg raises.
Again and again, over and over.
Each rep done with absolute focus, each movement carved with intent.
I wasn't doing this to look good.
I was doing this because I had to.
I had to sharpen myself in every way possible.
Magic was fascinating, limitless in potential.
Yet the majority of mages clung to tradition like blind men to crutches.
They saw only the front-facing aspect of magic—spells, elements, flashy displays.
But not the inner potential, the foundation.
Not the bones and marrow of true power.
That was their flaw, not mine.
I already had plans to dive into advanced fields like Sealcraft and Potion Marking, disciplines considered auxiliary by most.
Fools.
Every branch of magic had worth—especially the ones ignored by others.
But those studies would have to wait.
My schedule was already packed.
I needed to devote my time to the most critical endeavor of all: the Mana Stone Project.
The project had started as a dream—to artificially replicate mana stones.
These rare crystals formed only in locations of extreme mana density, places that were highly contested, fiercely guarded, and sometimes outright sacrificed for during wars.
The stones were the lifeblood of modern magical advancement, and the scarcity of them made them priceless.
Originally, the true creator of this project had been a man whose name the world never learned.
Instead, the previous Lucas—the man I now inhabited—had claimed the project as his own, using the man's genius to bask in stolen glory.
But arrogance comes with a price.
The project failed under pressure.
Lucas pushed the man too far, driving him to the edge with impossible expectations, draining his mana, and cracking his core.
He fell into a coma, body ruined, mind shattered.
It was supposed to be temporary.
It wasn't.
That was four years ago.
Now the Council was getting impatient.
They'd funded this project, throwing millions of Zen into it, hoping for a breakthrough that never came.
They had given Lucas four months—one final deadline.
Show them results or have the entire project scrapped, credibility burned, and resources pulled.
The worst part?
The previous Lucas had already burned through every bit of funding like a man possessed, leaving nothing behind but a mountain of incomplete data, half-finished devices, and theoretical nonsense only he could decode.
Now I was left to fix the mess with no resources and no time.
If not for Olivia, my wife, whose work brought in a massive income, and the monthly 3,000,000 Zen stipends from my family, I'd have been bankrupt long ago.
That fortune was the only reason I could keep the lab running at all.
I dropped to the floor, arms wide, gasping as sweat poured from my body like rain.
My heart pounded, but my mind was racing even faster.
I had to finish the Mana Core Project.
No one else understood it.
No one else could understand it in time.
It was either me… or nothing.
As I lay there, the thought came unbidden.
"If I remember correctly… the man's children—his daughter and son—should be at the academy." I spoke aloud to the empty room, eyes narrowing.
My thoughts were cut short as the door to the chamber creaked open.
I turned my head, wiping my face with my arm.
I was shirtless, sweat glistening on my torso, and steam practically rising from my skin like I'd just walked out of a sauna.
My breathing slowed as I saw her—Olivia—framed by the doorway, as striking as ever.
Dressed entirely in black, her tight-fitting outfit contrasted against her pale skin and raven-black hair.
Her crimson eyes locked onto mine, gleaming with something between amusement and disdain.
She stared for a moment, clearly taken aback by the sight of me actually training—seriously training.
Then she scoffed and stepped inside.
"Why would a mage focus on physical training," she said mockingly, her voice laced with sarcasm, "when you know you won't go far with it?"
Classic Olivia—always ready to jab where it hurt.
I didn't bite.
I didn't even flinch.
I stood up, grabbing a towel and wiping the sweat from my brow.
"Doesn't mean I shouldn't do it," I replied calmly.
She tilted her head, a smirk curling at the edge of her lips.
"It's just like you to waste time on useless things."
I didn't say anything.
Instead, I turned away from Olivia and walked back to the pull-up bar I had crafted from enchanted steel, embedded directly into the marble beams of the ceiling.
My muscles ached, my body screamed for rest, but I wasn't done.
One… two… three—each pull-up forced me to concentrate, to channel my focus and ignore the presence behind me.
Olivia didn't move.
She just watched.
Maybe she was expecting a reaction, a word, anything.
But I gave her nothing.
When I finished, I dropped down in silence, breathing steadily.
I walked over to the bench and took a long drink from my flask, the cold water running down my throat and easing the burn.
Olivia still stood by the door, arms crossed, gaze sharp.
She looked irritated now.
"Leo told me you wanted to say something to me." Her voice was clipped, as if trying to sound indifferent but cracking under pressure.
I paused, water still in hand. My thoughts flickered.
'What is it?' I asked myself.
I knew what Lucas had done.
Evil might even be too light a word.
He had used her, cheated on her, made a mockery of her.
A woman like Olivia—proud, strong, and deeply loyal—had fallen for him once.
But that love had turned to ashes.
The lies.
The laziness.
The disgrace of a noble who abandoned his purpose.
No wonder she couldn't look at him without contempt.
I sighed quietly, lowering the flask.
"I wanted to take you out," I said plainly.
That made her blink.
Slightly.
Her expression didn't soften, but there was a flicker of confusion.
"Then why did you send my butler to tell me that?" she asked.
"Because you refused." My voice remained calm, unshaken.
I didn't raise it, didn't flinch.
I spoke with the composed dignity of a noble.
My posture, my tone, my manner—none of it matched the Lucas she had known.
Her brows drew together.
She was trying to understand.
To decipher me.
To figure out why the man in front of her looked like her husband, but didn't act like him.
Lucas hadn't possessed the skills I did.
He had only a diluted version of them.
I—on the other hand—could wield them to their fullest.
Or perhaps they were wielding me.
I still wasn't sure.
"So you thought sending my butler would change my mind?" she asked, stepping closer, voice heavy with disbelief.
"Yes." I answered directly, without hesitation.
Olivia scoffed, the sound sharp, almost bitter.
She took another step forward, closing the distance between us.
"And why would I do that?" she demanded. "You know I've never liked a single thing you've bought me. Not in all the years. Why would now be any different?"
I didn't argue.
I didn't defend myself.
I only let out another quiet breath, one born of understanding.
She had every right to hate him—to hate me, even if I wasn't truly him.
Some wounds could not be undone.
Some damage couldn't be reversed.
But I could still try to fix the moment in front of me, even if I couldn't fix the past behind me.
"I know," I said softly. "I just wanted to spend some time with you. And I wanted to say something."
Her crimson eyes narrowed again, like knives searching for weakness.
"What do you want to say?" she asked.
I closed my eyes.
No ordinary noble would ever say what I was about to.
Nobles prided themselves on strength, on composure, on dominance.
But true nobility was more than arrogance—it was the courage to admit one's faults, to see clearly and act with wisdom, not ego.
When I opened my eyes again, I met her gaze without flinching.
"That I'm sorry."
Time froze.
The words hung in the air like a spell cast from an ancient tongue—sacred, forbidden, wrong.
Olivia didn't speak.
She didn't move.
It was as if I had broken some unspoken law, shattered the rhythm of the world with a phrase that should never have been uttered.
Her eyes widened slightly.
Just slightly.
The Lucas she had known would never have said that.
Not to her.
Not to anyone.
Not even to his own parents.
Apologies were beneath him.
Regret was weakness.
And yet, here I stood.
She didn't know what to say.
She didn't know how to respond.
Caught off guard, Olivia stood frozen in silence—because for the first time in years, she recognize the man she once loved.