Chapter 3: The Callus and the Cold

The pain became a clock.

For the next four weeks, my world shrank to the sharp sting of fresh blisters tearing over raw scars, the rhythm of my ragged breathing in the freezing pre-dawn air, and the dull, heavy thud of ironwood meeting wooden posts.

I didn't return to the main manor for meals. Every morning, Clara would quietly leave a basket near the stables—two thick slices of coarse rye bread, boiled potatoes, and a small jar of salted pork lard. It was the food of foot soldiers, dense and heavy, designed to sustain men carrying fifty pounds of iron across muddy trenches.

My body began to change. The sickly, pale hollows of my cheeks filled out slightly with lean muscle. The soft, unblemished skin of a pampered noble boy yielded to thick, ugly calluses across my palms and knuckles.

Most importantly, I learned how to breathe again.

In my past life as Eden, breathing was merely a secondary function to keep my organs oxygenated while my mind constructed intricate spell formulas. But in a body without accessible mana, breathing was everything. It was the bridge between kinetic force and endurance.

Inhale through the nose for four counts. Hold the oxygen in the diaphragm. Release through the teeth on impact.

THWACK.

The ironwood block struck the center of a fresh birch target post. The wood didn't shatter this time—the strike was so clean, so condensed in its impact point, that the timber simply caved inward, leaving a deep, crushed crater.

I pulled the block back, my chest heaving in a controlled, steady rhythm. No fainting. No dizziness.

"You're going to turn the entire backyard into firewood at this rate," a soft voice spoke from behind the wooden fence.

I didn't drop my stance. I turned my head slightly, catching sight of a girl standing near the rose arches. She wore a tailored wool cloak over a crisp white dress—expensive fabric that didn't belong anywhere near the muddy carpentry yard.

It was my younger sister, Evelyn. At ten years old, she was already showing signs of the Vance family's high magical aptitude. Small wisps of soft blue light—raw, untamed mana—occasionally flickered around her fingertips like curious fireflies.

"You shouldn't be here, Evelyn," I said, my voice quiet as I wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my forearm. "Father doesn't like you lingering around the servants' quarters."

Evelyn stepped through the gate, her small leather shoes squelching slightly in the damp earth. She looked at the bruised birch post, then down at my blistered, scarred hands. Her big gray eyes filled with a strange mixture of pity and confusion.

"Brother Leonard says you've lost your mind," she murmured, holding a small silver compact case against her chest. "He told Mother that you're training like a common mercenary because you know you can't cast magic. He says... he says you're going to embarrass us at the Imperial Academy."

I looked at my little sister. She had the same icy gray eyes as Reinhardt and Leonard, but hers hadn't hardened into flint yet.

"Does it look like I've lost my mind?" I asked, lowering the heavy ironwood block to rest against the mud.

Evelyn hesitated. She looked at my posture—rooted, steady, unwavering—and then at the sheer intensity in my gaze.

"No," she admitted softly. "You look... scarier than Leonard. Leonard is loud when he practices his sword arts. He yells and makes the wind howl. But you..." She shivered slightly under her cloak. "You're so quiet. It feels like watching a storm about to hit the valley."

A faint hum resonated in the back of my mind—a tiny, nearly imperceptible vibration through the soles of my boots.

I froze.

It wasn't a physical tremor. It was a micro-pulse of Abyssal resonance, echoing from miles beneath the earth's crust. It was faint—so faint that not even a high-tier sensory mage in this era would notice it—but to a man who died choking on dark poison, it was as distinct as a war horn.

The Abyss was stirring faster than I calculated. The seal was weakening.

"Evelyn," I said, my voice suddenly sharp, cutting through the quiet morning air. "Go back to the main house."

She blinked, startled by the sudden shift in my tone. "Julian?"

"Go inside. Now."

Without another word, she nodded rapidly, turned on her heel, and ran back toward the manicured gardens of the estate.

I dropped to one knee and pressed my bare, calloused palm directly against the cold, wet soil. I closed my eyes, tuning out the sound of wind rustling through the pine trees, tuning out the distant shouting of guards on the outer perimeter.

I sank my consciousness deep into the earth, tracing the ancient ley lines that spanned across the continent.

Three hundred years ago, Lista and I anchored the seal using four elemental core points. The central core was buried right beneath what was now the Imperial Capital.

And right now, something deep underground was gnawing at the base of that seal.

Tch.

My clogged mana circuits violently recoiled, a surge of burning pain shooting up my arm like liquid fire as the faint Abyssal mana repelled against my dormant body. I coughed, a specks of dark red blood spotting the damp mud beneath me.

"Still too weak," I hissed through gritted teeth, wiping my mouth with my sleeve.

A body built on muscle alone could shatter steel, but to fight the Abyss, I needed structural endurance that went beyond simple strength. I needed to forge this frail vessel until it could withstand the weight of the world without breaking.

I grabbed the ironwood block, pulled myself back up to my feet, and stood tall against the biting wind.

Two weeks left until the Academy evaluation.

Let the nobles bring their glowing blades and fancy magic. I was going to show them what happens when three hundred years of unyielding resolve takes physical form.