Sleep became optional.
Not immediately—nothing in my life ever changed that dramatically—but little by little, it started slipping away from me. First ten minutes. Then twenty. Then entire hours shaved off the night, traded willingly for sore muscles and burning lungs.
At some point, I stopped counting how much I slept.
I started counting how much I trained.
The sun had barely begun to rise when I opened my eyes again, my body screaming in protest before my mind even fully woke.
"…I know," I muttered, staring at the ceiling. "You hate me."
My muscles ached in a deep, persistent way, the kind that didn't fade after stretching. My mana core felt tight and sensitive, like an overworked muscle itself. Even breathing felt heavier than usual.
And yet—
I swung my legs off the bed.
If there was one thing I had learned over the past few days, it was this: waiting for my body to feel "ready" was a luxury I did not have.
I washed quickly, the cold water shocking my senses awake, and dressed in simple training clothes. As I tied the laces of my boots, my hands trembled slightly.
Fatigue.
Real fatigue.
"…Two weeks," I whispered.
Two weeks until the academy entrance evaluations.
Two weeks until monsters disguised as students gathered under one roof.
Two weeks until the story truly began moving forward—whether I was ready or not.
That thought alone was enough to drag me to my feet.
*****
The sky was still painted in pale blues and grays when I reached my training area behind the servants' quarters. Morning dew clung to the grass, and the stone beneath my boots felt cold.
I stood there for a moment, breathing slowly.
Then I started jogging.
My pace was still slow—painfully so by Leonhart standards—but it was steadier than before. My steps were more even. My breathing, while heavy, didn't spiral out of control immediately.
One lap.
Two.
By the third, my calves burned and my chest tightened, but something felt… different.
Not easier.
Just less chaotic.
I stopped after the fourth lap, hands on my knees, breathing hard.
"…That's new," I muttered.
Yesterday, three laps had nearly killed me.
Today, four hadn't.
The improvement was microscopic. Insultingly small.
But it existed.
I rested briefly, counting my breaths until my heart rate slowed, then moved to the sword.
The wooden blade felt familiar in my hand now—not heavy, not light. Just there.
Horizontal slash.
Vertical.
Diagonal.
I moved slowly, carefully, focusing on posture instead of force. My shoulders still protested, my wrists still trembled, but the movement was smoother. Less wasted motion.
After ten swings, I stopped.
Not because I had collapsed—
But because I chose to.
"…Progress," I said quietly.
The word felt dangerous. Like tempting fate.
Still, I couldn't deny it.
"Are you trying to kill yourself?"
I nearly dropped the sword.
Lucien stood at the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
"…Good morning," I said, breathing heavily. "You're early."
"You're insane," he replied flatly. "It's barely dawn."
"And yet," I said, gesturing weakly at myself, "here we are."
He walked closer, eyes scanning me openly. "You look worse."
"Thank you."
"But," he continued, tilting his head, "you're moving better."
I froze for half a second.
"…You noticed?"
Lucien smirked. "I'm offended you think I wouldn't."
I sighed and sat down on the stone bench, wiping sweat from my brow. "It's not much."
"It never is at first," he said casually. "That's the irritating part."
I glanced at him. "You sound experienced."
"Oh, I am," Lucien replied. "Talent only carries you so far. After that, it's all obsession."
He looked at me more seriously now. "You're becoming one."
I let out a dry laugh. "I don't have the luxury of moderation."
Lucien studied me for a long moment, then shrugged. "Just don't break completely. Father hates inefficiency."
"Comforting."
He chuckled and turned to leave. "Try sleeping occasionally. Even maniacs need rest."
I watched him go, then looked down at my trembling hands.
Maniac, huh.
I wasn't sure when it happened.
But at some point, training stopped being something I forced myself to do.
It became something I needed.
*****
The days blurred together after that.
Morning jogs.
Mana breathing until my head throbbed and my core felt like it was being stretched apart.
Sword practice—slow, repetitive, humiliatingly basic.
Rest.
Then again.
My sleep shortened further. Six hours. Five. Sometimes less.
The world narrowed to schedules and limits.
And slowly—so slowly it was almost cruel—my body adapted.
I could jog five laps now.
Still slowly.
Still painfully.
But consistently.
My mana absorption no longer felt like dragging barbed wire through my chest. It still hurt, but the pain was more… familiar. Manageable.
One night, after hours of breathing in mana, I opened my palm experimentally.
A faint warmth gathered.
A spark.
Tiny. Weak. Flickering like a dying candle.
I stared at it, breath held.
"…You're joking," I whispered.
The spark vanished almost immediately, leaving my hand trembling.
But it had existed.
I laughed—quietly, breathlessly.
"That's it," I said. "That's all I needed."
Not power.
Proof.
*****
By the end of the week, the servants had begun whispering.
The maids noticed how often I washed sweat-soaked clothes.
The butler noticed how early my lights went out—and how early they turned back on.
Caspian noticed too.
He didn't say anything.
But when our eyes met one morning across the courtyard, he nodded once.
That alone fueled me for the rest of the day.
Kael, on the other hand, was far less subtle.
"You're scary now," he declared, watching me stretch.
"I can assure you," I replied, "that is not true."
"You wake up before everyone," he said. "And you don't stop."
"That's called poor decision-making."
Kael frowned. "You look… different."
"…Better or worse?"
He thought for a moment. "Stronger."
I smiled faintly.
Not because it was true.
But because someone believed it could be.
*****
One night, as I sat cross-legged in the garden, breathing in mana under the moonlight, exhaustion pressed heavily against my eyelids.
Two weeks.
No—less now.
Time was running out.
I exhaled slowly, feeling mana trickle into my core, drop by drop.
"This isn't enough," I whispered.
Not for the academy.
Not for survival.
But then another thought followed, quieter and steadier.
It's more than before.
I opened my eyes and looked at my hands.
They still trembled.
They were still weak.
But they weren't empty.
"I don't need to be strong," I said softly. "I just need to be… stronger than yesterday."
That was my goal.
Not leaps.
Inches.
Because inches, repeated enough times, could carry you farther than anyone expected.
I stood slowly, body protesting, and walked back toward my room.
Tomorrow, I would train again.
And the day after that.
Until the academy gates opened.
Until the story tried to swallow me whole.
And when that moment came—
Rias von Leonhart would not vanish quietly.