Three days.
Kaelen had been in this body for three days, and he was already losing patience with it.
He stood in the center of his chamber, the morning light slanting through the curtains, and tried to move. Just a small movement a simple kata, the most basic warm-up he had taught to novice hunters fresh out of the academy.
His arms trembled after the third motion. His legs gave out on the fifth.
He caught himself against the wall, breathing hard, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool morning air. The bandages around his skull itched. The bruises across his ribs ached. And beneath it all, the hum that constant, discordant vibration beneath his skin thrummed .
It was almost driving him insane.
He had known the body was weak. Caelus's memories had made that clear: years of neglect, of wine and brothels. But knowing it intellectually and experiencing it physically were two different things. This body could barely support its own weight, let alone channel mana or wield a blade. It was surprising he was still alive, the body was rotting from the inside even if he was not killed he would have died sooner.
He pushed off the wall and tried again.
Fourth motion. Fifth. His arms held this time, barely and his core screamed in protest. He forced himself to complete the sequence, each movement a battle against muscles that had forgotten what it meant to be used.
When he finished, he stood panting, his vision swimming. The room tilted and he braced himself against the writing desk, sending empty ink bottles clinking.
This is my body now the thought made his suppressed anger surge.
He had spent decades mastering his original body honing it, pushing it, transforming it into a weapon and when he was about to retire he had to start over.
He moved to the window, pulling the curtain aside with force that almost tore them and sat at the window. The estate grounds stretched below: manicured gardens, training yards, the distant glint of armor as the household guards changed shifts.
It was beautiful but like his body it was just beautiful on the outside but rotting on the inside. The novel had stated that getting the king to allow their estate to host was the original owner's father's plan to collect taxes and rebuild but the original owner died.
The morning became a ritual.
Kaelen divided his time between rest and training, pushing the body to its limits and then forcing it just a little further. He worked in secret, moving furniture to clear space in his chamber, using the bed frame for pull-ups, practicing footwork in the hours before dawn when the rest of the household slept.
By the fifth day, he could complete the basic warm-up without collapsing.
By the seventh, he could hold a stance for a full minute.
By the tenth, he began testing the body's mana pathways.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, the room dark around him, and reached inward. In his original body, this had been as natural as breathing a vast reservoir of power that answered to his will without hesitation.
He pushed a thread of will into the channels, nothing happened. He pushed harder, still nothing. Sweat began building on his body pain was shooting every part of his body in response to the strain. Then…
A spark, faint, sputtering…and then a new flare of pain that sent him gasping, his hands slamming against the floor as his vision went white.
The hum spiked as if in concern. He tasted blood, his fingers clawed at the wooden floorboards, searching for something to anchor himself, his skull felt like it was swelling.
Then it passed as suddenly as it came, then the hum subsided to its usual low thrum.
He knelt there, breathing hard, and forced himself to analyze what had happened.
The mana pathways were not just weak as he had previously thought, they were also extremely damaged. They looked poisoned but that was just a suspicion. His father had labeled him useless so early that no one had ever bothered to see if the label was accurate, no doctors had seen his core so there was no basis of confirmation only the original owners memory.
It would take more time to repair them than he had thought. Careful conditioning, of pushing without breaking, of rebuilding from the ground up.
But he had less than three months.
He let out a slow breath and rose to his feet.
Rin brought his meals and his news. She was his only consistent source of information about the household, and she had proven surprisingly observant for a servant who claimed to know nothing of politics.
She was also kind enough to mention that he was still recovering and the fact that the original owner was not cared for became an advantage for him.
"The master returns from campaign in two weeks," she reported one evening, setting down a tray of broth and bread. "Lord Aldric is expected to accompany him."
Kaelen nodded, the father and the brother. Two variables he would need to account for.
"And the northern nobles who visited before my accident?"
Rin's expression tightened. "No word, young master. Their houses just sent an apology for not being able to rescue you and a promise of punishment."
Caelus Verant was not important enough for anyone to investigate whether it was actually an accident or not. In the novel this event was not mentioned but when describing his death it was said he was weak and crippled mentally.
"Rin." He waited until she met his eyes. "What do they say about me? The servants in the household."
She hesitated. "Young master…"
"I need to know."
She looked at him for a long without speaking. He knew what she was afraid of.
"I swear on my life I will not punish you."
She sighed
"They say you are a disgrace. That you drink and gamble and shame the family name. That the master keeps you here out of obligation, not love. That…" She stopped.
"That what?"
"That the late miss would not recognize you if she saw you."
That made his chest ache a pain that was clearly not his but the emotions felt like his.
The words had landed like stones in still water. Kaelen felt Caelus's memories stir the echo of a grief that was not his own, a boy who had heard those whispers for years and had eventually started to believe them.
He set the feeling aside, there was no room for sentiment, so anyone could try to kill him.
He placed his palm against the window frame and pushed. The wood groaned. His arm shook, but it held. A week ago, he could not have done this. Progress.
The hum beneath his skin pulsed once, a rhythm that was becoming familiar. It was not pain, It was not pleasure. It was simply there it was like a second heartbeat.
He waved Rin away and moved back to the center of the room and began the kata again.
The hum did not fade. If anything, it grew stronger with each passing day a constant, he was starting to learn how to get along with it. At first the messages he sent would disappear into the void then later he would get feedback in the form of emotion.
And sometimes, late at night, when the house was silent and his mind drifted toward sleep, he could almost feel what or rather who was on the other end of the hum. A presence a very strong one.
He'd noticed the presence help him when he was overexerting himself. It could cut off his connection to his mana and stop his practice. It would heal his body when he accidentally hurt himself and keep him company in his thoughts.
He had learnt that the connection at least led him to an ally so he could worry less about the hum