The next month was a blur of calculated suffering, harsh training, and quiet triumph. Henry's routine became a machine-like cycle: dawn brought the grind, and the afternoon brought the restoration of his soul through his family and Mia.
As the weeks bled into one another, the intensity didn't just increase—it mutated. The training that once left him with a mild ache now ended at 12:30 PM, with Henry dragging a limping leg back into the castle for his recovery bath. His morning run had tripled to 30 laps at an increased pace; his bodyweight circuits exploded to 200 reps across 5 sets; and his downward strikes—the foundation of his combat—reached a staggering 1,000 per session.
He could feel it in the way he moved—a new density in his muscles, a sharpness in his reflexes. He suspected he had finally crossed the threshold into Foundation Establishment.
To confirm his suspicion, Henry sought out Howard in the front courtyard. His brother was in the middle of a break with four knights and five knight apprentices. The air smelled of sweat and oiled leather.
"Henry!" Howard called out, a genuine grin splitting his face. "Finally coming to join the main block?"
"Not today, brother," Henry replied, his voice steady despite the fatigue. "But the day is coming. For now, I'm here to test my foundation."
The group went quiet. Howard's eyes widened, but he nodded respectfully. He signaled to the lead instructor, Dante, a tall knight in his late twenties, who exuded a remarkable power for someone his age, suggesting a promising future ahead.
Dante reached into a pouch on his belt and took out a Foundation Rod. It was an unassuming bit of metal, looking more like a blacksmith's scrap than a magical relic.
"Index finger on the flat end, Young Master," Dante instructed.
The moment Henry's skin touched the metal, a sharp, electric jolt surged through his entire frame. It was a momentary shock that mapped his very essence before receding. Then, the rod hummed, glowing with a duller version of the azure light from Henry's awakening.
[ Level 2 ]
The words shimmered on the metal surface.
"Level 2?" Howard gasped, the shock clear on his face. "In one month? Henry, most aprentices take half a year of guided training just to hit Level 1. How is this possible?"
Henry just offered a proud, weary smile. "I suppose I just got lucky."
Henry didn't linger for the praise of his brother and the knights. The moment he was excused, he sprinted—limp and all—back toward his wing. He didn't want to wait for their sunset meeting in the West Courtyard. He needed to tell Mia.
He found her just as she was stepping out of his bedchamber, having finished the daily change of linens. Without a second thought, Henry caught her hand and pulled her back into the room, closing the door behind them.
Mia's eyes went wide with confusion, but as she realized it was Henry—and saw the manic spark of joy in his eyes—she relaxed, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "It's good to see you, too, Henry. Did you forget something?"
"Level 2, Mia!" he breathed out, his excitement bubbling over. He recounted the testing, the shock of the rod, and the stunned silence of the knights.
Mia listened with rapt attention, her smile growing until it mirrored his own. "Level 2... oh, Henry! I'm so proud of you. I knew you were working hard, but to see it recognized so quickly..." She took his hands, her joy so sincere he could feel it radiating off of her.
But duty called. "The Head Maid will have my head if I'm late for the afternoon prep," she whispered with a wink, slipping out of the room and leaving Henry alone with his triumph.
That evening at dinner, Howard couldn't keep the secret. When he announced Henry's results, the atmosphere shifted.
Their mother's smile was a beacon of pride, her eyes misting over at the sight of her lazy son finally finding his way.
His father paused, setting down his wine. "Captain Garrett said effort was the only currency," Arnold rumbled. "It seems you've taken his words to heart. Continue this path, Henry."
Henry leaned back in his chair, feeling the warmth of their approval. In his last life, he had been addicted to the numbing fog of alcohol and the hollow rush of the gambling table.
This was different. This was a positive addiction—the intoxicating high of progress, the craving for the next level, and the pure, clean joy of being a man his family could actually look at with pride.
From that moment forward, the obsession had taken root. For the next two months, Henry became a ghost within his own home, a blur of motion fueled by the intoxicating high of his own progress.
He pushed his body into the red zone, tripling his already grueling workload until he hit Foundation Establishment Level 5. His morning laps were no longer a run; they were a marathon. His overhead downward strikes were no longer practice; they were a rhythmic thunder that echoed from the back courtyard until the late afternoon.
But the snowball effect of his success came with a hidden cost.
During one of their now-rare meetings in the West Wing courtyard, the golden sunset caught the dark circles under Henry's eyes. Mia didn't lead with a joke this time. She reached out, her fingers hovering near his bruised knuckles.
"Henry... you're overdoing it," she whispered, her voice laced with a genuine fear that cut through his adrenaline. "You're barely eating, and I only see you when you're too tired to stand."
"It's fine, Mia," Henry replied, his voice raspy. "It's temporary. Just until I catch up."
"Catch up to who?" she asked softly.
Henry opened his mouth, but the words died. He couldn't tell her he wasn't chasing anyone; he was running away from a ghost—a version of himself that had died miserably with no ability to resist. He couldn't tell her he was racing against a clock only he could hear ticking. "Just... the other apprentices," he lied quickly. "I started late. I have to bridge the gap."
The total tally was now three months. Three months of isolation. At foundation establishment level 5, Henry felt a density in his bones that made the air itself feel thin. He finally felt he was ready.
The next morning, the sun hadn't yet crested the horizon when Henry walked into the front courtyard.
Howard was mid-stretch, his hamstrings loosening, flanked by Dante, three other knights, and ten apprentices. The air was crisp, filled with the rhythmic clack of wooden practice swords being readied.
When Howard looked up and saw Henry standing there—not in his sweat-stained rags from the back courtyard, but in proper, buckled training leathers with a practice blade at his hip—a slow, triumphant grin spread across his face.
"Well, look who finally decided the back yard wasn't enough for him," Howard called out, standing up and wiping the dew from his hands. "Tell me, little brother... is it finally time? Are you joining the line?"
Henry met his brother's gaze, his heart beating with a steady, disciplined rhythm. "The foundation is laid, Howard," Henry said, his voice carrying across the yard. "I'm ready for the real work."
Dante stepped forward, tossing a heavy, weighted wooden great sword toward Henry. "Level 5 is a fine start, Young Master. But Level 5 during training is different than Level 5 against steel. Find your place in the formation. Let's see if that solo grind actually taught you how to fight."