For the first time in months, Henry had missed his training sessions. Though the addiction to progress still whispered that he was falling behind, the simple joy of hearing Mia's voice was an extremely effective treatment for his withdrawals.
Two hours slipped away in a blur of quiet laughter and shared stories. Mia suddenly gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
"I completely forgot! Your mother and Howard—they've been waiting for word!" She scrambled to her feet, smoothing her apron. "I have to tell them you're awake, Henry. Stay still. Don't you dare even think about a push-up!"
She vanished, returning fifteen minutes later with Sarah and Howard in tow. As they entered, Mia instinctively tried to fade into the background and excuse herself, but Henry's voice stopped her.
"Stay, Mia," he said firmly. "I want you here."
His mother, Sarah, paused for a fraction of a second, her sharp eyes darting between her son's protective expression and the maid's blushing face. She didn't say a word, but a knowing, gentle light flickered in her gaze.
"You scaring us like that was quite the feat, Henry," Howard said, pulling up a stool. "Level 8 is impressive, but a Level 8 corpse isn't much use, don't you think? Take it easy for a while. That's an order from your future Baron."
"At least a week of bed rest," Sarah added, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. "I will have the guards lock this door if I see you in the courtyard training before you get cleared by the doctor."
Henry nodded and gave them the answers they wanted to hear, but his mind was already calculating. 'I'll give it two days of rest, then start light exercise. I can't let my foundation stay stagnant.'
Eventually, his mother and brother retreated to share the news with the rest of the castle. Mia began to follow them out, holding the linen sheets from the day of his accident.
"Stay a bit longer?" Henry asked.
Mia paused at the door, her silhouette framed by the hallway light. "I'd love to, Henry, but now that you're awake and the crisis has passed, I have responsibilities. The Head Maid has been very patient."
"I don't care," Henry said, a bit of stubbornness leaking into his voice. "You're mine. I want you here."
The room went deathly silent. Mia froze, the linens nearly slipping from her grasp. She turned slowly, her face a shade of red that Henry hadn't thought humanly possible.
"I... I beg your pardon?" she whispered, her heart hammering loud enough for him to hear. "When exactly did I... when did I become yours, Henry?"
Henry blinked, realizing how that sounded. A slow, mischievous smirk spread across his face. "You're my personal maid, aren't you? Assigned to my wing? That makes you mine to command."
Mia's shoulders dropped as she realized he was talking about her job description, not her heart. She let out a huff of indignation, though the blush didn't fade. "Oh. Right. That kind of 'mine.' You're terrible, you know that, right?"
"Why?" Henry teased, leaning back into his pillows. "Would it be so bad? Being mine in the other way?"
Mia's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. She realized he was teasing her, but the sheer boldness of the question was too much. "Stop it! Just... stop teasing me!" she squeaked, turning on her heel and practically sprinting out of the room.
Henry watched the door swing shut, a genuine laugh bubbling up in his chest. 'She really is too cute when she's flustered,' he thought.
The silence that followed Mia's departure was a heavy, welcome blanket, and Henry slipped back into a deep, dreamless slumber.
He was awoken the next morning by the soft rustle of fabric. An old man in a long, charcoal-grey medical robe was adjusting his notes by the bedside table. This was Doctor Karl, the Sinclair baronies' physician who had been his silent guardian for the past three days.
"It is good to see those eyes open, Young Master," Karl said, his voice like dry parchment.
"It's good to be back," Henry rasped, though his mind was already racing ahead. "Doctor, be direct with me. When can I return to the yard? When can I train?"
Karl's brow furrowed into a deep, disapproving frown. "Training? You'll be lucky to see a training sword in a month, and even then, only at half-capacity. It will be six weeks before I clear you for one hundred percent intensity."
The disappointment hit Henry like a physical blow. "Six weeks? Are you certain? I feel—"
"I am entirely certain," Karl interrupted, his gaze turning stern. "Listen well, Henry. You have pushed your physical vessel to the brink of collapse. If you attempt to override my orders, you won't just tear a muscle—you will cause permanent damage to your foundation. If that happens, your progress stops here. You will never advance another level for as long as you live."
A cold dread washed over Henry. The thought of being frozen at Level 8—forever—was more terrifying than any troll he had seen in his previous life. It would be a permanent state of weakness.
Seeing the blood drain from Henry's face, Karl softened his tone slightly. "In three days, you may begin light stretching and brisk walks. Nothing more. Do I have your word?"
"I understand, Doctor," Henry replied quietly.
As Karl packed his bag and slipped out of the room, Henry was left alone with the crushing weight of his own reflection. He had been so obsessed with the progress of his second life that he had almost shattered the very foundation it sat upon. He had traded the addiction of alcohol and gambling for the addiction of the grind, and both paths led to the same grave.
He let out a long, heavy sigh, watching the sunlight play across the ceiling. 'Moderation,' he told himself, the word feeling foreign but necessary.
The next three days crawled by with an agonizing slowness. Henry felt like a caged animal, his only reprieve being the daily visits from his mother and Howard, and the constant, steady presence of Mia. When the third morning finally arrived, and he took his first steps out of bed, he felt like a newborn fawn—his legs were stiff as boards, his balance shaky, and his muscles screaming in protest at the mere weight of his own frame.
He moved with deliberate care, prioritizing a long, steaming bath to shock the last of the lethargy from his limbs. What followed was a disciplined, gentle stretching session, followed by his first brisk walk. He didn't head for the training grounds; instead, he walked through the town, breathing in the fresh air of the bustling market. He made sure to stop at the florist, picking up a fresh batch of pink roses for Mia and a beautiful bouquet of daisies for his mother.
Henry settled into a new, gentler rhythm that lasted for the next four weeks. Without the grueling six-hour training blocks, he found himself with an abundance of time. He spent it following Mia as she went about her housework, often surprising her—and the rest of the staff—by hauling heavy baskets of linens or helping move furniture.
By the end of the month, the Henry and Mia sightings had become the primary gossip of the Sinclair castle. Whether they were laughing in the corridors or sitting together in the West Wing courtyard, all eyes were on them. Henry didn't care; his brush with a permanent physical plateau had taught him that the warmth of these moments was just as vital as the strength of his sword arm.
On the final evening before his medical clearance, as the golden hour light hit the stone hallways, Mia slowed her pace.
"I'm happy you're better, Henry," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the floor. "But... I think I'm a little sad that you're cleared to train tomorrow. I know how you are. Once you get that sword back in your hand, I won't see you until the stars are out if that."
Henry stopped, looking at her soft expression. "I'll miss this extra time too, Mia. But I promise—I won't disappear into the back courtyard like I did before. I've learned my lesson on keeping things balanced."
At dinner that night, the atmosphere was lighter. Henry sat straight, the color back in his cheeks, and his frame finally looking healthy rather than gaunt.
"Father," Henry said, setting down his fork. "The doctor clears me for light training tomorrow. I'd like to visit your study again tonight to refresh my memory on the theory before I pick up the blade."
Arnold looked at his son, noting the steady hand and the calm gaze.
"Go ahead."
After the meal, Henry made his way to the familiar, quiet sanctuary of the study. He pulled the silver-crested volume from the third row: The Knight's Power System. He settled into the leather chair, flipped past the chapter on Foundation Establishment, and read the title of the next section aloud into the quiet room:
"Chapter II: Rank Aptitude and Rank Progress."