Henry stared at the parchment, his mind racing as he crunched the numbers. The system wasn't just a status; it was a brutal mathematical filter. The lazy Henry of his past life had never bothered to look at the gears behind the machine, but now, the cold reality of the Multiplier Gap hit him like a physical weight.
He grabbed a quill from his father's desk and began sketching out the progression on a scrap of paper to visualize the information.
The math was relentless. Every grade higher meant a significantly faster rate of growth for the same amount of effort.
Rank Aptitude Multiplier
F- / F / F +0.5x / 1.0x / 1.5x
D- / D / D+2.0x / 2.5x / 3.0x
C- / C / C+3.5x / 4.0x / 4.5x
B- / B / B+5.0x / 5.5x / 6.0x
A- / A / A+6.5x / 7.0x / 7.5x
S- / S / S+10.0x / 12.5x / 15.0x
SS- / SS / SS+17.5x / 20.0x / 22.5x
SSS- / SSS / SSS+25.0x / 27.5x / 30.0x
Henry leaned back, his eyes fixated on his own rank: C. At a 4.0x multiplier, he would gain 400 XP for an action that gave a base of 100. It had seemed respectable enough when he first awakened, but compared to the real geniuses of the world, he was moving through mud.
An SSS+ individual wouldn't just be slightly faster; they would be gaining 3000 XP for that same action. They could essentially master in a day what would take Henry over a week of identical effort.
"No wonder Father looked at me with such pity," Henry muttered. "In the eyes of the elite, a C rank isn't a warrior; it's a footnote."
The book further detailed the Experience bar. Upon hitting Rank F, the bar requires 100 XP to reach the next level. However, the system utilized a doubling mechanic for every rank up:
Rank F: 100 XP
Rank E: 200 XP
Rank D: 400 XP
Rank C: 800 XP
...and so on.
The + and - designations were also clarified. If Henry were at Rank D, the first 40 XP (10%) would see him labeled as D-, while the final 40 XP (the 90% mark) would label him D+. It was a game of inches where every point of experience mattered.
Henry closed the book, his knuckles white against the leather cover. The information was a bubble burster that recontextualized his entire journey. If he wanted to become powerful, he had to train harder than everyone; he'd have to put himself in dangerous situations.
Henry shut the study door behind him, the heavy thud of the oak echoing the new weight in his mind. The math of the multipliers was a cold shadow, but as he walked back to his room, he forced himself to focus on the immediate hurdle: recovery.
The next morning, the sun didn't find him sprinting laps or screaming in exertion. Instead, it found him in the back courtyard, moving through the Sinclair sword style with a slow, deliberate grace that would have looked alien to his former self. At half-intensity, he wasn't trying to break the air; he was trying to understand it. He focused on the transition between the horizontal and the rising strike, ensuring his center of gravity never wavered.
For those first two weeks, he was a silent figure in the morning mist, rebuilding his body brick by brick.
When the day finally came for his full-intensity clearance, the atmosphere in the front courtyard was tense. Howard and Dante stood like hawks on the periphery, their eyes tracking every flex of Henry's muscles and every bead of sweat on his brow.
After the first hour, when it was clear Henry wasn't going to keel over, Dante gave a sharp nod of approval and returned to the other apprentices.
Henry's new routine was an attempt at staying balanced. He had never really practiced with anything in either life.
He still did the full sword training block in the mornings, followed by his solo training, but he had dropped the intensity to the original numbers from when he first began, which was plenty manageable for his new level of endurance
In the evenings, he made it a habit to always have dinner with the family and go on sunset walks with Mia whenever he could.
To Henry's shock, lowering his volume didn't slow him down—it accelerated him. By feeding his body properly and giving his muscles time to actually repair, his Level 8 foundation didn't just hold; it thrived.
Within two months, a familiar hum resonated through his bones during a morning session. He headed to the front courtyard and requested the rod from Dante. The metal glowed with a crisp, clear light:
[ Level 9 ]
He had reached the penultimate stage of Foundation Establishment. He was now stronger than many of the older apprentices who had been training for an extra year than he had.
The realization hit him like a lightning bolt during dinner that night. He had 10 weeks until his 17th birthday.
Henry felt the old addiction scratching at the back of his mind. 'If I just add five more laps... if I stay out two hours later... I could hit Level 10 before my birthday.'
He looked across the table at Mia, who wasn't usually at dinners, and was currently refilling his water with a small, encouraged smile, and then at his mother, who looked at him without the constant fear of him collapsing.
The urge to sprint was there, but Henry gripped his fork tighter, anchoring himself to the present. He was at the doorstep of the system and the Level 10 trial. He could feel the experience bar waiting for him, just out of reach.
He took a deep breath, smiling at Mia while doing so, before he finished up his meal and headed to his room.
The morning air on Henry's seventeenth birthday was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and the distant clatter of the castle kitchens preparing for a celebratory feast. As he stepped into the front courtyard, he was met with a chorus of "Happy Birthday" from the apprentices and respectful nods from the knights. Even the stoic Dante offered a rare, thin smile.
Henry moved through the Sinclair sword forms with a fluid, terrifying grace. His strikes didn't just carry weight; they carried a year's worth of discipline and the refined control he had gained from his recovery. Every fiber of his being felt like a coiled spring, vibrating with a frequency he was certain indicated a breakthrough.
When the training block concluded, Henry approached Dante. "Sir, if you would. I'd like to see where I stand on my birthday."
Dante pulled the unassuming metal rod from his belt. Henry pressed his finger to the flat end, bracing for the jolt. The light flickered, then stabilized into a solid, clear azure.
[ Level 9 ]
The numbers remained unchanged. The Level 10 he had visualized for weeks didn't appear.
Henry's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. A flicker of the old disappointment—the feeling of not being enough—threatened to cloud his mood. Not today, he thought. I really thought I had crossed the threshold.
Dante, sensing the shift in the young lord's energy, tucked the rod away. "Don't let the metal fool you, Henry," the knight said firmly. "The light is deeper than it was a week ago. You aren't just at Level 9; you're standing on the very edge of the cliff. It isn't a matter of if, but when."
Howard walked over, clapping a heavy hand on Henry's shoulder and shaking him slightly.
"Wipe that look off your face, little brother," Howard laughed. "Do you know how long it took me to reach Level 10? Eighteen months of blood and sweat, and I had Father breathing down my neck every single day. You've been at this for—what? A year? And you did a lot of the heavy lifting alone."
Henry looked at his brother, then back at his own calloused hands.
The realization hit him then, cutting through the disappointment. Howard possessed a B+ rank aptitude, giving him a 6.0x multiplier. Henry was a C rank with a mere 4.0x multiplier.
Mathematically, Howard should have lapped him. Yet, here Henry was, knocking on the door of the level 10 trial faster than his brother had. It was proof that his extreme training phase, while dangerous, had carved out a depth of experience that the multipliers couldn't fully account for.
"You're right, Howard," Henry said, his voice regaining its steel. "I'm not disappointed. I'm just getting started."
He left the courtyard not with the heavy heart of a failure, but with the calculated patience of a hunter. He knew the Level 10 trial was coming, and when it did, he wouldn't just pass it—he would dominate it. But first, he had a birthday dinner to attend, and a certain maid who had promised him a walk in the West Wing courtyard earlier than usual.
Henry took the rest of his training off and headed to the bath, his new favorite pastime.
The steam from the bath had left Henry with a lingering sense of calm, a rare stillness that matched the significance of the day. He traded his sweat-stained training leathers for a tailored doublet of deep midnight blue with silver embroidery, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the fine silk against his skin.
The soft knock at the door pulled him from his reflection. Mia's voice drifted through the thick wood, hesitant and shy.
"Come in, Mia," he said, turning toward the door.
The breath left his lungs the moment she stepped inside. For the first time since he'd known her, Mia wasn't wearing the stiff, utilitarian charcoal fabric of a maid's uniform. She had taken the day off, and the transformation was breathtaking.
She wore a dress of creamy white linen that seemed to glow against her skin. The bodice was expertly tailored, the snug fit accentuating her curves and highlighting the fullness of her bust in a way that made Henry's throat go dry. The material was soft and unforgiving, hugging the gentle, feminine curve of her stomach and flaring slightly over her wide hips, creating a silhouette that was both elegant and deeply alluring.
"Happy Birthday, Henry," she whispered, her hands nervously twisting a small strand of her hair. The blush on her cheeks was deeper than any rose he had ever bought her.
Henry stood motionless for a moment, his gaze tracing the way the dress fit her body. In his past life, he had seen many women in fine gowns, but none had ever looked as radiant or as real as Mia did in that moment.
"Mia," he finally managed to say, his voice a low, appreciative rumble. "You... you look incredible. I think that dress is more dangerous than any sword."
Mia let out a small, melodic giggle, though she didn't look up, her eyes fixed on his boots. "I wanted today to be special. You've worked so hard this year, Henry. You deserve to look at something other than a training dummy or a dusty book."
Henry stepped toward her, the distance between them closing until he could catch the faint, intoxicating scent of the rose-water she must have used. "I'm definitely not thinking about training right now," he admitted, offering her his arm. "Shall we? My family should be waiting, but I think I'd like to take the long way to the hall."
The long walk through the stone corridors was filled with a thick, charged silence. Every time their shoulders brushed, a jolt went through Henry that was far more potent than the shock of the foundation rod. He would glance at the way the cream-colored fabric of her dress moved over her hips, and Mia would catch his eye, only to look down at her feet with a shy, radiant smile.
But as the heavy oak doors of the dining hall came into view, Henry realized he couldn't walk into that room—into his "official" life—without saying it.
He stopped abruptly, turning to face her. The hallway was empty, the torches flickering against the walls. "Mia," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I'm tired of sneaking looks. I have feelings for you. Deep ones. This past year, you've creeped firmly into my heart."
Mia's eyes went wide, her breath hitching as she looked up at him.
She took a trembling breath, her hand reaching out to touch the silver embroidery on his sleeve. "Henry... I feel the same. You know I do. But..." She bit her lip, a shadow of reality crossing her face. "You have a fiancée. A public one. A Lady. I'm just... Mia."
Before Henry could bridge the gap and tell her that a political arrangement meant nothing compared to what they shared, the heavy sound of boots echoed behind them.
"Hey, bro! I hope I'm not late for the—"
Howard rounded the corner, stopping dead in his tracks. He looked at Henry, then his eyes traveled to the woman in the creamy white dress. Howard's jaw practically hit the floor. He didn't see a maid; he saw a stunning woman who carried herself with a grace that put the local noble daughters to shame.
"Whoa," Howard breathed, leaning in with a grin. "Henry, you sly dog. Who is this beauty? Did a goddess descend just for your seventeenth?"
Mia straightened her posture, a bit of that stubborn maid's pride returning to her eyes. "It's me, Master Howard. It's Mia."
Howard's eyes nearly popped out of his head. He looked her up and down—noticing the way the dress hugged her curves and how the color made her skin glow—and then looked back at Henry in utter disbelief. "Mia? The Mia? From the laundry and the linens?"
He let out a loud, booming laugh, clapping his hand against the doorframe. "By the gods, Henry, you've been hiding a diamond in the coal shed! I didn't recognize you at all, Mia. You look... well, you look like you belong at the head of the table."
He shook his head, still chuckling, and pulled open the massive doors to the dining hall. The sound of chatter and the scent of roasted meat spilled out into the hall.
"Well?" Howard prompted, gesturing for them to enter, as their mother and father turned toward the door. "Are you two coming in, or are you going to stand out here all night?"