The weight of his eighteenth birthday hung over Henry like a shroud. A full year had passed since he hit Level 10, and in that time, he had done nothing but lose. The hard work that had powered him to foundation establishment level 10 in just a year was not failing him.
His pride wasn't just bruised; it was shattered. He found himself standing before the heavy oak door of his father's study, his heart heavy. He didn't want to admit defeat to the man who lived and breathed the Sinclair name, but desperation had finally overridden his ego.
"Come in," Arnold's voice boomed, sounding more strained than usual.
Henry stepped inside, noting the maps of the eastern border sprawled across the desk. "Father, I'll be direct. I don't believe the Sinclair sword style is a fit for me. I've reached the peak of my physical foundation, but I am... incompatible with the overbearing nature of our arts. I need a tutor. Someone who teaches a nimble, versatile style."
The silence that followed was icy. Arnold looked up, his eyes flashing with a mix of disappointment and genuine offense. To a Sinclair, the sword style wasn't just a technique; it was their bloodline's soul.
"Perhaps," Arnold said, his voice dangerously low, "you simply haven't put in the time to find the essence of our style, Henry. It is a style for leaders, for those who break the line."
"I have found the essence, Father," Henry replied, his voice cracking slightly with the weight of twelve months of failure.
"But my body type, my structure... I am fighting against myself with every swing. I am a river being forced into a stone mold."
Arnold stared at his son for a long moment. He saw the hollows under Henry's eyes and the absolute conviction in his stance. With a weary sigh, he leaned back. "Fine. I will look for a tutor the Barony can afford. But my attention is currently consumed by a border dispute with the Jasper Barony to the east. Those vultures are testing our fences."
"When?" Henry asked, his voice breathless. "When can I expect someone?"
"No sooner than six months," Arnold snapped. "Finding a wandering master who isn't a charlatan takes time, Henry."
Six months. It felt like a life sentence. Combined with the time left on Adar's expedition, Henry felt like he was drowning in a slow-motion race against time. To anchor himself, he pivoted his focus.
"I understand. One more thing—may I see a text on the beasts of the continent? Specifically, their biology?"
Arnold's patience finally snapped. "I need silence, Henry! Maps don't read themselves. Come back after dinner; I'll have the volume on the desk. Now, leave."
That night, Henry found a tome thicker than any he had ever seen: Perditus Continent's Beasts. But as he opened the heavy cover, the words seemed to blur. His mind was a storm of what-ifs and tactical failures. He managed to glean the core distinctions on the first page:
Mana Beasts: High-intelligence creatures with an affinity for elements. They drop Mana Cores.
Monster Beasts: Feral, physically mutated creatures. They drop Beast Cores.
Demon Beasts: Creatures tainted by the abyss or dark energy. They also drop Beast Cores, though of a corrupted nature.
The distinction between the cores confused him. The system had specifically told him the Wind Wolf wouldn't drop a mana core. Did that mean the trial wolf wasn't real?
He slammed the book shut, the question only adding to his headache. He needed to move. He spent the rest of the night in the back courtyard, swinging his greatsword in the moonlight. It wasn't productive—his form was sloppy, fueled by frustration rather than focus—but the repetitive swoosh of the blade through the air was the only thing that kept the rising panic at bay.
He was eighteen. He was stuck. And for the first time in his second life, Henry felt like a true failure again.
The heavy, suffocating gloom that had enveloped Henry for months didn't stand a chance against his built-up discipline, as his body still had him up just before dawn, dressed for training. As he grabbed his great sword, preparing to exit his room, he heard a soft, small knock. He recognized the knock even before the person had announced themself and quickly opened the door.
Mia stood there, radiant in a dress of soft, buttery yellow that captured the early morning light. It was a sharp, cheerful contrast to the grays and blacks of the maid uniform she usually wore. The dress hugged her curves just as enticingly as the white one from his 17th birthday, making Henry's heart skip a beat.
"What's the special occasion?" Henry asked, his voice still a bit gravelly from sleep.
Mia's cheeks took on a rosy hue that matched the sunrise. "The occasion is that you've been a shell of yourself for a year, Henry Sinclair. And today... Today you are going to take me out into the town."
Henry blinked. In all their time together, their world had been defined by the stone walls of the castle—the kitchens, the hallways, and the hidden corners of the courtyards. They had never once stepped past the main gates as a pair. Whether it was the sheer magnetism of her smile or the fact that his soul was screaming for a break from his own failure, Henry didn't even consider saying no.
"Is that so?" he teased, a genuine spark finally returning to his eyes.
He caught the way she looked at his sweat-stained leather training armor, and a mischievous impulse took hold. Without breaking eye contact, Henry reached for the buckles of his chest piece and began to unfasten them.
"W-what are you doing?!" Mia stammered, her eyes darting toward the floor as her blush deepened into a frantic crimson.
Henry let the heavy leather hit the floor with a dull thud, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. "Well, you don't expect me to walk through the town square wearing training gear, do you? Especially not when I have such a beautiful lady accompanying me. I have a reputation to maintain, Mia."
Mia huffed, though she couldn't quite hide the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You are impossible! I'll be waiting in the hall. Hurry up!"
She turned on her heel with a theatrical toss of her hair, marching out of the room to give him his privacy. As the door clicked shut, Henry let out a long, quiet breath. For the first time in months, his mind wasn't on the Wind Wolf or the Sinclair Style.
He moved to his wardrobe, tossing aside his practice tunics for something far more fitting for a day in the sun—a crisp white shirt and a well-fitted vest that made him look less like a struggling soldier and more like the young lord he was. If he couldn't break the wall today, he could at least enjoy the view from the base of it with the only person who made the climb feel worth it.
The air in the hallway felt electric as Henry stepped out, dressed in a way that reminded Mia—and himself—that he was a young master. For a moment, they simply stood there, the tension of the last year melting into a single, shared look of undeniable attraction.
The walk through the main courtyard was the true test. The knights moved in perfect unison, their footsteps in a rhythmic symphony, while Howard was busy barking orders at a group of sweating apprentices. The silence of the drill was absolute, a hallmark of Sinclair discipline, but the collective weight of their gazes followed the pair like a physical force. Mia's hand trembled slightly at her side, the weight of the social gap between a maid and a young master feeling heavier than ever in the open air.
Henry didn't hesitate. He reached out and laced his fingers with hers. The contact was bold, a public declaration that silenced the unspoken judgments. Mia's posture straightened instantly, her nervousness replaced by a warm sense of security.
Once they cleared the estate gates, the atmosphere shifted from oppressive discipline to the vibrant chaos of the town. Mia let out a long, dramatic sigh of relief, patting her stomach with her free hand. "That walk felt longer than a day of laundry, Henry. I think I've worked up an appetite for two people."
Henry laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "Good, because I'm tired of seeing you eat in the kitchens."
He led her to The Baron's Rest, an inn known for serving the kind of breakfast that required a silver fork. Over plates of thick-cut honey ham, poached eggs, and fresh bread, the "Trial" felt a million miles away.
The rest of the morning was spent wandering through the market stalls, but Henry's eyes were caught by the polished window of a high-end boutique. Without a word, he began pulling Mia toward the entrance.
"Henry, wait!" Mia hissed, her heels digging into the cobblestones. "I can't go in there. Those dresses cost more than I make in a year. I don't have the coin."
Henry stopped and looked at her. In his previous life, his pockets had been a black hole, his allowance disappearing into gambling dens and expensive Ales. In this life, he had barely spent a few silver. Two years of his allowance sat untouched in his chest—10 gold coins. To a commoner, it was a small fortune; to Henry, it was just the price of seeing Mia smile.
"I'm not asking for your coin, Mia. I'm asking for your time," he said with a smile.
Inside, the shop was a sea of silk and lace. Henry, fueled by a sudden, playful energy, began snatching dresses off the racks. "Try this one. And this. Oh, definitely this one," he teased, expecting her to shy away.
Instead, Mia looked at the pile, then at him, her eyes shining with a mischievous challenge. "Fine. But you have to stay right there and tell me exactly what you think."
The next two hours were a blur of colors and fabric. Henry sat on a plush velvet chair, watching as the curtain pulled back repeatedly to reveal a new version of the woman he loved.
In the end, two dresses were non-negotiable.
A deep, red wine colored silk that hugged her chest perfectly, the daring neckline balanced by elegant sleeves. It made her look like a noble on par with a queen, and an aqua-blue dress with a structured, squared-off neckline that transitioned into a tight fit. It was a masterpiece of tailoring that made her wide hips pop, creating a silhouette that left Henry momentarily speechless.
"I think," Henry said, handing the shopkeeper a heavy gold coin and ignoring the man's stunned expression, "those two were made specifically for you. Don't even think about saying no."
As they walked back out into the sunlight, the bags in Henry's hand, he felt a strange sense of clarity. He still hadn't beaten the wolf, and the Sinclair style still felt heavy in his hands—but for the first time in a year, he wasn't drowned in negative feelings.