After being knocked out by the rubber ball for four days, Annabeth awoke in a brightly lit room. For a brief, panicked moment, her mind leaped to the worst-case scenario. The overwhelming brightness and sterile silence screamed of rebirth.
"Damnit! Seriously?" she groaned, half-sitting up.
The very idea of starting over again, after yet another life reset, flooded her with dread.
"Wait... I can talk!" she blurted, her voice tinged with both hope and disbelief. Relief washed over her as she realized newborns didn't usually possess the ability to articulate frustration.
"Indeed you can, Ms. Annabeth," came a calm, baritone voice from across the room.
She turned toward the source to find Menzine, Lord Canning's butler, standing poised near the window. He was an older gentleman with cropped blonde hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and a physique that hinted at years of military service. His posture and sharp gaze lent him the air of an ex-soldier turned bodyguard.
Annabeth flinched and immediately buried herself under the heavy, soft bedding, mortified by the presence of a witness to her outburst.
Menzine raised an eyebrow at her reaction, but after a moment of hesitation, a faint smile played on his lips. Lord Canning had mentioned that Annabeth could be "unusual."
"Four days," he said evenly, his hands clasped behind his back.
"What?" came her muffled response from beneath the blankets.
"You were unconscious for four days, Ms. Annabeth. A direct result of being struck by the rubber ball." His smile widened slightly, though his tone remained professional.
Annabeth groaned under the covers, the weight of embarrassment pressing down on her. She curled further into the plush bed as her stomach growled audibly, turning her humiliation into complete defeat.
"Wheat porridge?" Menzine offered politely, breaking the silence.
A single hand emerged from the bedclothes, thumb extended in silent agreement.
"I'll inform the maids to prepare your meal immediately," he replied with a slight bow, before moving toward the door.
The room's atmosphere began to sink in as Annabeth remained hidden beneath the covers. Sunlight poured through fully drawn gold curtains, so bright it felt as though the room could incinerate a vampire. The ceiling was high and adorned with fans that hummed softly as they rotated, starkly contrasting the oppressive silence she'd felt moments earlier. The furnishings were opulent—ornate chairs with embroidered cushions, polished wood furniture, and a vase of fresh roses placed on a small table by the window.
At the door, Menzine paused and turned back toward her. His blue eyes sparkled with subtle amusement.
"Please try to exercise caution, Ms. Annabeth. You have 82 days left to complete your training. While we are forbidden from assisting you, Master Canning made it explicitly clear that if we allow you to die in his absence, we'd suffer... severe consequences."
His lips twitched as though suppressing a chuckle, and with that, he exited.
A few moments later, a maid entered carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of porridge. Annabeth peeked out from the covers, her cheeks still burning, and reluctantly began to eat. As the warmth of the meal soothed her, her mortification faded, replaced by renewed determination. There were still 86 days left, and she wasn't about to let a rubber ball be the end of her story.
***
Fifty-six days had passed since Annabeth woke from the humiliating knockout, and her progress was nothing short of remarkable. Her mastery over Tier 2 magic had grown to levels she hadn't thought possible. The range of her magic, which once faltered beyond five meters, now extended confidently to 20 meters.
Her physical endurance had improved dramatically as well. The relentless pull of the elastic rope that once overpowered her was now manageable. Her legs, once too weak to resist its force, had become strong and toned from the grueling combination of magical and physical training. Annabeth had added an intensive regimen of running, sit-ups, and leg exercises to her daily routine, knowing that a mage's greatest weakness was often their lack of physical conditioning.
In her past lives, she rarely engaged in close combat, relying entirely on her magical prowess. But this time, she intended to be prepared for anything. The sight of her growing strength and resilience motivated her to keep pushing, even when exhaustion loomed.
The first weeks of training had been brutal. Staying on the line had felt nearly impossible as her legs buckled under the rope's pull, and her control over the rubber ball frequently wavered. More often than not, the ball would rebound and hit her square in the stomach, leaving her winded and sore but still standing. Each painful impact reminded her of her resolve: to become stronger, no matter the cost.
Her progress was undeniable. She could now focus solely on guiding the ball towards the target without being distracted by the rope's pull. At her current pace, she estimated she would need another 37 days to achieve her goal. But with only 26 days remaining, she was faced with a dilemma: how to bridge the gap in time.
Annabeth mulled over this challenge, her thoughts clouded with frustration. Lost in her calculations, she momentarily lost control of the ball. This time, however, she was prepared.
The rubber ball snapped back toward her, propelled by the rope's tension, but Annabeth was ready. With a flick of her wrist, she conjured a Tier 3 Wind Shield spell. The translucent barrier shimmered briefly before absorbing the impact of the ball. The ball rebounded off the shield with a dull thud, sending Annabeth skidding backward a few inches.
Instead of frustration, a small smile tugged at her lips. She dusted herself off, stepped back onto the line, and reset her stance. Her body ached, but her resolve burned brighter than ever.
***
It was the final, agonizing hour of Lord Canning's wind magic control training. Annabeth was just two meters shy of the target after weeks of relentless effort. The monitoring servant, standing stoically to the side, held an hourglass, its grains of sand slipping away with a cruel inevitability.
If she only had one more week, Annabeth knew she could complete the task. But that wasn't the deal. Canning had returned hours earlier and now stood nearby, watching the hourglass with infuriating patience. The weight of his silent scrutiny pressed on Annabeth like the pull of the rope tethering her to the rubber ball.
Her magic was stretched to its limits. The rubber ball wavered unsteadily in the air as her control faltered. Every fiber of her body screamed in protest, her legs trembling, her lungs burning, and her magic reserves depleting at an alarming rate.
The servant's calm voice broke through her haze of frustration.
"Five minutes remaining."
Annabeth's heart raced. Her thoughts darted back to the countless setbacks—the failed spells, the bruises, and that humiliating knockout. Panic clawed at her chest. Two meters. That was all. She needed a miracle, or maybe something more daring.
Her jaw tightened. No risk, no reward. She would gamble everything.
With a sharp breath, Annabeth raised her hand and conjured a Wind Shield. This time, she modified the spell, creating a circular hole in the center of the shield large enough for the elastic rope to pass through but small enough to block the ball. Positioning the shield at the edge of her effective range, she braced herself.
She then conjured a Tier 3 Whirlwind spell, carefully shaping it into a horizontal spiral that aligned with the rope. Her right hand controlled the Whirlwind, while her left adjusted the shield's aperture to ensure the spell passed through cleanly.
Unbeknownst to her, she was dual-casting—a feat few mages could achieve even at advanced levels.
The Whirlwind surged along the rope, a concentrated force of wind and magic. With a deft motion, Annabeth released the spell just as it struck the ball, sending it spinning forward in a perfect trajectory.
The ball soared, cutting through the air, and slammed into the bullseye with a resounding thwack. The blackboard lit up, signaling her success. Annabeth's heart swelled with triumph—briefly.
The elastic rope recoiled violently, pulling the ball back toward her with terrifying speed. The shield, now unsupported as her magic reserves ran dry, vanished in an instant.
Annabeth froze as the ball hurtled toward her. Her arms shot up instinctively, crossing over her stomach in a feeble attempt to soften the blow. She shut her eyes, bracing for the impact that would surely leave her battered—or worse.
But the pain never came.
Instead, she felt a strange stillness. Slowly, Annabeth opened her eyes.
The ball hovered inches from her body, held effortlessly in a firm grip. Her gaze traveled up the arm, past the immaculate sleeve, to the face of her savior.
Canning stood before her, his usual calm demeanor betrayed only by the faintest curve of a smile.
"Congratulations," he said, his voice smooth and confident. "You pass."