The sun was barely peeking over the horizon when I began my usual routine. The rhythmic clang of weights echoed in the training room, the steady tension in my muscles as I pushed myself further, rep after rep. Discipline was everything—incremental, controlled. Each morning, I added more to the routine. More weight. More repetitions. Always pushing, always aiming to surpass the limits I'd set the day before.
With the addition of meat to my diet, progress was accelerating. I could see the difference already—my body was stronger, leaner, though I carefully maintained a slimmer build. I had no interest in becoming one of those oversized brutes who looked strong but moved with all the grace of a boulder rolling downhill. Precision, flexibility—that's what mattered. Bulk was unnecessary weight, slowing movements, dulling sharpness. I found it cumbersome and, frankly, a bit ridiculous.
Wiping the sweat from my brow, I caught my reflection in the mirror. This body was still young, but it was evolving. Slowly but surely, it was molding into something more capable, more dangerous. But there was still a long way to go.
Today, though, wasn't just about brute strength. No, today was about something far more critical—skill. Strength without technique was pointless. It was like having a blade with no edge. I crossed the room to the weapon rack, my eyes settling on the katana I had commissioned a few days earlier.
The blade was a work of art. Forged from dark, gleaming steel, the long, slender weapon was designed with one purpose: speed. Its balance was perfect, its edge razor-sharp. The hilt, wrapped in black leather, fit my grip like it had been made for me. In a way, it had.
I ran my finger along the edge of the blade, feeling the cold steel beneath my skin. It was fast, precise, and deadly—everything I required in a weapon. Something that wouldn't weigh me down, that would move as I moved, cut as I commanded.
I stepped toward the training dummy—a simple construct of wood and straw. Crude, but it would serve its purpose. The katana was light in my hand, but the weight of the memories it stirred was heavier. In my past life, I had wielded blades like this one countless times. I had taken lives with them, won wars with them.
The first swing came effortlessly. The blade sliced clean through the dummy's arm, severing it from the body in one fluid motion. I didn't need to think—the movements were instinctual, burned into my muscle memory from years of practice.
Another cut, and the dummy's torso split open. Each strike was clean, precise. My hand moved, the sword followed, and the dummy fell apart in pieces.
Every swing brought back fragments of memories. The way flesh had yielded to steel in the past, the sounds of battle, the scent of blood. I had been a king, a conqueror, and these techniques had been my tools. They still were. The knowledge of how to fight, how to kill—it had never truly left me. It was returning now, flowing through me as naturally as it had before.
There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. Only the sword and the target. My muscles remembered everything my mind hadn't yet fully recalled, guiding my hands in a deadly dance. This body would soon catch up. It was only a matter of time.
I swung the sword once more, this time severing the dummy's head. The wooden neck gave way with barely any resistance. Satisfying. But this was just the beginning. There was still much to do before I reached the level I had once attained.
After a few final strikes, I sheathed the katana, letting my breath steady as I surveyed the remains of the training dummy. Not bad for a warm-up.
A knock sounded at the door.
"M'lord," came Mayer's voice from outside.
I tossed the towel over my shoulder and gestured for him to enter, though I doubt he could see me through the door. "Come in."
Mayer stepped into the room, his gaze quickly taking in the wreckage of the training dummies. His expression remained neutral, though I could sense the slight tension in his posture. He had grown accustomed to my methods, but there were always moments when I could tell he wondered. Still, he knew better than to ask.
"Sir," he said, his tone formal. "The bandit leader, Fendrel Marlow, is in position, as you ordered."
I nodded, wiping the last traces of sweat from my face. I had almost forgotten about the arrangement. Last night, before heading to bed, I had given instructions to have Fendrel brought to an isolated location in the forest, near the ditch where I had been left for dead. The irony wasn't lost on me.
"Good," I replied calmly, my voice betraying none of the darker thoughts swirling in my mind. "Give me a few minutes to finish up here. I won't be long."
Mayer dipped his head in acknowledgment, his composure never faltering. "As you wish, my lord."
I could feel the weight of his curiosity, though he was careful to hide it. Mayer was loyal and disciplined, but I knew he had begun to suspect there was more to me than what met the eye. After all, I wasn't just Eliot Blackthorn anymore. I was something else. Someone else. And I had proven that time and again.
As Mayer exited the room, I turned my attention back to my training. Just a few more sets, a few more exercises to complete the morning routine. The burn in my muscles was a reminder that I was getting stronger every day, but I wasn't just after physical strength. No, I needed control—precision. And that's what the katana gave me: the ability to act with deadly intent and finesse.
After finishing my final set, I rose to my feet, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension. Fendrel Marlow was waiting for me, just as planned. He was a piece in a larger puzzle, and it was time to see how useful he could be.
Or how quickly he could be discarded.
I sheathed the katana, securing it at my side as I left the training room.
The real game was about to start.