In a vast, futuristic room—completely different from the rest of the estate—three figures stood.
Amon, dressed in a simple white T-shirt and shorts, had a sword strapped to his waist wrapped in sheath which was covered in same rune etched bandages. Klien wore a black shirt and pants, his presence as commanding as ever. Anastasia, standing beside them, was clad in a half-top and fitted pants, her arms crossed as she observed the scene.
Klien's sharp gaze fell on Amon. "We will begin your training today."
"Understood, Father," Amon replied.
After learning that her brother was also training, Anastasia had insisted on joining him.
"Ana, I assume you have awakened your Will after the ceremony?"
"Yes, Father."
Klien nodded. "Good. This will be the last thing I teach you both before I leave."
His expression turned serious. "Now, tell me—what do you know about Will?"
Amon responded without hesitation. "It is the embodiment of one's rebellion and desires."
"Correct." Klien's approval was evident in his voice. "To control your Will, you must clear your thoughts. No distractions. Only pure, focused intent will allow you to wield it properly."
Hearing this, Amon's mind spun. *Wait, that's it? Just like that? Why was this never mentioned in the game? I thought it required some grand technique, like in those novels!*
Klien continued, "At your current level, Will grants you two abilities. First, it heightens your instincts. Second, it empowers your attacks. Now, let's begin."
Both siblings nodded, closing their eyes to clear their minds. Amon focused inward, his breathing steady. Slowly, he activated his Will. A deep red aura enveloped his entire body, wrapping around him like a protective veil.
Opening his eyes, he glanced at Anastasia—only to feel a chill run down his spine.
Her Will was purple—vivid, powerful, overwhelming. *Of course. It must be because of that ceremony…*
Klien observed them with an approving nod. "Now that you have manifested it, focus it on a single part of your body."
Amon obeyed, directing all of his Will into his right hand. The moment he did, his arm felt unbreakable, as if he could shatter stone without taking any damage. He clenched his fist, feeling raw strength flow through him.
Beside him, Anastasia had already mastered it with terrifying ease.
Klien smiled faintly. "Good. Now that you both understand the basics, I will leave Amon's training in your hands, Anastasia."
Her lips curled into a smirk. "Yes, Father. I'll make sure to teach him properly."
Amon shuddered. *This is going to be hell, isn't it?*.
"Scaredy-cat," the bird perched on Amon's head chimed in, its tone full of amusement.
Perses scoffed. "What can she do?"
Klien, having finished his instructions, left the hall. As soon as he was gone, Amon pulled the sword from it's sheath, holding it firmly in his hands. It was a perfect fit for him now—much different from before.
His mind briefly wandered to when he first realized the sword could change size.
Back then, he had casually asked, "Hey, Perses, can you shrink ?"
Perses had paused for a long moment, his crimson eyes flickering as if searching through memories. Then, the sword's size gradually shrank until it fit Amon's hand perfectly.
"Huh, I guess I can do that," Perses had muttered. "Weird… I don't know why, but I can't remember many things."
Amon had found it odd—an Eternal-grade relic with memory issues? But at the time, he had been more focused on training than questioning it.
Now, as he returned to the present, he shook his head and glanced at Anastasia.
"Shall we begin?"
Anastasia smirked. "Of course."
"So, what technique are you going to teach me?" Amon asked, expecting some advanced swordsmanship.
"No technique."
"What do you mean—?"
"We're going to learn how to fight."
Without warning, Anastasia summoned her spear. The silver blade gleamed under the light, and before Amon could react, she dashed toward him with explosive speed.
The blunt end of the spear struck his stomach, forcing him back, but he managed to use his Will just in time to cushion the blow.
Amon groaned. "You do know this is bullying, right?"
"No," Anastasia replied, twirling her spear. "This is training."
His grip on his sword tightened, and Perses vibrated as if sharing his frustration.
And then, they clashed.
Both siblings relied solely on their Will—no magic, no fancy techniques—only pure instinct and combat experience. Yet, despite Anastasia holding back her power, Amon struggled. She was a C+ rank while he was barely even considered a true fighter.
He had nothing to rely on but his Will and his past life's knowledge as a gamer.
Amon and Anastasia clashed in the center of the training ground, his sword meeting the shaft of her spear with a sharp crack. She was stronger, faster, and more experienced, but Amon refused to back down.
He weaved through her attacks, using his smaller frame and past-life knowledge to slip into her guard. His strikes were sharp, precise—a mix of raw instinct and the martial arts he had once practiced. Yet Anastasia adapted, countering his movements with brutal efficiency.
Amon barely dodged a sweeping strike before retaliating with a swift elbow, only for her to block and drive a knee toward his ribs. He twisted, redirecting the force, but she caught him with a backhand that sent him stumbling. Gritting his teeth, Amon steadied his breath and lunged again, determination burning in his eyes. He knew he couldn't win—not yet—but he would not fall so easily.
The clash of weapons filled the training hall, each movement flowing seamlessly into the next, a relentless exchange of force and precision. Amon moved with calculated aggression, his attacks honed from lifetimes of instinct, his strikes sharp and unrelenting. Anastasia met him with fluid expertise, her spear weaving through the air, deflecting, countering, striking with pinpoint accuracy.
Feints and counters blurred together as Amon closed the distance, slipping through openings with measured precision. Hands moved like shadows, striking, redirecting, neutralizing. The spear's edge grazed past him, a whisper of steel slicing the air, barely missing as he twisted his torso. A low kick swept forward, aimed to destabilize, but met an immovable block.
Their will's clashed, amplifying their strikes, sending waves of force rippling through the chamber.
His fist, reinforced with raw intent, shot forward—stopped just short by an equally determined counter. The fight wove on, no wasted movements, no hesitation, just pure battle instinct guiding them both.
And so, as the days bled into weeks and weeks into months, Amon trained relentlessly. He had only two years.
If he didn't push himself now, he wouldn't survive what was to come.
Whenever exhaustion clawed at him, whenever pain threatened to break him, he remembered the warm smiles of his family—the ones he refused to lose.
He ate. Slept. Trained. Nothing else.
And soon, the day of reckoning arrived.