The AI's diagnostics confirmed Leylin's suspicions. This world's humans possessed enhanced physiology - even delicate-looking girls outperformed his current shell. His carriage-mates averaged 1.0 across physical parameters, while that scar-faced attendant...
3.2 Constitution. Viral resistance and recovery speed tripled. The scientist in him marveled. If mere servants wielded such power, true wizards must be forces of nature.
At dinner, the AI's danger alerts flared when near food distributor "Mr. Angler" - his radiation signature defied scanning. Leylin noted three white-robed figures emitting similar interference fields. Standard noble etiquette earned him odd looks; the old Leylin would've cursed the attendant.
Alone in his carriage-bed, he analyzed: Fifty apprentices, twenty-five attendants, three masters. Three months' travel suggested remote academy location. As sleep claimed him, the AI helpfully cataloged every rustle and scent - until rose perfume announced Besta's return.
Her "apology" involved strategic bending that tested both his resolve and the late Leylin's hormonal legacy. The vial she pressed into his palm felt suspiciously warm...
The girl fled like a startled fawn, leaving only the lingering scent of rosewater. Leylin stared at the vanishing crimson hem, muttering, "Why would she apologize when I was the aggressor? Is she touched in the head?"
He examined the glass vial she'd left. "Primitive craftsmanship," he noted, observing the bubbles in the thick glass. Yet for this medieval-level society, it represented technological sophistication. When he uncorked it, herbal aromas wafted out - immediately triggering his scientific instincts.
"AI: Analyze composition."
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Leylin barked a laugh. "I retract my previous assessment. That little viper!" Yet he couldn't suppress grudging admiration - this poison-turned-prank showed creativity beyond her years. Tucking the vial into his jerkin, he mused, "Might prove useful against less discerning foes."
Alone in the carriage, Leylin's fingers found the obsidian ring beneath his tunic. Its inner band bore a stylized "Y" encircled by fractal patterns impossible for medieval metallurgy. "AI: Full spectral analysis."
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He snorted. "Of course. Wizardry laughs at physics." The ring's enigma would wait. More pressing matters demanded attention - like surviving wizard academy politics with the physique of consumptive poet.
"AI: Access memory archives. Filter combat training protocols."
Neural pathways lit as decades of neglected memories unfolded. There - buried beneath adolescent debauchery - lay the Farrell family legacy:
A six-year-old Leylin watched his father's practice sword cleave stone. Viscount John's blade trailed argent energy as he demonstrated the Crosscut Breathing Technique. "This sacred art built our house!" The viscount's roar startled songbirds from oaks. "Master this, and you'll channel vital energy like-"
"-Like getting blood from stone," teenage Leylin had yawned, already eyeing chambermaids.
Current Leylin cursed his predecessor's negligence. "AI: Reconstruct breathing method from memory fragments."
Holographic diagnostics overlay his vision:
[Crosscut Breathing Method]
[Cycle Duration: 30 minutes]
[Projected Gains:
STR +0.05 │ AGI +0.06 │ CON +0.03 per decacycle]
[Caution: Microfractures detected in simulation]
"Typical brute-force cultivation." Leylin recognized the pattern - push physical limits until the body breaks through. His AI-enhanced mind already sought optimizations.
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A savage grin split Leylin's face. While other nobles played at chivalry, he'd weaponize their parlor tricks. Let them sneer at the "wastrel heir" - soon they'd witness a knight's rebirth through computational alchemy.