The fire crackled softly, casting golden shadows on the rocky outcrop where we'd made camp. The smell of roasting rabbit drifted lazily in the air, giving the moment a strange sense of peace, as if the world beyond our little circle had momentarily vanished.
"Did you know," Sydney said, grinning like she'd just uncovered a secret no one asked for, "you can get the Dungeoneer title if you manage to destroy a dungeon core?"
Draco groaned before she even finished the sentence.
"Yes, Sydney," he snapped. "You only bring it up every third sentence. Congratulations again on being the only person in the world with that title."
She winked, unfazed. "Glad you remember. I was worried you weren't listening all those other times."
I couldn't help but chuckle. "Why are you always so... whimsical with her, Draco?"
He huffed, straightening a half-burnt log in the fire. "Whimsical? That's one word for it. I just can't stand how she goes on and on about her titles. It's not like I don't have impressive ones myself."
Sydney leaned in, eyes glinting in the firelight. "Oh yes, our resident Dragonkin Slayer. Or should I say Snakeslayer? That poor snake never stood a chance."
Draco shot her a look that could curdle milk, but then sighed, shaking his head as he turned the rabbit on its spit. "That 'snake' nearly melted half my face off."
"And yet you still complain more than the snake ever did," Sydney quipped.
The fire popped, and for a moment, laughter replaced the weariness in our bones. Just another night on the road and full of stories.
.
.
.
I wake just as the first sliver of sunlight breaks over the horizon, painting the world in pale gold. My room is wrapped in silence, the kind that comes only in the breath between night and day. The birds outside begin their tentative songs, hesitant notes that stir the stillness.
I remain in bed, staring at the ceiling, letting the quiet sink into my bones.
Even now, I can barely believe I'm here-back in the past. Reborn.
Everything I've learned since my regression weighs heavy on my chest. In my previous life, Tier 6 was the summit, the unreachable peak of mortal ambition. But now, I've met Yusuf-madman, seer, and Tier 8 mage. A being beyond comprehension, walking the world like a cracked vessel brimming with power and madness.
I should be terrified. And yet, a small part of me feels... chosen.
But doubt clings like a shadow. Is this truly the path forward? Or just another story written by the Watcher, a new prison dressed in the guise of purpose? Am I a player, or merely a piece?
And what of my comrades-those who stood beside me in that final stand? Will I meet them again? Will they remember me? Or have they vanished into the dust of a future that no longer exists?
I don't have the answers.
All I know is this: the gods are no longer myths. They are Tier 8 tyrants draining the world dry. And I - by fate, or design, or divine manipulation-have been given a second chance.
If this is the Watcher's narrative... then so be it.
I'll follow it-for now. Until I can write my own.
.
.
.
The training ground greets me like a memory repeating itself -sweat, steel, and the steady rhythm of boots striking earth. The air is thick with the grunts of exertion, the barked commands of instructors, and the ragged breaths of those pushing their limits. Nothing has changed here. The same drills. The same fire in their eyes. The same hunger to grow.
I make my way toward the rack, fingers brushing familiar wood as I pick up a training sword. The grip feels more natural today. My movements-less stiff, less forced.
The ache in my shoulder has faded, the balm and rest doing their work. I roll it once, testing. No pain. Good.
I set into my routine-slashes and thrusts, over and over. My breath steadies into rhythm, each motion cleaner than yesterday. There's a strange comfort in the repetition. A sense of clarity. Of direction.
Then, halfway through the set-
Ding.
A soft chime, not heard by the world, only by me. A pulse of recognition from the system.
[Skill: Swordsmanship level increased to Lv. 3][Skill: Stamina level increased to Lv. 2]
A flicker of satisfaction stirs in my chest. Progress, no matter how small, is still progress. I don't pause-I keep going. Let the momentum carry me.
This time, I finish faster. Thirty minutes faster. The motions no longer feel like dragging a boulder uphill-they're beginning to shape into something fluid, something mine.
I check the quest panel as I cool down. The words hang faintly in the air before me.
Quest Progress:Practice the basic training movements: Slash and Thrust – 1,000 times each day (2/30)
A second day down. Twenty-eight more to go.
After finishing the final thrust, I let the training sword drop to my side, sweat clinging to my skin. The usual rhythm of shouts and clashes from the yard has dulled to murmurs.
I look up.
They're watching me.
Not mocking. Not whispering.
Just watching, curious, cautious, silent.
Then the sound of boots striking stone breaks the tension. Heavy. Measured.
Commander Fredrick.
He strides into the yard like he owns every stone beneath his feet. His presence stills even the most distracted trainees. He stops in the center of the grounds and turns to face us.
"Form up," he says, his voice low but carrying weight like steel.
The yard falls into rows. I follow, falling into place among them.
He surveys us all, letting the silence hang just long enough to settle.
"A duel," he begins, voice steady and direct, "is not a display of hate. It's not a tool for vengeance. It is the tradition of warriors. It is a test, of control, of courage, and of clarity."
He begins to walk, slowly, across the formation.
"You think battle is about strength? About power? You're wrong. Strength without clarity is chaos. And chaos kills more soldiers than swords ever could."
He turns to face me fully.
"A duel gives clarity. Two combatants. Equal footing. No ranks, no titles. Just instinct and discipline."
He raises a hand, and a faint pulse of mana spreads outward. I feel it brush over me like cold mist.
"I'll be invoking my skill, Training Battle. Both duelists will be limited to Tier 1. No enhancements. No system tricks. No sacred gear. Just two bodies, and the will that drives them."
There's a quiet murmur in the ranks.
He looks over us once more.
"This is not about the duelists. It is about you. Watching. Learning. Remembering what it means to stand and be counted."
Then, after a beat, his tone shifts, softer, but still commanding.
"The duel will take place after the midday meal. Everyone is to eat and rest. You do not fight well on an empty stomach or a fatigued mind."
His gaze lingers, making sure no one dares to argue.
"Dismissed."
He turns and walks away without ceremony, his words trailing behind him like echoes off a canyon wall.
Trainees begin to stir, the stillness breaking like a held breath finally released.
I glance down at my hands, then at the training sword.
Midday meal.
Then the duel.
The moment Commander Fredrick leaves, the rigid formation dissolves into scattered motion. Some speak in hushed tones. Others head straight toward the mess hall, shoulders tight with anticipation.
I stand there for a moment, watching them.
The tension in the yard lingers like smoke after battle, but the spell is broken. Reality sets in again training, hunger, the approaching fight.
I wipe the sweat from my brow, sheathe the training sword, and follow.
The mess hall is already abuzz with noise when I enter. Trays clatter. Boots scuff the floor. The smell of stewed meat and spiced bread wraps around the room like a warm, temporary comfort.
I take my tray in silence.
No one mocks me. No one speaks to me either.
But their eyes still follow.
I ignore them.
I eat slowly, deliberately, letting the rhythm of chewing ground my thoughts. I'll need the strength. The duel will not be just a test of body. It will be a statement. To the watching eyes waiting to see if a Young Lord can really change.
I finish the last of the broth and lean back to rest.
Outside, the sun creeps closer to its peak.
The hour draws near.
And so does the fight.