EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC47: Master III
Chapter 47: Master III
At most, Fenric thought he might earn her a favor—maybe a temporary alliance—for saving her and her pretty neck. But this? He hadn't asked for it. He didn't want it.
And yet...
"What a worrysome brat," a sudden, snorting voice grumbled from the depths of his mind. "She might be a bit screwed in the head, but she's strong—too strong. You can feel it, can't you? That pressure... Like getting tasted by something that doesn't care if you're prey or plaything."
"Duserdis..." Fenric sighed, recognizing the rough, dragon-scorched voice of the ancient spirit sleeping in his Mana sea.
Still, the words struck a chord. Fenric leaned back, arms crossed, eyes narrowing.
He didn't know Mavis's real game. But something told him... this could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
As long as he survived it.
"...Well," he muttered under his breath, "I guess I'll just have to live through it."
****
Elsewhere in the heart of the Vareldis Imperial Castle, a different chamber breathed a darker, quieter luxury.
Silken drapes danced gently to the rhythm of the enchanted breeze. Incense burned in crystal bowls shaped like blooming lotuses, casting curls of fragrant smoke into the air. The walls, carved obsidian inlaid with silver filigree, shimmered with warded glyphs too ancient for most nobles to decipher.
In the center of the room sat a woman—long, flowing black hair cascading down her bare back, blue eyes glowing faintly like the heart of a glacier. Her dress—if it could even be called that—was more suggestion than fabric. Cut scandalously low and high, it shimmered with silken threads that changed hue with every movement, like an illusion born of moonlight and blood.
She reclined in a velvet chair, one long leg crossed over the other, swirling a porcelain teacup lazily in her hand. Across from her stood a large standing mirror, but the glass didn't reflect the room. Instead, it showed flickers of movement—scenes from across the empire. Like windows into other lives.
And behind her... knelt the Emperor of the Vareldis Empire.
Yes, the most powerful man in the realm—the second son, the crowned ruler, draped in ceremonial black-and-gold robes—was massaging her shoulders with slow, reverent motions. Beads of sweat clung to his brow, though the room was not hot.
"My shoulders are still tense, Ramano," she murmured, not looking at him. "Are you losing your touch?"
"No... never," Emperor Ramano Duserkis Vareldis replied softly, kneading her muscles with increasing care. His tone was respectful. Submissive. There was no trace of pride in his voice—only obedience.
This woman was not his concubine. She was not his queen.
She was his master.
Valmiera Belfrost—the one they called The Pale Serpent. One of the Guardian of the Empire. Keeper of one of the Empire's Treasurey Key. And mother to Mavis Belfrost.
She sipped her tea again, the faintest cold smile curling her lips.
"Imagine my surprise," she said, voice light as silk but barbed like a viper's fang, "when I learned my eldest daughter was being held in confinement. With not even a whisper sent my way."
Ramano flinched. "It was not meant to offend you, Master. I—"
"Silence," she cut in, not unkindly, but absolutely. "You've done enough damage by letting that pitiful noble faction grow bold enough to lay hands on my blood."
She tilted her head, the strands of her hair shimmering like onyx.
"Well... no matter. She's free now. And the fools responsible are learning what it means to breathe fire through shattered lungs."
Ramano swallowed hard.
"Now then..." Valmiera rose slowly from her chair, the hem of her gown slithering across the marble like liquid shadow. She walked toward the mirror, her reflection finally appearing.
Behind her reflection... was Fenric.
Her eyes gleamed.
Her eyes gleamed, sharp as a blade drawn in moonlight.
"I remember him," Valmiera murmured, her voice colder than the northern ice fields. "The Dark Empress poisoned him the moment he was born. A slow-acting toxin, so insidious she thought no one would ever notice."
She stared into the mirror—into the fading image of Fenric's reflection—her expression unreadable.
"Tell me, Ramano," she said softly, tilting her head slightly. "What does it feel like... to watch your child get targeted before he was even a week old?"
Behind her, Emperor Ramano's hands clenched tightly as he bowed his head lower, his voice a low rumble of guilt and pain.
"It is... heart-wrenching."
Valmiera turned to face him fully now, her gaze piercing.
"Then why didn't you help him?"
He looked up, his tone bitter. "Would your Guardians have allowed it? Would you?"
Valmiera's smirk was thin. Amused, but void of warmth. "No. We wouldn't have. If you had tried to shield him, we would have killed him ourselves."
Ramano's expression froze—stiff with pain, yet unsurprised.
She walked toward him slowly, her presence heavy, her steps soundless.
"The throne of Vareldis is not granted through sympathy or sentiment. It is carved from blood, fate, and calculated sacrifice," she said, reaching out and gently lifting his chin with one finger. Her voice grew even colder, detached, and absolute.
"This Empire is over a million years old. We do not bend for weakness. If it was his fate to die, then he would have died. If it is his fate to rise—he will rise, no matter the chains or poison. That is how the Vareldis bloodline survives."
Ramano said nothing. He simply nodded, eyes hollow, shoulders bowed under the weight of truth too old for tears.
Valmiera continued, her gaze never leaving his.
"We do not raise emperors from love. We raise them from power and precision. Emotion clouds judgment. It rusts the blade. So smother it, Ramano. Bury it."
She turned away and walked back to her chair, her every movement fluid, serpentine.
"We don't need your heart," she said, sitting down gracefully and sipping her tea once more. "We need your spine."
Ramano simply nodded and resumed his task in silence, kneading her shoulders with practiced, mechanical care. The quiet was oppressive—held together only by the faint clink of fine porcelain as Valmiera lifted her teacup once more.
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC48: Master IV
Chapter 48: Master IV
Ramano simply nodded and resumed his task in silence, kneading her shoulders with practiced, mechanical care. The quiet was oppressive—held together only by the faint clink of fine porcelain as Valmiera lifted her teacup once more.
The stillness shattered with the soft hiss of the ornate doors sliding open.
Mavis entered.
She did not stroll in like a cat this time. There was no trace of the usual smirk, no swagger or teasing air. Her steps were silent, posture straight, expression devoid of her trademark mischief.
She walked forward until she stood before Valmiera, then lowered herself to one knee and bowed deeply.
"...Mother," she said, voice quiet but steady.
Valmiera slowly set her teacup down, her eyes never once blinking.
There was no joy on her face. No affection. Not even a flicker of motherly instinct. Just cold appraisal.
"You dare show your face here..." she said icily, "after disgracing me before the Imperial Court?"
Mavis said nothing.
She remained kneeling, head bowed, hands resting on her thighs in silent submission.
Valmiera rose from her seat and stepped toward her daughter, her bare feet gliding across the marble floor like the approach of judgment itself.
"I should have let them imprison you, kept you in captivity" Valmiera said softly. "The only reason I didn't was because I still see use in you."
Her voice, though calm, struck harder than any blade.
"But do not mistake utility for forgiveness."
Mavis remained motionless.
She did not beg. She did not speak. She simply endured—face hidden, shoulders rigid beneath the weight of her mother's cold fury.
Ramano, meanwhile, didn't stop massaging. His hands moved on autopilot, as if knowing that to stop would be more dangerous than to continue.
Valmiera tilted her head, watching Mavis for a moment longer.
"...So? What you have to say now? Speak."
Mavis inhaled slowly.
Even now, kneeling before the woman who had raised her more like a weapon than a daughter, she kept her voice level. Steady. Controlled.
"I've chosen him," she said.
Valmiera's eyes narrowed. "Him?"
"Third Prince Fenric. He survived. The poison is gone."
A sharp pause followed her words.
Ramano's hands halted for the first time.
Valmiera's gaze turned razor-sharp, the room seeming to drop in temperature.
"Explain."
Mavis finally looked up. "The curse didn't kill him. Somehow, he purged it. Not even I—or you—could do that without a proper antidote. And yet... he did. His constitution has recovered, and his mana sea—"
She paused for half a beat, as if debating whether to say more.
"...His mana sea is vast. Beyond natural."
Valmiera's lips twitched at the corners, but it wasn't a smile—it was a flash of recognition. Or was it calculation?
"I remember," she said quietly. "The Dark Empress herself prescribed the poison the moment he was born. A subtle rot, one that even our own alchemists couldn't detect."
Her expression turned thoughtful, yet still devoid of empathy.
"Perhaps she saw something in him that even we missed."
Mavis clenched her fists in her lap. "Then you admit it. You knew."
"I knew it," Valmiera said coolly, waving a hand in dismissal. "But I couldn't intervene. Not without risking the balance. You know our laws. If we had openly shielded him, the other factions would have smelled weakness. His death was simply... a necessary possibility."
Mavis gritted her teeth at such heartless law. "And if he had died?"
"Then it would have been fate. The Empire must not bend to sentiment, Mavis. You know this."
Her voice was like ice scraping glass.
Ramano spoke then, softly. "He didn't die. He lived. And now...?"
Mavis stood, her eyes glowing faintly.
"...Now he's mine. I've taken him as my disciple."
Valmiera blinked—the first true sign of surprise flickering in her gaze.
"You?" she said slowly. "You've never trained anyone."
"I'm making an exception," Mavis replied, her tone hardening. "His potential is... dangerous. And valuable."
Valmiera stared at her daughter for a long moment, then turned away and walked back to her chair.
"If you're lying to me, Mavis... I will rip the truth from your soul myself."
"I'm not," Mavis said. "And I'll prove it. I'll shape him into a Great Emperor. Like you once did."
It was almost a sacred tradition in the Belfrost family—one that had begun with Valmiera's great-grandfather. As Emperor's Teacher, he started a custom: each generation of Belfrost heirs would choose a prince or princess to personally groom as the next ruler of the Empire.
And after all this time, Mavis had never chosen anyone.
Until now.
Valmiera sank into her chair once more, gesturing lazily for Ramano to resume.
"Very well," she murmured. "But remember—if he becomes a threat to the Empire, I won't hesitate to end him."
Mavis bowed once more. "Understood."
Then, without another word, she turned and left the chamber, her heels clicking like war drums against the polished floor.
Valmiera sipped her tea again, the porcelain barely trembling in her grasp.
"...Interesting," she whispered.
"So the fate says... that he lives," Valmiera murmured, her voice drifting like smoke from cooling embers. Then, with a dry twist of her lips, she added, "It seems Vareldis's blood still runs strong, after all. The boy didn't need your care."
Ramano didn't look up from her shoulders. His fingers moved with practiced precision, but his silence spoke volumes. A deep ache lingered behind his eyes—one that even centuries of hardened logic hadn't buried.
"I tried," he said softly, almost to himself. "In my own way."
Valmiera's gaze didn't shift. "Trying isn't enough in the Empire. He survived not because of us... but in spite of us."
She set her teacup down with a delicate clink, then leaned back into Ramano's touch like a monarch seated upon a throne of regrets.
"A boy cast aside by birthright. Poisoned by decree. Forgotten by the blood that should have guarded him." Her tone was clinical, dissecting each fact like a surgeon. "And yet, he thrives."
Ramano finally spoke, voice heavier this time. "That's why Mavis chose him. She sees it too."
Valmiera closed her eyes for a moment, thoughtful.
"She's staking everything on him. That pride of hers... it's not trivial. She's not just choosing a disciple—she's choosing a future."
"And if she fails?" Ramano asked, though his hands never stopped.
"Then we bury them both," Valmiera replied coldly. "And find the next child of fate."
Silence lingered. Then she added, voice like velvet-wrapped steel:
"But if she succeeds..."
Valmiera's eyes opened—glowing faintly, steeped in ancient, dangerous power.
"Then our Empire shall have its next Emperor," she declared.
Ramano merely nodded.
"You may leave now," she said, voice cool and final.
He bowed in silence and turned away. As he stepped out of the chamber, he was greeted by the sight of Mavis standing just outside, her arms folded and her expression a mix of quiet fury and restrained dignity.
"This is why I've never belonged in this Empire," she muttered, not looking at him. "Where else would they curse a newborn child just to test if he's worthy of living?"
Ramano exhaled softly, his gaze distant. "It's the law, Mavis. The same one that's ruled this Empire for a million years."
They began walking together through the long marble hallway, the chill of the palace stone echoing underfoot.
"And you know," Mavis said bitterly, "to rise to the throne... one must overcome every hidden monster buried beneath it. The ones sleeping in their tombs, waiting to awaken at the slightest whiff of danger to the Empire."
Ramano nodded slowly, his voice calm. "Are you certain? You've chosen Fenric... but can he even walk without the artifact I gave him?"
Mavis shook her head, her tone firm. "He's wearing it, yes. But as an disguise, Its just an show to make others believe he is still poisoned."
Ramano gave a small, approving smile.
"Then I suppose," he said with quiet pride, "he truly is a prince of the Vareldis Empire. The Strongest Empire of Humankind."
Mavis said nothing—but her eyes, for once, held a flicker of hope.
"Well then," Ramano said, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Best of luck. You'll need it."
With that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the marbled halls behind them.
Mavis didn't respond aloud. She merely nodded, her face calm—but inwardly, she understood the weight she had just accepted. Taking a prince as a disciple wasn't just a personal decision.
It was a declaration.
She had stepped onto the battlefield named the Imperial Court.
And now, every move she made would be scrutinized. Every action judged.
If Fenric rose... she would rise with him.
But if he fell, she would fall alongside him—or worse, be left alive at the mercy of the victors. That was the Ironclad Law of the Empire.
A law older than dynasties, carved into blood and history.
In this Empire, strength was not a virtue—it was the currency of survival. Power ruled. Weakness was culled. And defeat... was death.
The deeper she walked into the heart of the imperial wing, the more the silence around her thickened. These were the forgotten halls. The ones older than the current throne. Here, faded banners whispered of past wars, of heirs who never made it, of emperors who burned out like stars.
Mavis walked alone, but her shadow seemed heavier.
She had claimed him. That part was over.
Now came the true trial.
She was going to train a prince who had been cursed from birth to die unloved, unknown, and unremembered.
She was going to raise a boy the world had already discarded.
She was going to forge the next Emperor.
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC49: Real Training begins
Chapter 49: Real Training begins
Mavis, shaking off all depressing thoughts, returned to her personal estate.
As she arrived, she moved through the silent halls with purpose, stepping into her private sanctum—a place few dared enter. She began unpacking a variety of ancient scrolls, relics, and sealed cases she had brought back from her personal treasury.
"Hm... the boy is fully healed, but he's still weak," she muttered, laying out a dusty tome on her arcane worktable. "I'll need to fix that."
She reached for a crystalline bottle pulsing with deep red light—essence distilled from a body-strengthening demidivine beast. "This could work. If his body can handle the shock..."
Then she retrieved another sealed box, this one humming with refined mana threads. "Hmm... I can also add these. Mana-dense marrow stones. Should help refine his veins and increase core conductivity. Though..."
Her smile curved, eerie and pleased. "They'll hurt like hell. But if he can't handle this much, he's not worth grooming anyway."
She tapped her finger thoughtfully against her chin. "Still too much for him to absorb at once. I'll need to prepare his body first. Step by step."
While Mavis prepared her training tools, back in the royal palace...
Fenric sat in the Royal Library, buried in scrolls and old tomes, when a sudden chill crawled down his spine. His entire body tensed, his breath catching in his throat.
It felt... like something ancient and powerful was watching him. No, not watching—judging him.
But just as quickly as it had come, the sensation vanished.
Fenric blinked, scanning the quiet, dust-scented air around him.
"Damn... what was that?" he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Shaking it off, he refocused on the parchment in front of him. The flickering mana-lamps overhead gave the library an almost sacred atmosphere. He looked down at the arcane notes scrawled in elegant imperial script.
Right now, he had access to Human Magic—and soon, if things went well with the Moon Spirit King, he'd gain access to Spirit Magic as well. Not to mention, thanks to his lineage, Dragon Magic now pulsed faintly within his mana sea.
But for all that, Human Magic was still his foundation. It was structured. Efficient. And, most importantly—it suited him.
He was human, after all. And the system was made for minds like his.
Unlike Dragon Magic, which responded to instinct and bloodline, or Spirit Magic, which flowed with emotion and resonance, Human Magic required discipline. Precision. Study.
The fundamentals were clear: one had to form a Magic Sense—a natural awareness of surrounding mana—then build that sense into a stable Mana Core. From there, they learned to construct spells through runes, glyphs, and mana circuit formations.
Tier 1 spells required basic formations.
Tier 2 demanded chaining of runic arrays.
And higher-tier spells? They were full-blown arcane architectures.
Fenric narrowed his eyes as he scribbled down a new rune onto the parchment—one representing "Ignis", the foundation of fire spells.
'This part's not so different from the programming languages I used in my past life,' Fenric thought, his eyes scanning the precise runic script. 'Syntax, structure, logic flow... it's all here. Just written in mana instead of code.'
Unlike binary or compiled scripts, though, this magic system had will. Mana wasn't just inert data—it was alive. It reacted. It demanded intent, not just precision.
It was challenging.
But he was adapting quickly.
After all, survival was the ultimate debugging process.
And with what was coming...
He couldn't afford to crash.
The Next Day...
The training courtyard in Fenric's private wing had been cleared—wards humming quietly, inscriptions laced across the stone perimeter like a quiet warning to intruders.
He waited, cross-legged on the ground, breathing slowly.
No one had told him what kind of training Mavis planned. But he'd felt it—the shift in the air. The subtle, oppressive gravity of a magic presence testing the wards hours before dawn.
She was watching.
She was evaluating.
And now, she was here.
Mavis entered without ceremony. No dramatic flares. No preamble. Just purpose in every step, a glint in her eyes that made even the silent stones seem to straighten themselves.
She said nothing at first—simply observed him.
He looked different now. No longer the dying prince wasting away in a quiet corner of the Empire. There was strength behind his eyes. Discipline in his spine. A hunger that didn't need to be shouted to be seen.
Mavis smiled, faintly.
"I sensed your mana stabilization. Good," she said, arms folded behind her back. "You've systemized it."
Fenric rose, dusting off his robes. "I have to wokr hard if I want to survive here, and I am no longer the helpless baby they once posioned, Its my time to posion them." He said in cold emotionless voice that would send chills down any normal person spine.
She tilted her head.
"Interesting analogy. You might actually be more useful than I thought."
He didn't flinch. "Was that meant to be encouraging?"
"No," she said flatly. "It was an assessment."
Then, without warning, she waved a hand—and the space around him shifted, shimmering with layered enchantments.
"From now on, this place is sealed," she continued. "Only you and I can enter. All noise is blocked, all magical traces hidden. If you scream... no one will hear you."
He blinked. "...Not ominous at all."
She smirked.
"I'm not here to coddle you, Fenric. You're mine now. Which means you'll either rise high enough to sit on the throne..."
Her eyes darkened, voice dropping to a whisper that still cut like steel.
"...or die trying."
And with that, she stepped aside, revealing what she had brought with her.
Rows of tools. Ancient grimoires. Spell-sealed stones. A floating combat puppet in the shape of a humanoid knight. Potions glowing like miniature suns.
And something darker. Something hidden under a silk cover... pulsing with restrained, ominous energy.
Fenric didn't back away.
Instead, he stepped forward—toward his new nightmare of a classroom.
"...Alright then," he said. "Teach me."
Mavis smiled.
This time, there was no cruelty in it.
Only anticipation.
Mavis clapped her hands once. The air trembled faintly—an unseen pulse of authority weaving through the courtyard.
"Lesson one," she said, stepping toward the table of tools. "You are not a mage."
Fenric raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"You are a weapon," she clarified, pulling aside the silk cloth to reveal a long black gauntlet adorned with golden runes—an ancient conduit of both defense and channeling.
She tossed it at him.
He caught it by instinct, feeling a jolt ripple up his arm.
"Put it on," she ordered.
He complied. As the gauntlet locked around his forearm, the runes ignited, reacting to his mana signature—fitting to him like it had been waiting centuries for this moment.
Mavis circled him slowly.
"You don't get the luxury of theory anymore, Fenric. No more cozy libraries or speculative diagrams. From this day forward, you learn by pressure. By survival. By pain."
She gestured at the floating knight construct beside her. With a snap of her fingers, it activated—its eyes glowing cold blue, a heavy spear materializing in its grip.
"Lesson two," she continued, stepping back into the shadows of the warded arena. "Magic is a tool. Not a crutch. You will learn to fight while casting, or you will be replaced by someone who can."
The knight lurched forward without further warning.
Fenric barely had time to raise his arms before the spear jabbed toward his face. Instinct and a flicker of mana diverted it—just barely.
"Welcome to training," Mavis said calmly, arms folded. "Let's see if you're worth betting an Empire on."
—
What followed was less a duel and more a series of calculated beatdowns. The knight's strikes were measured—not to kill, but to teach him exactly how unprepared he was.
Every time he tried to chant, it closed the distance.
Every time he tried to flee, it adapted.
Every time he blocked, it punished the hesitation.
And yet...
Fenric endured.
Battered, bruised, breath ragged—but something inside him refused to break.
The magic circles forming around his feet were sloppy at first. But after the fourth exchange, the fifth strike, the sixth hard fall—
They started forming faster.
Cleaner.
Sharper.
Mavis watched with quiet intensity.
Not praise. Not encouragement.
Just confirmation.
He was learning.
By the end of the first hour, the knight was still standing.
But so was Fenric.
And when he cast his first completed Tier I spell—a mid-air wind rune that boosted his jump just enough to vault over a sweeping strike—Mavis finally spoke again.
"Good," she said simply. "Now again."
Fenric spat blood to the side and nodded.
"Again."
The sun passed its zenith as the courtyard bore witness to a prince reborn in sweat and bruises.
Fenric collapsed to one knee, chest heaving, the training gauntlet sparking at the seams. His uniform was torn at the shoulder, his right eye swollen, and yet... the circles forming beneath his feet were cleaner now. More precise.
A water rune flickered to life—Tier I, imperfect, but functional. He used it not to attack, but to cleanse the blood from his brow. Adaptation.
Mavis's eyes narrowed. That was the seventh spell in under three hours. A drastic improvement. The boy was burning himself alive to keep up—but he was keeping up.
"Enough," she said finally, raising a hand.
The knight halted mid-swing, freezing like a statue.
Fenric fell backward, gasping, arms splayed like a man crucified on fatigue.
Mavis walked toward him, heel clicks sharp against the stone.
"You're not fast enough," she said coldly. "Not yet."
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC50: Ragos Duchy
Chapter 50: Ragos Duchy
Duchy of Ragos—the territory held by the esteemed Duke Ragos, whose bloodline has ruled this land for over a thousand years. The Vareldis Empire has seen the rise and fall of many noble houses beneath its towering dominance, and the Ragos family is one such legacy—old, proud, and fiercely ambitious.
Yet ambition has a price.
For generations, the Ragos House has dreamed of placing one of their own upon the imperial throne. Not as conquerors—for none dared openly challenge the might of the Vareldis bloodline, a lineage whispered to be laced with the hidden monsters that guards it—but through subtler means. Marriage. Bloodlines. Influence.
A seat beside the throne, or better yet... a Ragos heir sharing both the Imperial blood and the Ragos blood.
But those dreams remained nothing more than dust beneath the boots of the ruling line.
Until now.
Within the grand marble manor of the Ragos Duchy, lit by sunstone chandeliers and guarded by ancient wards, a figure knelt in reverence. Long black hair spilled like ink over her crimson robes, and her eyes—dark red, almost black—gleamed with quiet authority.
This was Lady Lia Ragos, Duchess and Matriarch of House Ragos.
Before her knelt two nobles—Empress Balina, once a high noble before her rise into the imperial harem, and Drake Ragos Vareldis, Fourth Prince of the Empire. His face burned with indignation... and fear.
He hated bowing.
Especially to a woman. Even more so to one beneath his rank. He was a Prince, and she was merely a Duchess.
But in front of Lia Ragos, no one stood tall—not even the most arrogant sons of the Empire.
Her aura, subtle yet suffocating, curled around him like the breath of an ancient predator.
"Drake," she said softly, her voice like silk over steel. "Bow deeper... or I will break your back and replace you with one of your cousins."
The air grew heavy.
Drake lowered his head instantly, primal fear overtaking his pride.
"Good," Lia said, rising from her seat and circling them slowly.
She paused beside Balina and reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from the former Empress's cheek.
"So... our pieces are nearly in place. Mavis has taken the Third Prince, hasn't she?"
Balina nodded. "Confirmed. She claimed him openly. The Belfrost daughter has entered the game."
Lia's smile was cold.
"Then it begins. The throne is still far... You were our hope, Drake. Ragos blood on the throne. And yet..."
She turned her gaze on him.
"You still wish to rule?"
Drake swallowed. "Yes... Matriarch."
"Then remember this: the Vareldis throne is not taken with fire. You bleed into it. Let Mavis train him. Let the boy grow. You will defeat him—or any other Prince—and sit upon the throne." She turned toward the massive map of the Empire that hung across the wall. "But if you fail... we will simply have him marry one of our women. And there will be another Drake."
Her finger tapped the capital.
"And you will die."
Drake's breath hitched as he stammered, "Please... give me the chance. I am better than that cripple. So what if he survived the King's Killer poison? I can still win! I've trained since I was five. I'm stronger than him."
His voice rose with fervor as he added, "Now that he's healed, no one will question me if I challenge him. I can humiliate him openly. He's nothing in front of me—not with my High Master-rank strength."
Empress Balina joined in, voice calm but firm. "Yes, Matriarch. Until now, the boy's achievements were easily dismissed. He was forgotten—weak, poisoned. But now, after Mavis claimed him as disciple... everything has changed. He's healed. And he's become a contender for the throne."
"Whether we like it or not," Lia murmured, "he is rising."
Her crimson eyes narrowed.
"What I'm concerned about is how he survived the King's Killer poison."
Balina hesitated. "That's what troubles me as well. The Belfrost Archdukedom is old... older than even we are. But even they shouldn't have been able to solve that poison. Not without the antidote."
Lia's gaze turned steely as she tapped the armrest of her throne.
"We can't allow that. The King's Killer is our most potent creation. There must not be an antidote. We cannot afford even the rumor of weakness."
She leaned back, eyes distant but calculating.
"Find out what cured the Prince. And if someone truly holds an antidote to our poison..."
Her nails scraped against the wood.
"...eliminate them."
They bowed in unison, the weight of Lia Ragos's command pressing down like a curse.
As the heavy doors of the chamber creaked open, Drake stormed off, fists clenched and mana flickering dangerously along his knuckles. His pride, though cowed for now, simmered just beneath the surface—volatile and ready to explode.
Empress Balina lingered a moment longer, watching his retreating back with a faint frown.
"Tch... he still lacks discipline," she muttered. "He needs to master his emotions. A Prince who cannot control himself is nothing but a pawn."
She turned, gracefully adjusting her robes, and made her way through the manor's shadowed corridors. Though her own pride had been dented—kneeling again before the Duchess she once rivaled—her mission had changed.
Now, her eyes were set on Fenric.
The boy who should have died.
The poison that should have worked.
The cure that should not exist.
She would uncover it. No matter what ancient secret, forgotten artifact, or forbidden bloodline had saved the Third Prince... she would find it.
And once she did?
Either the knowledge would belong to House Ragos...
Or be buried with the rest of the dead.
Meanwhile... in a forgotten training chamber somewhere beneath the palace, far from sunlight and mercy...
Fenric lay sprawled on the cracked floor, blood splattered across his arms, chest, and face—none of it someone else's. His breathing came in shallow, ragged bursts, like a beast trying to remember how lungs worked.
His vision swam, mana flickering weakly around him, barely clinging to coherence.
Mavis stood over him.
Arms folded. Eyes cold. Presence like a guillotine.
"You call that a block?" she had snapped ten minutes ago.
"You have mana sea deeper than most Dukes—yet you flinch from pain?"
Snap. That was his left arm.
Crunch. Right leg.
She hadn't even used a weapon.
Just her fingers. Just pressure points. Just overwhelming precision.
And all while reciting magical theory like a bored instructor reading grocery lists.
Now, as Fenric trembled, she crouched beside him, inspecting his broken body with the detachment of a sculptor evaluating uncooperative marble.
"You're still conscious," she noted.
He coughed, something wet and red staining his teeth. "Unfortunately."
"Good," she smiled—a chilling, surgical curve. "Then we can continue."
"Mavis," he wheezed, "this isn't training. It's..."
"—Torture?" she offered helpfully, voice light. "Oh, no, dear prince. If it were torture, I'd be using poison, noise spells, or emotional trauma. This is pressure-based cultivation."
Fenric groaned. "You broke all my bones."
"They're resetting stronger. You're welcome."
She stood and summoned a small scroll, unfurling it mid-air.
"Now. Next stage: spell-weaving while inverted and under blood-loss constraints. We're activating your muscle memory through near-death adaptation."
He stared at her, jaw slack.
"You're insane."
She gave a prim nod. "That's what my mother says."
Then she clapped her hands.
"UP, Emperor Candidate."
And despite everything—
Despite the fact his ribs felt like glass and his mana pool was nearly dry—
Fenric pushed himself up, trembling, teeth gritted, sweat mixing with blood.
'Second chnace at life, not going to give up due to some pain' He reminded himself and once again started sparring aginst the Puppet Knight.
Mavis stood on the upper terrace of the sealed training compound, her arms loosely crossed, her eyes narrowed—not in irritation, but in calculation.
Below her, in the blood-soaked courtyard, Fenric was moving through a complex magical sequence, sweat streaking down his face, but his mana control immaculate. Not a single rune faltered. Not one sigil bled power inefficiently. His stance was iron, breath measured. The wind answered him, the earth pulsed under his feet, and fire danced at his fingertips—not in chaos, but in harmony.
He's faster now.Sharper.Deadlier.
She had broken his bones seventeen times. Shattered his magical circuits twice. Starved him of mana, oxygen, sleep—and affection.
Yet here he stood, not only whole but transcendent.
And that was the problem.
This boy... this boy is dangerous.
She had begun to sense it days ago—an ache, a pulse in the air when he cast. The type of subtle shiver that came when something old or great was awakening. And today, watching him, she couldn't deny it.
He's not just talented.
He's the brightest star I've ever seen.
Her expression darkened, slightly.
And that's exactly why Balina tried to erase him.
But now he was healed. Somehow.
And the light that had once been smothered under sickness and isolation was surging back with terrifying momentum.
This is what Balina feared, she thought. That he would surpass her son. That her bloodline would be forgotten the moment Fenric's power surfaced.
And she was right to fear it.
Fenric talent is monstrous so his mind, he is not impulsive like the Fourth Prince, but is smart and cunning as Fox like the First Prince.
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC51: Real Training
Chapter 51: Real Training
The early sun split through the high lattice windows, casting golden lines across the stone courtyard like divine runes from the Architect Above. Opposite Fenric Vaelthorn Vareldis stood the Knight-Class Dummy—an eight-foot, armor-clad automaton forged from Orichalum alloy and embedded with multiple mana cores tuned for combat simulation.
This wasn't target practice.
It was war rehearsal.
The construct bristled with reactive defenses, intelligent counter-spell routines, and kinetic resistance designed to break unrefined casters. In short: a rite of passage for real combat mages.
Fenric inhaled slowly, fingers twitching faintly. His mana sea—once chaotic—now shimmered with clarity, calmed and tempered by a month of Mavis's brutal "training," a word far too soft for what he endured.
"Combat protocol: Initiate," he said.
The dummy's chest flared to life, mana rings igniting in pulsing layers.
"Tier 1 engagement confirmed. Begin."
It moved like lightning. A full-bodied charge, shield up, sword slicing forward in a textbook gut-thrust meant to end things fast.
But Fenric was done being on the receiving end.
He raised his right hand in a sweeping arc, chanting under his breath.
"Terra Fractum."
Tier 1 Spell: Earth Shatter.
The stone beneath the dummy's feet buckled and exploded upward, a spike of jagged earth smashing into its midsection. Sparks flew. The automaton absorbed the hit with partial shielding but immediately retaliated—blade swinging toward Fenric's left side.
He slid under it, body weaving through the motion with near dancer-like grace.
"Ventus Impel!"
Tier 1 Spell: Wind Surge.
A focused burst of wind slammed into the dummy's side like a battering ram, sending it skidding backward across the court. Dust spiraled. Plates screeched.
But the dummy wasn't down.
Its embedded glyphs lit up—a combo cast:
Ignis Orba.
Petra Volant.
Lumina Stride.
Fire Orb. Rock Shot. Flash Step.
Mavis, perched on the terrace with arms folded, narrowed her eyes slightly.
Let's see if he can handle converging elements.
But Fenric was already weaving his response.
His hands blurred through layered sigils in the air, his mana flowing with practiced precision.
"Aegis Pyra."
"Aqua Pulse."
"Umbra Forge."
Fire Shield.
Water Burst.
Dark Construct.
BOOM.
The Fire Orb struck—and evaporated against a radiant wall of flame that wrapped his arm like a gauntlet.
The Rock Shot followed—but was knocked wide by a concentrated jet of water that burst from his left palm.
The dummy blinked behind him using Lumina Stride—but impaled itself directly on a spike of forged shadow Fenric had pre-summoned at his blind spot.
The timing? Impeccable.
The prediction? Flawless.
The dummy sparked and staggered, balance compromised.
Fenric clenched his hand. Mana surged up like a vortex.
He wasn't done.
"Lux Arcanum."
Tier 1 Spell: Arcane Light Lance.
A spear of brilliant white light lanced downward from above, crashing into the dummy's helm with surgical violence. The runed alloy resisted for a heartbeat...
And then—
CRACK.
The construct's head split in two.
[Knight-Class Dummy: Disabled.]
Silence settled over the courtyard, heavy and reverent.
Fenric stood motionless, breathing steady. His robe was tattered, a thin line of blood marked his cheek—but his eyes shone with something sharper than pride.
Purpose.
Mavis descended from the terrace, heels clicking softly on stone.
"...Tier 1 spells only," she said. "Yet you dismantled it like a Grandmaster."
Fenric didn't respond right away. His eyes remained fixed on the smoking ruin of the Knight-Class Dummy, breath steady, expression unreadable. Then, calmly, he replied:
"The difficulty setting was locked at Tier 1. I simply performed to the expected outcome."
Humble. Professional. Almost too humble.
Mavis snorted, crossing her arms with a smirk.
"Hah! Don't play coy. You're starting to take the lead in this game of excellence, whether you admit it or not. Most can barely scorch that dummy with Tier 1 spells, let alone break its core. But you..."
She tilted her head, studying him like an analyst reviewing a rising asset on the verge of overperforming.
"...Your mana is vast, yes—but it's also frighteningly pure. Refined like royal-grade crystal. Because of that, even your lowest-tier spells behave like they're Tier 3 or above. That's not normal. That's talent—and pain. The kind that's been forged under pressure."
Fenric gave a slow nod, acknowledging her words without letting them inflate him.
"Understood. So... does that mean some Tier 1 spells are strong enough to carry forward into higher combat scenarios?" he asked, genuine curiosity behind his tone.
Mavis nodded slowly, her expression tightening with something between approval and caution.
"Some? Try many," Mavis said, stepping closer. Her voice held that sharp edge again, the kind that sliced away mediocrity. "When paired with control like yours, even the most basic incantations can rival elite spellcraft. What matters isn't the tier—it's the wielder."
She lifted a finger, drawing a glowing rune midair. "Let me give you a simple example. Imagine I cast a Tier 1 spell—let's say Peon of Myelaste, a standard wind-burst technique. If a Soldier-rank caster tried it, it might just ruffle some hair and kick up dirt."
The rune shimmered, and then cracked as she clenched her hand.
"But if I cast it at my level, with my mana refinement, it would tear through a third-rank Knight's defense like parchment. The same spell. Vastly different result."
She turned her gaze to Fenric, sharp but not unkind. "Now you—your mana sea isn't quite as pure as mine, not yet. But it's already refined enough that your Tier 1 spells perform at the level of a Grandmaster's."
Fenric nodded, processing. "I see... that makes sense," he said. He already had some awareness of this, thanks to the [Soul Projection] spell, which had allowed him to peer into his own spell matrix and how it connected with his mana sea's structure. But hearing it from someone like Mavis validated it.
"Anyway, let's get started," she said, shifting tone like a manager kicking off a high-stakes quarterly drill.
She handed him a small, red-lacquered box wrapped in spirit silk. "This is your reward for surviving a month under my boot—though it might feel like a curse."
Fenric opened the box. A soft red light spilled out, along with the scent of iron and cherry blossoms.
"A Red-Blood Spirit Elixir?" he said, blinking. The vial shimmered like molten crystal.
"Correct. Drink it. It'll push your body toward its next threshold—but be warned, the process will feel like having your bones reforged while conscious." She gave a mischievous grin. "So do try not to cry."
Fenric, already used to pain, downed it without hesitation.
The moment the liquid hit his throat, he doubled over, every cell in his body screaming. It felt like liquid fire was coursing through his veins, like his muscles were being peeled and rewoven by unseen hands.
And then—
A dull thud echoed through the training hall. The Knight-Class dummy stepped forward, automatically triggered by his vital signature.
Mavis had already activated it. "End it," she said. "End it before the pain makes you pass out. That is your test."
Fenric's eyes narrowed, sweat already beading on his skin, his body trembling under the elixir's agonizing effects. Yet he stepped forward.
He didn't need a full incantation.
"Raen Drath."
A sharp fire strike.
"Solv Vana."
A burst of pressured water.
"Noct Seln."
A shield of darkness wrapped around him.
And then—
CRACK!
He lunged, his body groaning, but his form smooth as ever. Each movement was pain incarnate, yet precise. Like a blade being honed by the whetstone of suffering.
He dodged a swing from the dummy, then slipped under its guard. With one final chant—
"Raen Eryl!"
—he bound the dummy with flame, twisted it off-balance, and drove his palm into its core.
A pulse of heat.
Then silence.
The dummy deactivated with a hiss of steam.
Mavis let out a low whistle. "Still standing. Barely, but still."
Fenric stumbled back, breath ragged, but smiling faintly.
"...Only took five Tier 1 spells."
"Mm. Next time, make it three," she said, already turning away, but there was pride in her voice.
Then—his knees buckled.
He fell.
The world tilted, his vision spiraling into a kaleidoscope of fractured mana, static pain, and flickers of golden light that didn't belong. The training platform blurred beneath him, the taste of iron rich on his tongue. His body, pushed past its limits, finally rebelled—nerves aflame, bones aching from microfractures, meridians on the verge of collapse.
Mavis was already there before his head hit the ground.
"Tch. You're reckless, boy," she muttered, her tone half-scolding, half-impressed. With a flick of her wrist, ancient runes bloomed in the air—a formation of concentric circles, layered with elemental nodes and soul-grade conduits.
With one final glyph pressed into the air, the sigil surged.
A pool of golden liquid manifested beneath Fenric, a tub carved of seamless jade rising from the floor as if summoned from the bones of the earth itself. The liquid shimmered with an alchemical glow—like molten sunlight stirred with moonlight, thick with medicinal qi and divine essence.
The Golden Elixir Bath of Remending Soul and Bone.
A privilege. A punishment. A gift only given to those with potential worth more than resources.
She hovered him over with a lift of her finger, mana threads gently guiding his unconscious form into the glowing bath. The moment his skin touched the surface, the tub reacted—runes igniting along its edges, the liquid rippling as it hungrily drank in the damage carved deep into his being.
A low hiss escaped Fenric's lips as the elixir seeped into his bones, knitting torn sinew, realigning fractured pathways, washing over his core with soothing fire.
Mavis crossed her arms, staring down at him with an unreadable expression.
"Fool. You push like a man sprinting toward death... but your path still leads up."
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC52: Real Training II
Chapter 52: Real Training II
"Fool. You push like a man sprinting toward death... but your path still leads up."
She knelt beside the bath, trailing a finger along its edge.
"It took over many years for you to face the first gate of your potential... but now that it's cracked, the flood won't stop." Her tone dropped lower, more to herself than anyone else. "I see it clearly now—the one they feared. The one she tried to silence."
She closed her eyes, voice soft. "Let's see if the world is ready for the true star of Vareldis... the third son who was never meant to rise."
And in the golden bath, Fenric stirred faintly—his heartbeat syncing to a rhythm not of pain... but of awakening.
Mavis stood, brushing the edge of her robe before turning away.
"Healing will take time," she said calmly. "Keep an eye on him. And if he wakes up, tell him he needs to remain in the water for at least another six hours."
The maids bowed respectfully.
Among the two was Aria—a future goddess candidate of Assassin, but in far furure. Fenric had met her by chance and taken her under him. Though he had not claimed her in the way many nobles would, he had purchased her freedom and offered her a position within his retinue. He then offered her and other slaves he bought a chance to be his blade but among them only she refused him.
At first, she intended only to serve him briefly—offering herself once, as was customary, before planning to quietly disappear.
But something had changed.
Over the past few months, she had watched him. Closely. The way he treated others. The way he never raised his voice or hands. The way he never looked at his maids like they were lesser.
She'd been ready once—to lie with him, fulfill an expectation, and be done with it. But every time she offered, he refused. Gently. Firmly.
For the last month, she had stopped asking. Instead, she requested to serve him during the night shifts, tending to his quarters, guarding his dreams.
Now, watching him submerged in golden light, body worn thin from pushing too far, something tightened in her chest.
She saw it clearly now.
This man—this prince—was unlike any other noble she had known. And that truth had begun to shake something loose within her heart.
She then remembered the other slaves—those now rising under the two knights Fenric had left in charge of their training. A thought stirred within her.
Was she now starting to see him differently?
Unlike others who claimed they would devote their lives to their master, she hadn't believed in those words. Not after what she'd witnessed with other nobles. But he was... different. Truly different. She found herself staring at his face as he slept, her thoughts quiet and conflicted.
"Our master... he's still different, right?" said the other maid softly.
Aria blinked and looked at her. "What do you mean?"
Melanie, the other maid, continued, "You remember back then... when we were in the slave house? The nobles always trained us not just to clean and serve, but to please them at night too. They even taught us healing skills... just in case they took their anger out on us."
"It's true... Some nobles would beat or even cripple their servants just for fun," she added bitterly. "But he—our master—he's never laid a hand on us. Even when he's exhausted or frustrated, he never raises his voice. If he sees us amke any mistake, he just says, 'Be careful next time,' and leaves it at that."
Aria nodded slowly. "We're lucky he bought us. We've all heard what happens to other slaves... Sometimes they're tortured or sold again when the nobles get bored."
Melanie's voice grew quieter. "You know... when they said he was the third prince, I thought that was the end. I thought someone like that would use us and throw us away. But this 'different'... it's real."
"I even tried once..." she admitted, eyes lowering. "He was frustrated and tired that night, I thought I can help him , I wanted to thank him for treating us like any human, So I offered myself to him. I thought—maybe just for that night I can help him just more than with his chores—but he gently pushed me away. As if he respected me."
Aria's gaze lingered on Fenric's still form, healing in the golden bath. She didn't know what she wanted from him anymore.
As the two maids continued their hushed conversation, the still water around Fenric rippled. His eyes fluttered open, a faint golden sheen glinting beneath his lashes.
He blinked slowly, breath steady. "How much time has passed?" he asked, voice calm but hoarse.
"Three hours, Your Highness," Melaine replied quickly, straightening. "Lady Mavis said you needed to remain submerged for six total, so you must rest in the water for three more."
Fenric gave a faint nod, eyes closing again for a moment. The pain had dulled, replaced by a strange warmth in his limbs—as if the golden spring itself was recognizing his will.
Then Melaine stepped forward silently, lifting a folded towel. "May I help support your head, Your Highness?" she asked gently.
He gave her a tired but appreciative nod.
She moved behind him, letting his head rest on her knees while he reclined against the edge of the enchanted tub which is size of an pool. Aria moved closer too, her hands unconsciously fidgeting at the hem of her sleeve, her thoughts still tangled.
After a pause, the quiet was broken.
"May I... ask a question?" Aria spoke up softly, her voice hesitant but clear.
Fenric opened one eye, glancing at her with a curious gleam. "What is it?"
She looked down, then up again—straight into his gaze. "Why do you try so hard? You're a prince. You could have anything. So why... why do you work harder than the rest of us?"
Even Melaine looked surprised at the boldness of the question, but Fenric didn't scold her. His gaze drifted upward, to the faint light shining down from the crystalline ceiling.
"...Because if I don't," he murmured, "then I will just die."
Aria's brows furrowed slightly. "But... you're a prince—"
"No." His voice was soft, but resolute. "Precisely because I'm a prince... I can't afford to be weak. In this empire, weakness means death. The ruler of Vareldis is not crowned by birthright alone—but by strength."
The water shimmered faintly around him as his words settled into silence.
He continued, quieter now, as if the truth pained him more than the wounds beneath the surface. "If I want to live on my own terms... if I wish to shape my fate rather than be shackled by it... then I must become powerful. Unshakable. Only then can I protect myself."
A pause.
"...Only then can I truly live."
Both maids stared at him—eyes wide, stunned into silence. There was no arrogance in his voice, no self-pity—just quiet conviction. Not the kind worn by those born into thrones, but forged by those who claw their way toward destiny, inch by inch, with bloodied hands.
Aria's expression softened, her gaze lowering slightly as she recalled the last time he'd said those words.
"Serve me eternally, and I will give you power."
Back then, she thought he'd merely said it to bind them—just another royal with honeyed words and cold intent. But now... seeing how far he pushed himself, seeing the pain he endured alone in silence—she began to wonder.
Was he serious back then? Was he always serious?
"...Can I still be your sword?" she asked suddenly, her voice quiet, almost uncertain.
Fenric tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
She looked him in the eyes now, her voice more resolute. "That day, you said... you'd give us strength. Help us awaken our blessings. Unlock our class paths. And then you asked us to swear ourselves to you. Eternally."
She paused, then asked, "Do you still mean that?"
Fenric gave a faint, tired smile. "You rejected last time? So why ask now?"
"...Because if even a prince like you is ready to bleed down to the bone to grow stronger... then who am I to stay weak?" she whispered, the tremble in her voice barely hidden. "If you can chase strength so fiercely, then so can I."
He nodded slowly, the light in his eyes returning bit by bit. "Hmm, Okay then I will help you get your Blessing later."
Aria bowed her head. "Thank you, Your Highness."
Fenric chuckled faintly. "Don't. Just make sure you don't regret this."
"I won't," she replied with a small smile.
"your higness can I also train with other slaves?" Melain asked as Fenric said " youc an but do you even have an talent?" he asked as she nodded " Sadly I don't have it, The Intermediate Master realm is my peak"
"its okay, Intermediate Master realm is not that bad either" Fenric said as she just smiled.
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC53: Aria's Class
Chapter 53: Aria's Class
The next day, in Fenric's study room, he sat behind his desk while Mavis stood nearby. Aria was seated before them, curiosity in her eyes, as Raman pressed the Blessing Crystal to her temple.
When he stepped back, a faint glow spread across her body, her muscles tensing for just a moment before the light faded.
"That's a good sign," Mavis said with interest. "She must have gained a great class."
"What is your class?" she asked.
Aria flicked her gaze toward Fenric, who gave a small nod. Taking a breath, she answered, "My class... is called Death Soul Lord. It's a Legendary class with Mana as its primary energy type, and it's a mix of warrior and mage."
Mavis's eyes narrowed slightly in interest. "So your class is a blend of martial skill and magic—a magus-warrior hybrid with the attributes of soul and death magic," she said, her tone laced with curiosity. "You're already at the level of a sect heir."
"No wonder Fenric took you in—you're an ice-block genius beauty," Mavis added with a sly smile.
Aria's cheeks colored faintly, but she kept her eyes forward. Fenric ignored Mavis's teasing, simply saying, "From now on, you'll be tethered to me through oath."
"I understand," Aria replied, nodding firmly.
She rose from her seat and knelt before Fenric, her right hand over her heart. "I, Aria, swear upon my life and soul to serve Fenric Vareldis as my lord and liege. I shall wield my blade and magic in his name, protect his honor, and follow his will until my last breath."
A faint golden and black light intertwined around her as the magic of the oath bound itself to her soul.
Mavis nodded in approval. "Since you have a Legendary class, I'll make an exception and train you alongside Fenric. Even Fenric got special treatment—why shouldn't you?"
Fenric raised an eyebrow. "Would that be acceptable? You rarely train anyone outside the royal family."
"She's got talent," Mavis said simply, crossing her arms. "And I'm not about to let that go to waste. Besides... she's destined to be your blade now, so I'd better make sure she's worth the spot."
Fenric gave a single nod, his expression calm but resolute.
"All right, you two," Mavis said, clapping her hands once. "Now that the blessing ceremony is over, so it's back to your regular training routine. Fenric, to the track—you owe me one hundred laps. Then the knight dummy drills. After that, we move on to magic exercises."
Fenric rose without complaint, adjusting his tunic as he headed for the training yard. This time, however, he wasn't alone. Aria walked beside him, her new oath still a warm, steady weight in her chest.
The yard's morning air was cool, the scent of oiled steel and fresh earth hanging over the space. Without hesitation, Fenric started his run—steady, efficient, each step measured. Aria matched his pace at first, her breathing controlled, though it was clear the sheer number of laps would be a trial.
By the twentieth lap, her face glistened with sweat, but she didn't falter. Fenric's expression didn't change, though a faint flicker of approval passed through his golden eyes.
When the laps were done, the air in the training yard felt heavy with heat and exertion. But there was no rest.
Fenric stepped forward toward the knight dummy, not the ordinary practice model but the enhanced one—its armor scored from countless battles, its enchanted joints designed to mimic the brutal speed of a real opponent.
The moment he took his stance, the fight erupted into something far beyond casual drills. Steel clashed against steel with a sharp, ringing violence. Fenric's blade danced in deadly arcs, each strike crashing into the dummy with enough force to make its frame rattle. His movements were precise, but there was nothing gentle about them—this was a raw, brutal test of endurance and will.
Aria watched from the side, her eyes narrowing as she recognized every step, every parry, every counter. She had sparred with him in lighter sessions before, but this was different. This was the form he only showed in serious combat—the style honed in the marrow of his bones, a style that didn't waste a single breath.
Mavis's lips curled into a sharp, devilish smile. "Ah... there it is. He got immense talent and potential." Her voice was low, almost pleased. "And the best way to perfect it... is to push him to his limits everyday."
Aria caught the gleam in Mavis's eyes, feeling a strange heat stir in her chest. A part of her didn't like the thought—but another part, the warrior in her blood, was curious.
Fenric didn't hear any of it. With a final strike, he knocked the dummy back a pace, its head snapping slightly on its hinge. He stepped away—only for the ground to hum faintly beneath their feet.
The test wasn't over.
With a mechanical snarl, the dummy's eyes flared with a dull red glow. Runes lit up across its armor, and in the next instant, sparks of mana crackled along its blade. This was no longer just a melee opponent—this was the Tier 1 magic combat model, capable of channeling elemental strikes and defensive wards.
Fenric tightened his grip. The next exchange came fast—the dummy's blade swept low, releasing a shockwave of condensed wind mana. Fenric dodged, retaliating with a golden mana slash that burned into the dummy's armor. Fireballs, lightning arcs, and reinforced counters followed in quick succession, each blow met with Fenric's relentless offense.
This was no sparring match. This was survival training against an opponent that didn't tire, didn't hesitate, and wouldn't stop until one of them was down.
Aria stood frozen at first, her eyes locked on the clash before her. Now—finally—she understood.
Every day, she had watched Fenric collapse into that golden water, muscles trembling, skin pale, as if the bath itself was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. She had thought it was some princely luxury, or a ritual for his strange magic.
But seeing him now... she knew it wasn't luxury. It was survival.
His strikes were still sharp, but his breathing was ragged. Blood streaked down from a cut along his temple, another across his forearm. Every swing cost him more strength, yet he didn't slow. His golden mana flickered unevenly around his blade, like a candle burning low in the wind.
The Tier 1 magic dummy was no longer just pressing him—it was punishing him. Elemental blasts scorched the ground, a jagged bolt of lightning clipped his side, forcing him to grit his teeth against the pain.
Aria's knuckles tightened. She could almost feel the weight of each blow in her own chest.
Then, just as she thought Mavis would call an end to it, the older woman's voice rang out like a merciless whip crack:
"Good. You've held at this level long enough—power it by ten percent."
The dummy's runes flared a deeper, more dangerous red. The air grew hotter, heavier, every magical pulse from its frame hitting like a wave of pressure.
Aria's jaw dropped slightly. "That's insane—he's already bleeding—"
But Mavis didn't even glance at her. "If you want to rule, you train where others break. Anything less, and you're just prey with a crown."
The words sank into Aria like ice. Her gaze returned to Fenric—who, despite the blood, despite the exhaustion, raised his sword again. His eyes were steady. His footing unshaken.
It wasn't madness. It was necessity.
And now she understood why he worked harder than anyone she'd ever met.
Even with the dummy's power increased, Fenric did not falter. His swings were heavier now, more deliberate—every movement calculated to conserve energy without losing killing intent. Sweat slicked his hair against his forehead, blood mixed with dirt on his jaw, but his gaze stayed locked on the enemy before him.
The dummy unleashed a barrage—wind blades cutting through the air, a burst of fire forcing him to sidestep. He blocked, rolled, countered, his golden mana flaring in short bursts like sparks struck from steel.
Mavis's arms folded as she watched, her expression unreadable, though her eyes were sharp with approval. "Watch and understand," she said without turning to Aria. "My student is forged like this. If you wish, I will forge you the same way—until you are steel that does not bend."
Aria's throat tightened. She swallowed hard, a small gulp escaping before she could hide it. The idea both terrified and thrilled her.
Her eyes followed Fenric's relentless form—his determination, the sheer refusal to yield despite the pain.
"I..." she began, but the words caught.
Mavis finally glanced her way, a faint smirk playing on her lips. "You want to fight, don't you?"
Aria clenched her fists, feeling her pulse quicken. "...Yes."
Mavis leaned in slightly, her voice low but cutting. "Then be ready to bleed. If you want to stand beside him, you must learn to suffer as he does—and still swing."
Aria didn't flinch this time. She nodded, her resolve hardening.
Fenric's sword struck the dummy again, the impact echoing in the training yard.
Aria's eyes didn't leave him. She wanted to fight like that. No—she would.
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC54: Lyria City
Chapter 54: Lyria City
One Year Later
The steady creak of carriage wheels filled the quiet road as Fenric sat back against the cushioned seat, gazing out at the mist-veiled mountains in the distance. The city ahead—ancient, crumbling, yet steeped in power—waited like a slumbering beast.
It had been a full year since the day Mavis began forging him in fire and blood. Now, Fenric had climbed to the third stage of Low Master rank, his aura sharper, heavier—enough to make lesser knights step aside without a word.
Across from him sat Aria. Her presence had changed as well; she radiated a quiet, contained pressure that spoke of her own strength. She had reached first stage High Master rank, two levels above him.
Not because she was naturally stronger—though she was gifted—but because she didn't have an enormous mana sea like his.
Fenric's mana sea was both a curse and a blessing. It granted him immense reserves of power, but also made his progress painfully slow compared to others. Even with talent far superior to Aria's, he remained two full ranks behind her—yet in terms of raw combat ability, he was still the stronger of the two.
Over the past year, Fenric had also formed a bond with Lunaris Avernus, the Silver Moon King Spirit, a being he had summoned and bargained with. Lunaris had given him half a year to uncover information she did not know—a task that had seemed almost too easy for him. Fenric knowledge of this wolrd was unmatched as he instantly completer her task.
When he delivered the knowledge—secrets hidden behind lies, pushed to their final edge—Lunaris rewarded him with a weapon of staggering power. For the first time in over ten thousand years, she bestowed the Spirit Arsenal Mooncrest Magic upon a mortal.
His manifested spirit armament took the form of a silver-blue scythe, its blade glistening like moonlit ice. It was deadly enough to cleave through steel as though it were paper, and it burned with Silver Moon Flames—a fire that could make even seawater boil and was the bane of all demonic beings.
It was a spirit gift unmatched, something that could only be obtained through trust and proof of worth. And now, after a year of forging himself through grueling trials, Fenric faced his first royal duty.
Royal duty—an honor and a trial in equal measure. For princes, it was both a rite of passage and a test of their true worth.
Normally, a prince was required to take on their first Royal Duty Trial at the age of sixteen. But because of Fenric's unusual condition, the court had delayed his trial until he is recovered and now that he was healed thay gave him a year, allowing him more time to grow stronger. Now, at last, the summons had come—he would face his first true test as a royal.
His destination was the ancient border city of Lyra. Once a thriving settlement, it had been abandoned decades ago after a series of mysterious assaults. The records claimed there weren't enough people or resources to reclaim it, so it was left in ruins—an ideal proving ground for the trial of a young prince.
'If I remember correctly,' Fenric murmured, 'this city was actually being run by a mercenary squad called the Mortal Fangs
. They overthrew the previous City Lord just last month... though the official report labeled it as suicide.'
He leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowing in thought. Lyra... famous in the the original book for the arc rise of king..
When the royal aide had handed him the list of possible trial sites, Fenric had chosen Lyra without hesitation. Not because it seemed easy—in fact, it was far from it—but because of what was hidden there. Somewhere within the ruins, there was said to be a "cheat" item, something so rare and powerful it could alter the course of a ruler's fate. In the original story he know, it was meant to fall into the hands of another... the so-called "main character."
But now? It would be his.
There was, however, one catch—one steep condition that couldn't be bypassed.
'Hm... even if I do find it,' he thought quietly, 'recovering it won't be simple. That item only reveals itself to the true ruler of this city—not just a lord in name, but one beloved and accepted by the spirit of Lyra itself. Only then will the seal break... and the artifact awaken.'
Fenric's gaze drifted out the carriage window, his expression unreadable as thoughts churned behind his eyes.
The Mortal Fangs... their leader wasn't just a brute who happened to seize power. He knew about the artifact as well—that was why he staged the coup in the first place. According to the memories Fenric carried, the man was already working toward the trial's conditions, subtly twisting events so that the city's spirit would acknowledge him as its ruler.
The problem was... even if the man succeeded, he would never truly rule in spirit. The Mortal Fangs had been bleeding the residents dry, extorting their wealth, and breaking those who resisted. No matter what schemes he had, the city's heart could never accept him.
But in the original history, before the man's failure became complete, the "main character" had arrived. He killed the mercenary leader, uncovered the artifact's hiding place beneath the city, and claimed it for himself—its power becoming one of his greatest assets.
Now, Fenric's lips curved faintly.This time... that ending will change.
"What do you think the city will be like?" Sue Aria asked, glancing at him.
Fenric tilted his head toward her. "Hmm... lawless, I imagine. After all, the city lord was killed last month, and now I'm being sent there under the pretense of 'restoring order.'"
She rested her chin in her palm. "I wonder... was the lord's death cruel enough that the people took it upon themselves to spiral into chaos? Or was it simply that criminals moved in to fill the gap?"
He met her eyes for a moment, then looked ahead again. "We'll have to find that out for ourselves."
****
The carriage wheels clattered against uneven cobblestones as they passed beneath the half-broken gate of Lyra. Once, the iron portcullis might have gleamed with polish; now it hung rusted and bent, like the jaw of some old beast missing its teeth.
Inside the walls, the city's pulse was... uneven. On one street, a row of market stalls bustled—voices shouting prices, the scent of grilled meat thick in the air. But just a turn away, the alleys lay in shadow, watched over by men leaning against walls with too-sharp eyes and hands far too close to their blades.
Aria's gaze drifted over a trio of children darting past, their clothes ragged but their laughter bright. Then, almost in the same breath, her eyes caught a man being dragged into a side street by two others, his cries muffled by a meaty fist.
Fenric leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. "Split in two," he murmured. "Half pretending life is normal... half living in fear."
"That's not surprising," Aria replied softly. "When a city loses its heart, the rest of the body rots unevenly."
The carriage turned toward the central district, and there it was—the lord's manor, looming on its hill. Once a seat of dignity, its outer walls now bore scorch marks, and banners of the old crest hung tattered. The guards at the gate wore mismatched armor and tired faces.
Fenric smiled faintly, not warmly. "Home sweet home—for now."
The carriage rolled to a halt before the manor gates. The guards exchanged a look before one trudged forward. His armor was dented, his tunic stained with what might have been wine... or blood.
"You're the new lord?" he asked, voice flat, like he was already bored of the answer.
Fenric stepped down from the carriage, his boots clicking against the stone. "Prince Fenric of Vaeldis," he said evenly. "Here to assume stewardship of Lyra."
The guard gave a lazy salute, then muttered something under his breath as he waved them through.
Inside the manor courtyard, the air smelled faintly of smoke and steel polish. Waiting for them was a man who seemed carved from sinew and scar tissue—his head shaved, a jagged scar running from temple to jaw. His eyes were cold, assessing.
"Welcome, Your Highness," the man said, bowing just deep enough to be technically polite. "I am Vorn Krel. I served as Vice City Lord, and after Lord Harvek's... unfortunate death, I was appointed as City Lord, temporarily."
Fenric's gaze didn't waver. "Then you can start by getting me all reports on the city—taxes, patrol schedules, trade manifests, incident logs—everything. I'll review them in the lord's office."
Vorn's brow furrowed slightly, though he gestured toward the manor steps. "Shouldn't you get some rest after such a long journey, Your Highness?"
Fenric shook his head, his tone calm but final. "I have rested enough in my carriage. Show me the lord's office and the current state of the city."
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC55: Lyria City II
Chapter 55: Lyria City II
Vorn's jaw flexed once, the tiniest twitch of irritation, but he quickly smoothed his expression into something resembling professional compliance.
"As you wish," he said, pivoting sharply on his heel. His boots thudded against the worn stone as he led the way inside.
The manor's corridors were a study in faded grandeur. Long, dusty rugs muffled their steps, their intricate patterns dulled by years of neglect. Portraits of past lords lined the walls—stern faces gazing down from gilded frames, many of them marred by knife gouges or crude ink scrawls. The air smelled faintly of mildew, like a place that had been cleaned just enough to be tolerable but never enough to be welcoming.
Fenric's sharp gaze swept over everything, noting the missing wall sconces, the cracks in the plaster, the way servants darted out of sight the moment Vorn's heavy footsteps echoed near.
They reached the lord's office—a high-ceilinged chamber that might have once been the seat of a small kingdom. Now, its heavy oak desk was cluttered with stacks of parchment, open ledgers, and a half-empty bottle of amber liquor. One of the side windows had been crudely patched with nailed boards, letting in a sliver of chill air.
Vorn gestured toward the desk. "Everything you requested should be here, though some records are... incomplete. The city's recent troubles have made keeping accurate logs challenging."
Fenric walked to the desk, resting a gloved hand on the worn wood. "Incomplete because of the troubles... or because someone made them incomplete?"
The corner of Vorn's mouth twitched. "We've had... administrative difficulties."
Fenric's lips curved faintly—not in amusement, but in acknowledgment of the verbal fencing match they'd just begun. He took a seat and began scanning the nearest ledger, his eyes moving fast enough that Vorn shifted uncomfortably.
The numbers told a story far uglier than Vorn's polite words.
Tax revenue had dropped by nearly forty percent in the past two months alone—yet patrol expenses had nearly doubled. Trade manifests showed goods "lost" to bandit attacks that just happened to occur along the only safe road out of the city. And the so-called incident logs read like the daily itinerary of a warzone: fights in the markets, smuggling busts gone wrong, and "unidentified assailants" targeting merchants who refused to pay protection fees.
It was a perfect pattern. Too perfect.
The Mortal Fangs weren't just in control—they'd embedded themselves so deeply into the city's systems that they could bleed it dry without anyone being able to prove a thing.
Fenric closed the ledger with a soft thump.
"Vorn," he said, leaning back in the chair, "tell me. Who holds the real power here—you, or the Mortal Fangs?"
The scarred man didn't flinch, but his eyes hardened. "I am the Vice City Lord, Your Highness. My authority comes from the crown."
Fenric tilted his head slightly, his voice quiet but cutting. "The crown is a long way from here. And paper authority doesn't stop men with knives in alleyways."
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint tapping of Fenric's gloved fingers on the desk. Then he stood.
"Here's how this will work," he said. "I'll be reviewing every record, speaking to every guild, and walking the streets myself. If there's rot in this city, I will cut it out." His eyes locked on Vorn's. "And if I find you're part of that rot, you'll be gone before you realize you're falling."
Vorn's expression didn't change, but the tension in the room thickened. "Understood... Your Highness."
Aria, who had been silent at the door, finally spoke, her voice deceptively mild. "I'd suggest you make sure those reports stay honest, Vorn. My prince doesn't take kindly to liars."
Vorn's gaze flicked to her, then back to Fenric. "I'll have my staff bring the remaining documents to your quarters."
He turned and left without another word.
When the door shut, Aria stepped closer. "He's hiding something."
Fenric's eyes were already back on the ledgers. "Of course he is. The question is whether it's greed... or ambition." He flipped a page, scanning quickly. "Either way, it ends the same."
Aria folded her arms. "We're being watched already."
"I know." Fenric's tone was casual, almost bored. "Let them watch. It'll make them feel clever—until the moment I close the trap."
He glanced out the patched window toward the city sprawling below. The streets were alive with movement, but in the shadows, he could already feel the city's true heartbeat—dark, guarded, waiting to see if he'd bleed like the rest.
Fenric smiled faintly, the curve of it sharp as the silver-blue edge of Mooncrest.
"This time," he murmured, "Lyra chooses me."
Aria raised an eyebrow. "That's ominous."
Fenric didn't answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the city, the smile fading into a measured stillness.
Somewhere in the winding streets below, a bell clanged three sharp notes. The sound was out of place—too short for a time chime, too sharp for a market call. Aria's head tilted.
"That's not the usual pattern," she said.
Fenric's fingers drummed once on the windowsill. "A signal. Low-level, but practiced. Someone just told someone else their 'guest' has arrived."
"Us," Aria guessed.
Fenric nodded. "They'll want to see how we respond to pressure." He turned toward the desk, scanning the ledgers again. "So let's give them an answer they don't expect."
A brisk knock rattled the door.
Vorn's voice filtered through, carefully neutral. "Your Highness, a—gift—has arrived from one of the trade guilds. Shall I bring it in?"
Fenric and Aria exchanged a look. She mouthed, Trap.
Fenric smiled—not warmly. "Bring it."
The door opened to reveal two burly servants lugging a heavy chest between them. Its brass fittings gleamed despite the scratches along its sides. The lock was a simple iron clasp—too simple for something meant to be secure.
They set it down in front of the desk and retreated without a word. Vorn remained in the doorway, watching.
Fenric crouched, flicking the clasp open. The lid rose with a creak.
Inside, on a bed of silk, lay a single severed wolf's head. The fur was matted with blood, the eyes glassy, the jaw frozen mid-snarl. Around its neck hung a strip of parchment scrawled in crude, blocky script:
"The last predator who tried to claim our streets."
Aria's hand drifted toward her sword. "They're not subtle."
Fenric studied the head for a long moment, then closed the chest slowly, almost gently. "No. They're making sure the game starts on their terms."
Vorn cleared his throat. "Shall I have it... disposed of?"
Fenric straightened. "No. Put it in the entry hall."
Vorn blinked. "The—entry hall?"
"Yes," Fenric said, his tone almost bored again. "I want every visitor to see it. Let them wonder if I'm the one who sent it."
Aria's mouth quirked. "You're inviting trouble."
Fenric turned back to the window. "Trouble was already here. I'm just sending it a formal invitation."
"Besides," he added, a faint smirk curling his lips, "I'm not afraid of a handful of small-time city mercenaries."
Aria's eyes narrowed in curiosity. "Then who are you afraid of?"
"Afraid?" Fenric's smirk deepened, but his voice lowered into something more measured. "Not afraid. Wary. Now that I'm here on royal duty, a certain... pig will surely go out of his way to throw me into my grave—in his own words."
She tilted her head. "You mean Fourth Prince Drake?"
The faintest chuckle escaped him, sharp and humorless. "Yes, that charming man. To him, I'm just an inconvenient thorn. He's been waiting for an excuse to 'remove' me for years."
Aria's gaze sharpened. "I've heard the stories—how he sees rivals as prey to be hunted."
Fenric's eyes glinted, the Sunlight catching on the silver in his irises. "Exactly. These petty crime mercenaries? They're manageable. But when Ragos' Dagger and Prince Drake's web of influence start moving in unison... even I will have to watch my step."
Fenric moved away from the window, his boots whispering over the worn carpet as he circled the desk. He lowered himself into the chair with the casual authority of someone who had no intention of asking permission.
The desk creaked under his weight, its surface littered with ledgers and half-scribbled reports. He swept a few aside with the back of his hand, making space as if clearing a battlefield before laying out his weapons.
Leaning back, he drummed his gloved fingers on the wood in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "The thing about Prince Drake," he said, almost to himself, "is that he doesn't kill you in the dark. He makes sure the whole court is watching... and applauding."
Aria remained standing, her arms crossed, eyes scanning the corners of the room like she expected blades to emerge from the shadows. "Then we'll just have to make sure his applause dies in his throat."
Fenric's lips twitched at that. "Bold words, Aria. Let's see if you can keep them when the invitations start arriving."
"Invitations?" she asked.
"Well, I'm pretty sure that bastard is going to invite me first," Fenric said. "He may look reckless, but it's just the front he's used for years to keep the Golden Empress and the First Prince—the most influential man in court—from targetting him."
Others might fall for Drake's act, but Fenric, who had read the whole novel about him, already knew his true face.
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