~Where the Corridor Hears His Breath~
The chamber was heavy with the scent of quiet exertion.
Kel stood near the center of the room, posture straight despite the sweat that dampened his shirt. The early morning's cold clung to the walls, yet heat radiated faintly from his skin—heat born not of strength, but struggle.
His breathing technique had advanced. Slowly. Painfully. But it had advanced.
He inhaled.
Steadily.
Exhaled.
Controlled.
This time, he did not collapse.
But the pain…
The pain was different—deeper.
A dull surge spread through his chest and abdomen, as if unseen chains tightened with every breath.
The curse reacts to growth.
His fingers curled slightly, knuckles whitening.
The moment I try to strengthen this body… the curse intensifies. Like it refuses to allow progress.
A thin line of sweat traced down his temple.
He straightened.
Did not flinch.
Good.
Let it resist.
That only means I'm moving forward.
He raised his sleeve, wiping his face slowly. The cuff of his midnight-blue shirt stuck momentarily to his damp skin before following the motion. His coat was set neatly on the chair; for training, he wore only the inner garments.
Black shirt. High collar. Fine, lightweight fabric. Fitted but not restrictive.
Sweat had already darkened the cloth along his back.
His hand trembled slightly.
But his eyes remained calm.
He approached the table, closing the manual with care. The worn cover of Essence of Breath bore the touch of time—edges frayed, spine cracked faintly from age. He pressed his palm against it lightly.
This is not just a manual. It is a conversation with my lineage.
He let his hand fall.
Then turned.
And walked toward the door.
Each step was quiet, measured.
His breathing steady, though shallow.
I must not train past this point for today. If I collapse again… recovery time doubles.
He opened the door.
The corridor greeted him in silence.
---
The hallway beyond his room stretched long and elegantly, shrouded in muted light.
High arched ceilings crowned the passageway, carved with stonework depicting constellations and ancient creatures—dragons coiled atop crumbling towers, phoenixes rising in spiraled flame motifs. Tall windows lined the right side, draped in deep velvet curtains that brushed the polished marble floor.
The left wall held oil-painted portraits—past Rosenfelds, dressed in ceremonial garments, gazes stern and distant.
Kel walked.
His footsteps were light, the heel barely tapping the floor before the next step. His spine remained straight, hands loosely clasped behind his back.
From a distance, he looked like a noble young heir on a casual morning stroll.
Up close, the stiffness in his left shoulder and the slight tightening of his jaw made visible what he hid.
Pain.
In this silence… the estate feels like an ancient coliseum before battle.
He passed a window.
Frost-encrusted glass reflected his silhouette.
One day, I will walk these halls not as the cursed heir… but as one worthy of this legacy.
His gaze shifted toward the portraits.
Eyes painted centuries ago looked down with frozen judgment.
Men with broad shoulders. Women with sharp eyes. All poised in strength.
He met their gaze unflinchingly.
They see a frail child.
His lips barely moved.
Let them. One day, they'll see a founder.
He continued walking.
The corridor stretched onward, ending at two towering double doors carved in dark mahogany, inlaid with silver thread tracing vague constellations. Above them, an inscription:
"Seek knowledge, and surpass blood."
Kel paused before it.
Even the library reminds us—blood alone does not define worth.
He placed his palm against the door.
The wood felt cool.
He exhaled slowly.
Opened it.
--
The scent of ancient parchment and polished cedar washed over him the moment he stepped inside.
Tall shelves rose from floor to ceiling, filled with manuscripts, tomes bound in leather, scrolls sealed with wax. Long reading tables stretched across the center, lit by suspended crystal lamps emitting soft luminance—even in daylight, the library persisted in twilight tranquility.
He inhaled gently.
Pain flickered in his chest.
But also… calm.
This place… remains untouched by the noise of the outside world.
He walked past rows of shelves. The hem of his coat brushed the floor softly as he moved, fingers occasionally trailing the edge of a table for balance.
His steps made no sound against the thick carpet runners lining the aisle.
Books on mana flow, aura conditioning, ancient lineages, medicinal forging…
He traced sections with his eyes.
His hand reached toward one shelf marked subtly with a black iron emblem—the private family section.
He hesitated.
Not yet…
He withdrew his hand.
I must first establish the correct structure for physical reinforcement.
He continued deeper inside.
At the far end of the library stood a tall window, sunlight beginning to stream in through the frost-glass.
He walked toward it.
Paused halfway.
And looked around.
Empty.
Only books. Morning stillness.
He allowed his shoulders to relax slightly.
Only slightly.
The pain is stronger today… but so is my control.
He approached the nearest desk and placed his fingers gently upon the wood.
Even if this body feels like it's burning from the inside…
I will walk.
His eyes narrowed.
I will read.
The faintest hint of resolve carved itself on his expression.
I will plan.
And I will endure.
He turned to the shelves.
The morning sun touched his back now, framing him in faint warmth—subtle, barely perceptible.
He did not seek the warmth.
He moved forward.
-----
Kel reached for the nearest shelf.
Rows of aged manuscripts rested in silent dignity. Labels carved into brass plates indicated eras long past—"Theory of Mana Suppression," "Anatomical Studies of Spirit Channels," "Military Conditioning under Mana Deficiency," and dozens more.
His eyes skimmed the titles.
I need something foundational. Something that supports fragile physiology without relying on mana or aura flow.
He traced a finger along the spine of an old leather-bound volume.
"Body Training for Non-Mana Users"
– Written by High Instructor Grathen, Imperial Academy
Kel hesitated.
I remember this from the game lore. This was used by commoners who awakened late. Most nobles ignored it… because it's slow, tedious, and not tailored for high potential.
He pulled it out.
The weight was light—less than expected. The cover was worn, pages slightly brittle at the edges.
But for me… this is exactly what I need.
He set it gently on the reading desk.
Then reached for another.
---
His hand paused over a thick tome wrapped in deep crimson binding.
Nearly untouched.
"Visceralis Cursing – A Study on Internal Decay"
— Anonymous
Kel's eyes narrowed.
This… wasn't available in the game.
It felt cold to the touch.
He lifted it slowly.
A chill traveled down his spine—not from temperature, but recognition.
Internal decay… that's exactly what this curse is doing to my body.
He placed the second book carefully beside the first.
Then took one more.
---
A smaller, almost insignificant-looking book, tucked between histories.
"Principles of Breath and Constitution"
– Grandmaster Yuven (Year 53 Pre-Empire)
Kel blinked.
One of the earliest works on breath-based martial conditioning. Written before mana became the standard training method.
He pulled it free.
Three books now sat on the desk.
Each chosen with precision.
Foundation. Curse research. Breath refinement.
A flicker of something like satisfaction crossed his expression.
Today, I study.
---
He sat down.
His movements were deliberate, the pain in his side flaring slightly as he eased into the chair. He placed the books in a neat stack, brushed his sleeve back, and opened the first one.
"Body Training for Non-Mana Users."
He began reading.
---
Day 1: Do not seek progress beyond your body's rise capacity.
Day 2: Understand your limit, then slowly push your limit.
Day 3: If pain arises, pause training and record its pattern.
Day 4: Never allow a single day of halted effort.
Kel quietly exhaled.
It's primitive. But… structured.
He scanned diagrams of muscle reinforcement, balance drills, and light flexibility routines.
These movements are simple enough. If I adapt them to my breath cycles…
He read further.
And applied carefully, they won't rupture the limiter created by the curse. Good.
He turned pages.
Time passed in measured silence.
From time to time, his fingers pressed lightly against his chest as the curse throbbed faintly, as though irritated by his intentions.
He ignored it.
---
After what felt like an hour, he switched to the second book.
"Visceralis Cursing – A Study on Internal Decay"
His eyes scanned the introduction.
"Curses that affect the host's essence often worsen with attempts at growth.
The curse interprets strengthening as a threat and reacts in kind."
Kel's lips thinned.
Exactly as I felt earlier.
He read further.
"One must heal while strengthening—not after. For every step forward, there must be a reinforced foundation."
He leaned back slightly.
Meaning recovery isn't secondary to training. It is half of it.
He closed the book gently.
So I must increase training, while equally increasing recovery methods.
And then…
A memory surfaced.
An early game mention.
Kel remembered a plant near Scarder Lake — Grayleaf Balm, known for soothing internal instability.
In three years… I could use that lake again. But now? I need local alternatives.
His eyes drifted to the window again.
Snow continued to fall.
Quiet.
Relentless.
---
He returned to reading Principles of Breath and Constitution.
The handwriting inside flowed elegantly across the yellowed pages.
"The breath does not only feed the body.
It instructs it."
"Pain during cultivation means the body resists change.
Pain endured means the will surpasses the body's limits.
Pain controlled… welcomes change."
Kel's eyes sharpened.
*Then today's pain was not a failure… but the first acknowledgement of change.*
He closed the book slowly.
Then stood.
The chair scraped quietly as he rose.
He placed his hands behind his back and exhaled.
Long.
Measured.
---
He remained silent for a moment.
Then he spoke softly—without turning.
"…You've been watching me for a while."
The library stirred.
From behind a pillar near the entrance, a figure emerged.
A maid.
Not Marine.
Someone older, wearing a longer uniform with darker trimmings—one of the senior estate staff.
She bowed.
Her expression was unreadable.
Kel looked at her carefully.
"…You are?"
"Elise," she said quietly. "I oversee the higher staff and coordinate the estate schedule."
Kel nodded.
"What brings you here?"
The woman lifted her head.
Her eyes held a look that did not match her age.
"I heard that the young master has been visiting the library at dawn…" she said slowly. "And training. With effort no one expected."
Kel said nothing.
The woman continued.
"…Some have begun speaking about it."
Kel's expression didn't change.
But his eyes did—very slightly.
"Speaking?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied. "Some believe you are preparing for something." She paused. "Others think… you are simply resisting the inevitable decline."
Silence.
Kel regarded her.
Then looked away toward the window.
"…And you?"
Her expression broke slightly.
"I think," she said very quietly, "that the young master… has already begun changing something. Even if it is only himself."
Kel was silent.
No words came.
For a moment, his posture softened.
Not visibly.
But internally.
Then he faced her.
"Please have lunch brought to my room today," he said softly.
Eleanor bowed.
"At once."
She walked away.
As she exited, she murmured to herself—
"Perhaps… this time, the story will not reapet i hope young master this time you prove your worth"
Kel did not turn.
He remained still.
His fingers curled slightly.
A quiet, dangerous whisper crossed his mind.
It won't.