The training grounds of House Aethra were never quiet.
Steel rang against steel. Boots scraped stone. Instructors barked corrections that were more insults than guidance. For the main branch heirs, the courtyard was a proving ground. For everyone else, it was a reminder.
Argus stood at the edge of the circle, hands wrapped in worn cloth, eyes lowered.
He had learned early that looking confident only made things worse.
Across from him, his opponent rolled his shoulders lazily, wooden practice spear balanced against one palm. Lucien Aethra—two years older, full-blooded, and loud in the way nobles were loud when they knew they were untouchable.
"So," Lucien said, smiling as a few onlookers laughed. "This is the one?"
One of the instructors nodded. "Argus Aethra. Branch line."
Lucien's smile widened. "Right. The half-blood."
Argus didn't react. He counted breaths instead.
Three instructors stood around the circle. Two wore neutral expressions. The third looked bored. Around them, several siblings watched from shaded balconies, some openly curious, others already disinterested.
He felt it then. The familiar pressure in his chest. Not fear. Expectation.
This match had been decided before it began.
"Rules?" Lucien asked.
"First to yield or incapacitation," the bored instructor said. "No lethal techniques."
Lucien gave a theatrical sigh. "I'll try to be gentle."
Argus stepped into the circle.
The stone beneath his feet was warm from the sun. His heart rate steadied. This body was younger, weaker than the one he'd died in, but it was his now. He knew its limits better than anyone else here.
Lucien twirled the spear once, then planted its butt against the ground. "You can start."
Argus didn't.
He waited.
Lucien's smile faltered just a little. Then he lunged.
Fast. Faster than most novices. The spear shot forward in a straight thrust aimed at Argus's chest.
Argus moved.
Not back. Not sideways.
He stepped in.
The spear scraped past his shoulder as Argus twisted, one hand snapping up to strike the shaft near the head. The impact jolted his arm painfully, but it redirected the weapon just enough.
Lucien blinked. "Huh."
Argus followed through with a low kick aimed at the knee.
Lucien leapt back, laughing. "You're actually trying."
A murmur rippled through the watching crowd.
Argus didn't press. He repositioned instead, circling, keeping distance. His breathing stayed controlled. He remembered this pattern. Lucien liked to test, to play, before committing.
He remembered something else too.
In his first life, he'd been average because he'd waited for permission to act.
Not this time.
Lucien lunged again, this time sweeping low, then snapping the spear upward. Argus ducked, felt the wind of it pass inches from his face, then surged forward.
His fist struck Lucien's ribs.
It wasn't strong. But it landed.
The laughter stopped.
Lucien's eyes hardened. He twisted, bringing the spear around in a sharp arc. Argus blocked with his forearm, pain exploding up to his shoulder.
Wood cracked against bone.
He staggered back two steps.
Lucien straightened slowly. "You think landing one hit makes you equal?"
Argus said nothing.
The instructor didn't stop the match.
Lucien attacked in earnest this time.
The spear blurred. Thrust, sweep, jab. Argus dodged what he could, blocked what he couldn't, each impact sending shock through his body. He was slower. Weaker. That hadn't changed.
But he lasted.
Seconds stretched. Then a minute.
Whispers began.
Lucien's movements grew sharper, angrier. He feinted high and struck low, the spear slamming into Argus's thigh. Argus cried out despite himself, falling to one knee.
Pain flared white-hot.
"Yield," Lucien said softly.
Argus pushed himself up.
His leg trembled. Blood seeped through the cloth.
Lucien's smile returned, thin and cruel. "Still standing? Impressive. Let's end this."
He shifted his grip.
Argus's eyes widened.
That stance wasn't part of basic training.
"Lucien," one instructor said slowly. "That technique—"
"It's controlled," Lucien replied without looking away. "I know what I'm doing."
Argus knew it too.
In his first life, he'd watched this same move break a boy's spine.
The spear came down like a hammer.
Argus raised his arms, bracing instinctively.
The impact crushed him.
Stone cracked beneath his feet as he was driven to the ground. Air burst from his lungs. Pain flooded everything.
Something snapped.
Not bone.
Restraint.
He lay there, vision swimming, ears ringing. Above him, Lucien loomed, spear raised again.
The instructor hesitated.
Yield, a voice whispered in Argus's mind. Live.
Another voice answered.
No.
He pushed himself up on shaking arms.
Lucien's eyes widened in genuine surprise. "You're insane."
The spear descended.
And the world… paused.
Not stopped. Paused.
Argus felt something cold settle behind his eyes.
Text burned into his vision, sharp and colorless.
Condition Met.Survival Threshold Exceeded.Evaluation: Incomplete Vessel.
Do you consent to adaptation?
Argus didn't understand it.
He understood one thing.
If he said no, he would die.
"Yes," he thought.
The word echoed.
Pain didn't vanish. It focused.
His senses sharpened. Time lurched forward again.
The spear struck—but not where it had been aimed.
Argus moved.
Barely.
His arms twisted at the last second, deflecting the blow enough that it slammed into the stone beside his head instead of crushing his spine. The shock still sent agony screaming through him, but he lived.
Lucien stumbled, overextended.
Argus surged forward on instinct alone, shoulder slamming into Lucien's chest.
They both went down.
Gasps erupted from the spectators.
Lucien scrambled up first, fury blazing. "That's enough!"
He raised the spear again.
"Stop," the instructor barked.
Lucien froze.
Argus lay on his back, chest heaving, vision blurring at the edges. The system text flickered faintly, unreadable now, like an afterimage burned into his sight.
Hands grabbed him. Voices overlapped.
"—out of line—"
"—he didn't yield—"
"—what was that movement—"
Argus closed his eyes.
He didn't hear the rest.
He woke in a quiet room.
Clean. Sterile. The scent of herbs and antiseptic hung in the air.
Pain greeted him immediately.
He groaned, trying to move.
"Don't," a voice said.
Argus turned his head. An elderly healer sat beside the bed, expression unreadable. "You're lucky," she said. "Another inch and you'd be crippled."
Argus swallowed. "The match?"
"Ended," she replied. "Before it became a scandal."
That told him enough.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling.
So it had begun.
The door opened quietly.
A man stepped inside.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Cloaked in authority so dense it pressed on the air itself.
The Patriarch of House Aethra.
Argus's father.
The room seemed smaller with him in it.
The healer bowed and left without a word.
Silence stretched.
The Patriarch studied Argus as if he were a broken weapon laid on a table. Not with anger. Not with concern.
With calculation.
"You endured," the man said at last.
Argus didn't respond.
"That technique was not meant for you," the Patriarch continued. "You should have yielded."
Argus met his gaze. "Then I wouldn't be standing here."
A flicker. Amusement? Interest?
"Perhaps," the Patriarch said. "Your mother would have told you to be more careful."
The words struck harder than the spear.
Argus's jaw tightened.
The Patriarch turned away. "Rest. You will not be punished for today."
He paused at the door.
"But you will be watched."
Then he was gone.
The room felt colder.
Argus closed his eyes.
The system text returned, faint but present.
Adaptation Registered.Cost Deferred.Warning: Instability Detected.
Argus exhaled slowly.
Whatever he had agreed to, it wasn't finished with him.
And for the first time since his rebirth, he smiled.
Not because he had won.
But because he had survived something he was never meant to.