When Ibnor came to, the world was a soft, blurry haze. He blinked, the ceiling of his bedroom slowly sharpening into focus. His entire body ached, a deep, throbbing protest from every muscle. It felt as though he'd been run over by a truck, then meticulously reassembled by a sadist. He tried to move, and a fresh wave of agony shot through his limbs.
"Right. Zainal. The running. The... blackout."
A sharp rap on his door jolted him.
"Young Master, it's almost time for your classes!" Aryssa's voice, crisp and emotionless as usual, from behind the door.
He groaned, a pitiful sound. Getting out of bed felt like peeling himself from a sticky trap. Every movement was a struggle, each step feels like being strapped with weights. His muscles screamed in protest, but he forced himself through his morning routine, dressing in his academy uniform with agonizing slowness.
The academy halls were a blur of faces and hushed whispers he mostly ignored. During the first theory class, History, Ibnor tried to focus on the instructor's droning voice, but his mind kept drifting back to the phantom ache in his legs. His phone vibrated subtly in his pocket. He pulled it out, wincing as he saw the sender: Zainal.
The message was short, devoid of pleasantries:
[Assessment complete. Training will commence daily after school hours at Fenrir's training center.]
Ibnor stared at the text, a fresh wave of dread washing over him.
"Daily? At Fenrir's? The guild training center?"
He groaned, a quiet, involuntary sound that earned him a curious glance from a student nearby. This wasn't just a one-off assessment; this was his life now.
The bell finally rang, signaling the end of classes. Ibnor gathered his things, his movements stiff. Aryssa was already waiting for him by the classroom door, her usual impassive expression in place.
"You can go back first today," Ibnor said, his voice a little strained from the effort of moving.
"Go back? What do you mean, Young Master? Are you not returning to the apartment?" Aryssa's brow furrowed slightly.
"No. I'll be training."
"Training? Why wasn't I informed?" Her eyes widened, a rare flash of genuine surprise breaking through her composure.
Ibnor shrugged, a movement that sent a fresh jolt of pain through his shoulders.
"You report directly to my father, don't you? Ask him."
Aryssa's lips thinned, and she let out a low grumble. Her gaze flickered between disbelief and a familiar, deep-seated suspicion.
"I will verify this issue," she stated, her voice tight.
She pulled out her own phone, already dialing a number as she turned and walked away, her back rigid.
Ibnor watched her go, then let out a weary sigh.
"Good. One less person to worry about for now."
He turned and headed towards the academy gates, his screaming muscles already anticipating the next round of torment.
Upon arriving at the Fenrir training center, Ibnor's jaw nearly hit the polished floor. It wasn't just immense; it was a cathedral of combat. Gleaming chrome and reinforced alloys formed walls that soared to a vaulted ceiling, where holographic displays shimmered with combat simulations. Advanced equipment, from gravity-defying treadmills to shimmering mana-conduit dummies, hummed with barely contained power.
This wasn't just a gym; it was a showcase of the Ezad Group's unparalleled wealth and influence, one of the reasons why they managed to be one of the top guild.
Zainal was already there, a still, perfectly tailored figure standing by the entrance to one of the vast indoor training arenas. His posture was impeccable, radiating a quiet aura but ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice, like a sheathed blade.
"Good afternoon, Young Master," Zainal greeted, his voice calm, cutting through the low hum of the facility.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Zainal," Ibnor replied, his voice still a little hoarse, each word a minor effort. He shifted his weight, his entire body screaming in a dull, persistent ache.
"Do we... must we start today? My body is still... well, it feels like I wrestled a griffin."
Zainal's expression remained unreadable, his gaze firm as he met Ibnor's.
"Young Master, you told your father, 'If I don't start now, it'll be too late.' Time, as they say, waits for no man."
Ibnor flinched.
"He's really going to hold me to every single word, isn't he?" The thought was both frustrating and, strangely, a little reassuring.
"But how am I supposed to move? My muscles feel like they're tearing apart. I can barely lift my arms." He tried another angle, desperation creeping into his tone.
Zainal took a long, assessing look at Ibnor, his brow furrowing slightly in what seemed like genuine, albeit subtle, confusion.
"Did you not drink the recovery potion, Young Master, after your assessment?"
Ibnor's face faltered.
"A recovery potion? Such a thing existed?" His mind, accustomed to Earth's limitations, couldn't quite grasp the concept of instant physical restoration.
"A... a potion? We have such a thing?" He stammered, the words laced with disbelief.
From Ibnor's bewildered expression, Zainal knew the answer to his question. The butler's finger went to the communication device on his ear.
"Medic team," he spoke into it, his voice clear and concise, a hint of exasperated resignation in his tone. "The second young master requires assistance for recovery. He appears to have neglected his post-assessment regimen."
Within moments, a group of personnel arrived. Most of them were healers, their hands glowing faintly with the soft, ethereal light of mana. They cast a few quick, intricate spells over Ibnor. A wave of warmth, like stepping into a perfectly heated bath, washed over him, followed by a tingling sensation that spread from his head to his toes.
He felt a strange, almost magical unraveling of tension. The agonizing pain that had plagued every fiber of his being simply vanished, replaced by a profound lightness. His crushing fatigue evaporated, his energy completely restored, as if he'd just woken from the most refreshing sleep of his life. He felt... normal. Better than normal, in fact. It was as if the morning's torture had never happened, leaving him utterly astonished.
The medic team, their task complete, bowed respectfully and left as swiftly as they had arrived. Zainal watched them go, then turned his attention back to Ibnor, his expression still unreadable.
"Now that that's taken care of, Young Master," Zainal said, his voice flat, "are we ready to start?"
"Yes, sir!" Ibnor blurted out, still reeling from the magical recovery.
Zainal's brow twitched, a minuscule shift that Ibnor almost missed.
"Don't call me sir, Young Master. I'm just a commoner that needs to earn his living."
Ibnor blinked, then a fresh wave of understanding, mixed with exasperation, washed over him. Zainal was truly relentless.
The training was brutal. Far more brutal than the morning's run, precisely because his body was always at peak condition. Zainal pushed him beyond his limits again and again, focusing on building his core and foundation. This wasn't just physical strength; it was a relentless regimen of crossfit-like drills combined with calisthenics, pushing his endurance, flexibility, and raw power. He ran, he jumped, he lifted, he pulled, he pushed, until sweat poured from him in rivers and his muscles screamed, only to be instantly healed by the medic team when required.
Days bled into weeks. The training continued, a relentless, unceasing grind that pushed Ibnor further than he ever thought possible. His physical body, constantly restored by magic, never truly suffered, but his mind was a different story. The pain was fleeting, but the exhaustion of constantly pushing past what his mind believed was possible was cumulative, a heavy shroud settling over his thoughts. He was learning, in the most painful way imaginable, that true endurance wasn't just about physical stamina, but about the sheer, stubborn will to continue when every fiber of your being screamed to stop.
One particular day, after what felt like an eternity of burpees and sprints, Ibnor finally lost it. His rationale, already frayed at the edges, snapped. He stood panting, hands on his knees, glaring at Zainal, who remained as impassive as a statue.
"You are doing this on purpose!" Ibnor gasped, his voice raw with fury and exhaustion.
"Indeed I am, second young master. But this is, on your own volition. Did you forget?"
Zainal's expression didn't change. He understood the mental breaking point Ibnor was reaching, the desperate lashing out of a mind pushed beyond its limits. He didn't take it to heart, but his reply did little to help Ibnor's spiraling frustration.
"Endurance is not just physical stamina, Young Master, but also your mentality."
"My legs are going to fall off!" Ibnor wailed, collapsing onto the padded floor.
"No,they are not."
"I can't feel my legs!"
"Yes, you can."
"I can't move," Ibnor tried again, hoping for a shred of pity.
"You have been saying that for the past half an hour."
Diplomacy, or rather, desperate pleading, had failed. Ibnor's frustration boiled over, morphing into pure, unadulterated rage. He was fed up. Fed up with the pain, fed up with Zainal's infuriating calm, fed up with this entire, impossible situation.
With a guttural roar, he scrambled to his feet and lunged, not with any technique, but with the primal fury of a cornered animal. He wanted to pounce, to bite, to tear at Zainal as if the butler were the most hated enemy, as if his very life depended on that moment of savage, desperate attack.
Zainal just stood there, unmoving, unflinching, a solid rock against Ibnor's futile, rage-fueled assault.
"That's enough," Zainal's voice cut through the red haze.
Then, a sudden, sharp impact – BAM! – and everything went black.
When he came to his senses, the world was still spinning. He was lying on the cool, padded floor of the training center, a dull throb at the back of his head. Zainal stood over him, a shadow against the bright arena lights.
"I'm... I'm dying," Ibnor mumbled, trying the sympathy card, his voice weak.
"We are training to prevent that, Young Master."
"I... I can't even talk anymore!"
"You still have the energy to talk, Young Master."
Ibnor closed his eyes.
"Just... kill me."
"You still have the energy to complain, Young Master." Zainal's voice was utterly devoid of sympathy.
Seeing nothing will change Zainal's mind, Ibnor begrudgingly stood up.
"Good. Now, one last lap."
***
Soon, Ibnor's body, though constantly pushed to its limits, began to adapt to the grueling regimen. Over time, the subtle, yet undeniable, changes became apparent. His physique transformed, his once soft frame chiseling into a lean, muscular form that spoke of honed power rather than bulk.
It wasn't just physical aesthetics; his strength, speed, endurance, and reflexes all improved significantly. Yet, even with these remarkable gains, a cold, hard truth remained: it was still not enough. He barely possessed the foundational strength to be considered a decent Awakener. Decent. Just another cannon fodder, he knew. Not nearly enough to face the true dangers that were to come.
He was now deep into his first year at the academy, and the Awakening ceremony was waiting, set for the year's end, when he and his classmates would officially gain their powers. The main story of the Tumultuous Era game, he recalled with a jolt, truly began when they entered their second year.
"The protagonist... he's in this very class, isn't he?" Ibnor realized, a flicker of distant memory.
But he hadn't paid any attention to his classmates, or anyone beyond his immediate, desperate circle. He was too busy trying to change his fate, literally. Repairing the fractured relationships with his family, desperately trying to prevent his already tarnished image from deteriorating further, and enduring Zainal's relentless training. His schedule was packed, a suffocating pandemonium of self-preservation, leaving him simply unable to think about other things, let alone recognize the future hero.
Just as he was beginning to settle into a semblance of comfort with his new, arduous routine, that fragile sense of normalcy shattered. Aryssa, the personal assistant he had been trying to avoid for weeks, suddenly appeared at the training center.
"What are you doing here?" Ibnor demanded, a bead of sweat trickling down his brow, a mix of exhaustion and irritation in his voice.
He had genuinely hoped to avoid this confrontation for as long as possible. Aryssa's reply was cold, mechanical, devoid of any warmth.
"I am here because of my responsibilities as your personal assistant, Young Master. And unlike 'someone' who simply does as he wishes, I cannot afford to do so." Her words were a thinly veiled jab, a reminder of his past capriciousness.
Ibnor's jaw tightened. He couldn't retort. The truth of her statement, the weight of his inherited reputation, pressed down on him. He stammered, searching for words, for an escape.
"You... you can... you should stop being my personal assistant."
A sharp, dangerous glare was her only response. The air around her seemed to drop several degrees. Then, a memory clicked into place for Ibnor, a piece of the original Ibnor's vile history.
"Right. Her sibling. The weaponized dependency." He sighed, a heavy, defeated sound.
"Just... pretend I didn't say anything," he mumbled, rubbing his temples.
He had made up his mind. He needed to settle this issue with Aryssa, or more specifically, the leverage the original Ibnor held over her: her sibling.
After the training session finally ended, Ibnor didn't immediately head home.
"To the hospital." He instructed his driver, instead.
Aryssa, who had remained silent, became instantly wary. Her eyes narrowed, but she held her suspicion, carefully masking her expression. However, her composure began to crack as the limousine turned into the familiar drive of the city's main hospital. Her suspicion solidified into dread as they pulled up to the specific wing, then the very ward, where her little brother was admitted.
A cold knot formed in her stomach. She felt a desperate urge to lash out, to scream, to attack. But she held herself back, her teeth clenching so hard her jaw ached. She couldn't afford to attack the heir of the Ezad Group. Not here. Not now. She could only hope that Ibnor wouldn't do anything... anything to harm her brother.
Ibnor stepped out of the car, Aryssa following closely, her body rigid with tension. He walked to the door of the ward, then paused, standing silently for a moment, watching Aryssa's little brother through the glass panel before finally opening his mouth.
"Aryssa, do we treat you unfairly?" Ibnor's voice was calm, almost detached.
"No, Young Master. The Ezad family has always been generous. And I'm thankful for that." Her reply was immediate, practiced, a well-worn script.
"Is your salary lower than the standard?"
"No. You gave me three times higher than the current standard."
"Then, mind telling me why your brother is here?"
Aryssa's jaw clenched, her teeth grinding together. Her mind raced, trying to decipher Ibnor's true intention, his game.
"What do you mean why? Mana fever is a well known disease with no cure! Are you trying to remind me that if I don't obey you, you will truly ban the hospital from treating my little brother?" The thought burned, a bitter, helpless rage.
"I'm sure you know the incident that..." she began, her voice tight with suppressed anger.
"I'm not asking how... nevermind." Ibnor cut her off, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
He pulled out his phone and dialed a number. Soon, the line connected.
"I want the patient of ward 5A4 to be transferred," Ibnor stated, his voice firm and authoritative.
Aryssa's breath hitched. She was now visibly agitated, her fists clenching hard at her sides. Ibnor held out a single finger to her, signaling her to be patient. She squeezed her fists tighter, knuckles white.
"Yes, VIP treatment. I want the best of the best. Yes. Thank you." Ibnor ended the call, then looked at Aryssa.
She was utterly bewildered, her carefully constructed mask of composure shattered.
"And that's that. You may stay and ensure everything goes smoothly." He said, then turned to leave.
"Why?" Aryssa asked, her voice raw, making him pause at the door.
"What do you mean 'why'?" Ibnor replied, not turning around.
"You know damned well what I meant." She hissed through her gritted teeth, stripping all pretense.
"It won't be easy to gain her trust," Ibnor thought, a weary sigh escaping him.
He knew the depth of the original Ibnor's cruelty.
"Do I need to explain myself to you? Remember your place." Ibnor said, his voice cold, and turned away, walking out of the ward.
Aryssa slumped down on the chair next to the bed, her body trembling.
"Dammit..." she whispered, tears finally running unchecked down her face.