Caelan's body felt like a broken puppet, his muscles screaming with every tiny twitch. The duel with Veyon had drained not just his mana but his soul. He lay there on the bed, bandages wrapped around his arms, waist, and legs, breathing slowly through a mana-based technique Fen had once taught him. It was supposed to soothe internal stress. Right now, it was the only thing stopping him from screaming into his pillow.
The next morning, Gregor stood by the door, straight as ever. "Young master," he said formally, bowing just a little, "the patriarch calls for your presence."
Caelan sat up with a groan, stretching his sore limbs. "Man, I feel like I got run over by a wagon... twice."
Still, he pulled on fresh robes, tightened his bandages, and limped his way down the marbled hallway. The Hall of Dorne loomed as always—intimidating, cold, and quiet. His father sat on his usual seat, eyes sharp like a hawk.
Silence. For a long, awkward second.
Armath finally spoke. "I will train you in swordsmanship—but only after you reach a certain mastery. Until then, you'll be assigned a master to teach you the basics."
It was a simple declaration. But to Caelan, it meant everything. No rejection. No cold dismissal. Just a path forward. He bowed lightly, and his father nodded.
"You may leave."
A week passed.
Caelan stood at the front gate, watching Aldric Thorne's carriage prepare to roll out. He bowed to his old teacher. "Master Thorne, thank you. I wouldn't be here if not for your guidance."
Aldric raised an eyebrow, chuckled, and smiled. "Don't flatter me too much. I only trained you for my own research funding. But… your will to keep going, even in misery—that's yours. Not mine. I think even that mysterious mage saw it in you when he taught you that breathing technique."
The carriage left, leaving Caelan to his thoughts. "That guy… was a weirdo. But he changed my life."
The next morning, Caelan found himself walking toward the training ground, genuinely curious. Who would his sword teacher be?
Then he heard it.
"You call that a stance?! Are you kidding me?! After months, and you still hold your sword like a broomstick? You should be a farmer, not a knight!"
Caelan paused.
A voice like thunder. An aura like fire.
"That must be him," Caelan muttered.
The man yelling was a tall brute of a warrior with scars that told stories. He was berating a trainee—just a boy, maybe fifteen—covered in dirt and sweat.
Master Kael Rhogar. Known for training the rookies of House Dorne. His methods were brutal, but his results were legendary.
Caelan stepped into the grounds. Every head turned. Whispered voices filled the space.
"That's the guy who fought Commander Veyon."
"Yeah, and he only scratched him."
Caelan felt a flare of pride… then immediate irritation. Tch. I gave everything in that fight, you punks.
He ignored the whispers and walked straight to Kael. "I'm here to join training. As a newbie."
Kael stared him down. "Good. I'll treat you like any commoner. No special titles. You mess up, I'll grind you harder than them."
Caelan smirked. "Yes, sir." (This is going to be a pain in the ass…)
He stood beside the same boy Kael had shouted at earlier, who looked down, nervous. His uniform was torn, covered in mud, and he looked like he hadn't eaten in days.
"Name?" Caelan asked during break.
The boy looked up. "I'm Luken. Luken Marell."
Caelan smiled. "Caelan Dorne. Good to meet you. Let's be friends."
Luken blinked, shocked. "Friends? With me? Everyone else just calls me useless…"
"Exactly why I want to be your friend," Caelan said, shooting a quick glare at some of the older trainees watching. (No matter the world, scumbags always come in packs…)
That day's training was brutal. A thousand diagonal swings. A thousand horizontal slashes. Running until legs screamed. But Caelan kept up, gasping, sweating—powered by the will that had carried him through everything.
Kael raised an eyebrow. "Not bad… for a spoiled noble."
Later that evening, as the sun dipped, Caelan was leaving the grounds. He turned—and saw Luken, still training, covered in dirt, pushing himself until his arms shook.
Caelan smiled faintly. I see you, kid. Just like I once was.
Next morning.
Caelan arrived early, hoping to maybe train alongside Luken.
What he saw made his blood freeze.
Luken, lying in the corridor. His leg twisted. His face pale. A deep wound bleeding down his shin.
"Luken!"
He scooped the boy up and rushed him to the healers. Within minutes, a mage with glowing hands sealed the wound. But the tears streaming down Luken's cheeks didn't stop. Not from the pain.
From fear.
The healer shook his head. "The bone's shattered. Fragments embedded deep in the flesh. We closed the wound, but if we don't amputate, infection will follow."
Caelan blinked. "Wait… amputate?! What kind of primitive—" He stopped himself.
Luken's eyes widened in horror.
"No… please… I… I wanted to be a knight…"
Caelan stood frozen. The room, the healers, the smell of blood — all of it blurred as something stirred inside him. Not anger. Not sadness.
A memory.
White coats. Blinding operating lights. His own gloved hands trembling as he pushed past exhaustion to save one more life. Elias Cross — that was the name he carried once. A surgeon who gave everything. Who died on the floor of an empty hospital ward, scalpel still in hand.
He looked down at Luken. The same helplessness he had seen so many times before… but this time, it wasn't a stranger lying on that table. It was a friend.
Caelan clenched his fists. This isn't happening. Not again.
His breath hitched as memories of hospital beds, dying patients, and helpless families from his past life flooded back.
"Don't worry, Luken. I'll figure something out. You're not losing that leg."
But even as he said it, Caelan felt the pit in his stomach grow.
This world doesn't have surgeons. Not like I was. But maybe… just maybe… I can become that again. With mana.