He walked out of his room with measured steps—
Each footfall a blade, slicing through silence,
and the earth itself bowed, preparing his path.
Lara followed behind without a word,
her eyes fixed on his back, scanning for a weakness…
There was none.
His body was taut like a drawn bowstring,
playing a silent requiem to the void—
as if every cell in him was prepared for war.
He advanced like a sword, unsheathed without ever being lifted.
He opened the door to the training hall… slowly.
And she was there.
Kraye.
Locked in battle—
not with an enemy, but with herself.
Her sword slashed through the air,
chasing phantoms of the past.
Her aura burned like a simmering volcano on the edge of eruption.
Sweat dripped from her brow,
blood seeped from her palms,
but her expression remained silent, unyielding.
Every move was a message.
Every strike—a punishment for an unforgiven sin.
Then their eyes met.
Everything stopped.
Fatigue dissolved.
Breath steadied.
She vanished.
And reappeared behind him.
Her arms wrapped around him,
as if shielding him from the world.
She pressed a kiss to his forehead and whispered,
voice trembling between power and collapse:
— "You little brat… you've brought me back to myself."
She stepped back, one brow raised playfully—yet dangerously.
— "You've slept for an entire week, like you were buried in the grave.
So tell me…
Are you still the warrior you once were?
Or just a shadow of what you used to be?"
She flicked her sword lightly, her gaze sharpening like a blade:
— "Come now, Noxvir…
Show me—
Does your touch still deserve respect?
Or should I start feeling sorry for you?"
And so the battle began.
A synchronized storm.
Every step, every parry, every strike—
as if they were acting out an ancient ritual.
Their clash was not just sound—
It was rhythm.
A dance of ghosts.
The air grew heavy with the scent of death—
not from corpses,
but from the death of hesitation.
It wasn't a fight.
It was a test.
A test of instinct, of awareness—
of the will to rise again.
And at its end,
they stood in silence,
sharing one look:
The path had begun anew.
Days passed.
Time burned slowly under the weight of training.
Pain replaced comfort.
Wounds replaced doubt.
And from ashes of the weak, something else was born.
Fifteen years had passed since the king named Isaac was reborn into this world—
a world that had become nothing more than a tool,
a ladder for a purpose that never wavered… only sharpened.
He entered the training hall like a storm in stillness.
Tall.
Sculpted.
Every inch of his body carved with divine precision.
A presence that dominated space without uttering a word.
He was a rare fusion—
raw, brutal power and overwhelming beauty.
As if nature itself had conspired to create a being beyond balance.
His muscles weren't just strong—they were weapons.
His movements didn't simply flow—they ruled.
And his eyes…
They pierced.
In the center of the hall stood Kraye.
But this time,
she didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just watched.
And when she finally spoke,
her voice carried both jest and awe:
— "If you weren't my son… I would've proposed to you."
Then she softened,
and her tone dropped into something real:
— "What you've achieved…
Words fail.
You've done the impossible.
Well done, my little one."
He bowed with respect:
— "I'm not the only one who's surpassed themselves.
You've done well, too."
She chuckled lightly:
— "Is that praise I hear?
Mountains don't pity the climbers…
But they do smile at the ones who reach the peak."
Then her laugh faded into something else.
Something honest.
— "You've always been the reason I became what I am…
Always."
A pause.
Then her eyes gleamed with playful wickedness:
— "Shall I offer you a little gift?"
But before he could respond,
her expression changed.
Hardened.
Sharpened.
And she roared:
— "Attack me with everything you have!
I want you to know your current limits—
Because knowing your limits solidifies your existence…
and shields you from the curse of oblivion."
Her words sank into him like scripture.
He closed his eyes… smiled.
And answered with steady calm:
— "As you wish."