After he finished freshening up in the shower, Noah dragged himself into the bathroom sink like a man facing execution.
He stared blearily at the wooden sink.
"I wonder how they brush teeth in this world," he muttered, scratching his head.
And right there — sitting casually next to a tiny jar of what looked like herbal paste — was a toothbrush.
A regular-looking one, too.
Not made of bones or unicorn tail hair or anything weird. Just a simple wooden handle and some soft bristles.
Noah blinked. "Huh. That's… oddly normal."
He reached for it, and the moment his fingers got close, the toothbrush levitated.
"...What the f — "
The toothbrush spun once in the air like it was warming up, dipped itself in the paste, and then lunged at his face.
"WAH — !"
Before he could even dodge, it began scrubbing his teeth aggressively. Not painfully, but with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested it had unresolved trauma.
It swirled, it spun, it flossed.
His mouth was no longer his own — it was the battlefield of a dental civil war.
When it was finally done, it dipped into a bowl of water and politely hovered back into place.
Noah stared into the mirror, foam still clinging to the corners of his mouth.
"Of course it's magic," he muttered. "God forbid anything in this damn world uses hands."
He rinsed, wiped his mouth, and trudged back to his room.
The closet was open — probably one of the maids again — and to his pleasant surprise, it was filled with… normal clothes.
Black shirts. White shirts. Purple shirts.
Some button-ups. Sweatpants. Even a few hoodies. His jaw dropped. "Did they… actually get my style?"
He grabbed a white shirt, slipped into it, and paired it with black sweatpants.
Comfortable. Casual.
No sequins, no enchanted shoulder pads, no capes that whispered to him in his sleep. Just regular human clothes.
He looked at the orb still floating smugly on the nightstand. "You. Stay."
The orb blinked in response.
He picked it up like one would a suspicious hamster, marched down the stairs, opened a random cabinet, and unceremoniously shoved it in.
"Finally," he exhaled. "Peace."
He headed toward the kitchen, still groggy.
Most of the maids were probably off preparing hell's breakfast banquet or whatever royal families did at 5 A.M., so the place was quiet.
He opened one of the wooden cabinets and found a row of odd glass bottles filled with colorful liquids.
One of them looked like milk — sort of. It was faintly glowing.
Noah frowned. "Please don't be radioactive."
He popped the top, gave it a cautious sniff, and poured a small amount into a wooden cup.
It looked like regular milk. Smelled like it too.
He took a sip.
Then his eyes widened. "Whoa."
It tasted like the unicorn milk from yesterday… except this one had a kick.
Like someone had mixed in a shot of espresso, a spoonful of sugar, and the sheer will to live.
His body perked up immediately. "Okay, alright, I take back what I said about this world. This stuff's dangerous."
He poured a second cup — strictly for scientific reasons — and drank it faster. Then carefully corked the bottle and returned it to the shelf.
There was no label. Nothing to indicate what it actually was.
"That's fine," he said. "Mystery milk it is. What's the worst that could happen?"
He pushed open the front door and stepped into the morning chill.
The air was crisp, birds were singing some weird melodic tune that was probably a language here, and the cobblestone path sparkled faintly like someone had thrown glitter on it.
And there she was.
The maid waiting outside was short and serious-looking. Her uniform was perfectly pressed, not a wrinkle in sight.
She had deep brown eyes and the facial expression of someone who had seen too many nobles throw tantrums about missing socks.
"Hero Noah," she said with a bow. "I'll be escorting you to your tutors this morning."
Noah gave a tired wave. "Cool. Let's pretend I'm excited."
...
The morning sun was already shining far too confidently for Noah's taste.
It had that golden glow that made everything look prettier than it had any right to be — sparkling tiles, blooming flowers, birds chirping like backup singers to nature's boyband.
Noah, however, looked like he'd lost a wrestling match with a pillow.
Hair messy, eyes drooping, and brain barely booted up.
The maid walked ahead of him with a posture so perfect it made him feel like a disgraced gremlin.
She led him through the winding stone pathways of the palace's outer grounds, past scenic fountains and statues of dead guys holding swords.
Eventually, they stopped before a massive iron gate.
Behind it lay an open field with cobbled flooring, wooden dummies, weapon racks, and a wide sparring circle in the middle.
It was like a fantasy gym, minus the protein shakes and overenthusiastic trainers yelling about "gains."
Noah stared at the field. "This the place?"
The maid gave a nod. "These are the training grounds His Majesty has set aside for you, Hero Noah."
"Oh good," he muttered. "A private torture chamber."
The wind shifted slightly, and he felt something… strange.
Like the air was thicker, but not heavy — more like it tingled.
It didn't burn or zap or sparkle (thank God), but it felt like the moment before a storm, except without the wet socks.
He squinted. "Okay, what is that feeling? Like the air's alive."
The maid blinked. "You're sensing the magical energy in the air, sir."
Noah gave a slow nod. "Magical energy. Right. Totally normal. Why wouldn't the air be juiced up with wizard power?"
She gave a soft, polite smile. "You'll get used to it."
"That's what everyone says right before something explodes."
She stepped aside and gestured him through the gates. "Sir Garrick is already awaiting your arrival."
Noah took a cautious step into the field, then another. Nothing exploded, so that was a good start.
And then he saw him.
Sir Garrick.
He had seen the man yesterday but there was a difference between seeing a man in the presence of a king and seeing him by himself.
The man was a tank.
Not metaphorically — a literal human fortress. His armor gleamed like someone had polished it with tears and elbow grease.
His chestplate had the Solmaria crest.
His beard was long, thick, and somehow both noble and slightly terrifying. The kind of beard that could probably win fights on its own.
He looked like the kind of guy who'd survived at least five wars and headbutted a bear for breakfast.
And he was waving cheerfully.