The moon still hung lazily in the sky when Trafalgar's eyes opened.
The room was quiet, dimly lit by the faint silver glow seeping through the curtains. He sat up slowly, rubbing the side of his neck. His body still ached from the awakening ritual earlier, but something deeper urged him to move.
He dressed quickly in a dark tunic and simple trousers, the kind meant for indoor wear.
Opening the door slowly, he peeked out into the hallway. Silence. The guards rotated shifts at this hour, and the night staff rarely patrolled the eastern wing.
'Tch. Let's hope my luck holds.'
With careful, deliberate steps, Trafalgar moved through the manor. He avoided the main corridors, opting for side paths and servant passages he remembered from the schematics he'd memorized during his first day here.
The Morgain estate was vast, more a fortress than a home. Countless rooms, training halls, and armories—yet few of them were ever open to him. He was the bastard, after all. But tonight, no one would stop him.
Ten minutes later, he reached a secluded door tucked beneath a stone archway. A rusted brass plaque read: Training Hall – East Wing. He tried the handle.
Unlocked.
'Heh. Looks like even fate's curious.'
He slipped inside and closed the door behind him.
The air inside the training hall was cold and dry. Dust lingered near the rafters, undisturbed by motion for who knew how long. The wide, stone-floored chamber had practice dummies lined against the far wall, worn from age and neglect.
Trafalgar stepped into the center of the room and exhaled deeply.
'Let's see if that system wasn't lying.'
He clenched his fist, focused his mind—and activated it.
[Active Skill – Phantom Step (Lv.1)]
In an instant, his body shifted.
Like a blade of wind, he vanished and reappeared two meters ahead, leaving behind a fading afterimage. His boots scraped against the floor as he adjusted to the sudden movement, nearly stumbling.
He chuckled.
"That... was insane."
He tried it again.
This time he moved to the side, feeling the strain in his legs and lower back. The residual image trailed behind, like a ghost echoing his movement.
A third time—forward again.
But as he landed, a wave of exhaustion crashed through him. His knees buckled slightly, his breathing heavier now. His vision blurred at the edges.
'Damn. Only three uses and I'm already winded? This body really is as fresh as a newborn.'
Sweat rolled down the side of his face. He wiped it off, then looked around at the weapon racks in the corner of the hall.
Blades of all kinds, lined up like forgotten soldiers.
He walked toward them, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
Trafalgar stood before the weapon rack, scanning the swords lined neatly against the wooden frame. Most were longswords—Morgain family standard.
He reached for one.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, he knew.
"Damn, this is heavy…"
Lifting it with both hands, he barely managed to raise the blade to shoulder height.
'Is this what swordsmanship is supposed to feel like? How the hell do those knights swing these things like twigs?'
He took a stance—well, at least something that vaguely looked like one—and swung the sword.
It cut through the air with an awkward whoosh, the weight dragging his arms off-balance.
'This is nothing like the games. I can't even control the swing properly. I look like a drunk trying to swat a fly.'
He tried again. And again.
His arms started trembling, shoulders burning from the strain. But he didn't stop.
He spun, slashed at the empty air, parried shadows that didn't exist. His breathing grew ragged, and his vision swam.
But with each movement, his grip tightened. His body adjusted—if only slightly. His sweat-soaked robe clung to his skin, his legs screaming for rest.
One last swing.
The blade slammed into the padded post of a training dummy, barely leaving a scratch.
He let the weapon fall from his hands and rested his palms on his knees, chest rising and falling like bellows.
'Okay… maybe I'm not Morgain material yet. But I've started. That counts for something.'
Trafalgar pushed open the side doors of the training hall and stepped into the corridor, his muscles still trembling and breath ragged. The sky outside remained cloaked in darkness; only a faint bluish glow had begun to filter through the high windows.
No one in sight. Utter silence.
His bare footsteps echoed louder than he would've liked.
'Damn it… I need some shoes.'
With effort, he climbed the stairs and walked along the long hallway connecting the inner wings of the mansion. His room was close now.
'Not too bad… only blacked out once and nearly snapped my spine three times. Progress.'
He turned the final corner.
Carefully, he opened his door and slipped inside, closing it quietly behind him. Only once he dropped onto the bed, sweat-soaked back against the sheets, did he allow himself to exhale and close his eyes.
Silence.
Until, high above on a second-floor balcony, a figure hidden in the shadows leaned forward slightly.
Half-lidded eyes glinted with mild curiosity.
"Oh?" the voice whispered, barely audible. "Looks like the youngest has started training?"