"For some reason, I feel… light today," Seven groaned.
He had just finished bathing and scrubbing away the dried bloodstains from both his body and the floor. Whatever had happened after that, he had no memory of it.
Losing that much blood must have knocked him unconscious.
His stomach growled. Today was a new day. He had completely skipped dinner yesterday.
"Wait," he muttered, reaching for a pen on the desk. "I feel like I should continue on keeping track of this."
He circled the 5th day of Nocten on the calendar. His expression stiffened. Two days. That was all the time he had left to prepare.
The current year was 693.
Some would say the century was still young, but that was laughable.
Billions of years had already passed in this world. Civilizations rose, went to war, collapsed, and were rebuilt again and again. Creatures like what other novels called demons and monsters and beasts also roamed the land.
In truth, they were simply but animals warped beyond recognition by failing to withstand the world's overflowing [Zi].
And before Year 1, there was the [Void Century]. No history books told a story about them— no, even before them!
Before them where countless civilizations had existed. Historians called them BVC, though it's just a simplified term for [Before the Void Century], because no records survived.
Again, history was a graveyard.
The present era only knew them through abandoned civilization cities, monuments, and preserved fossils.
Anyway, given how badly he had failed to open his first [Zi Ring] yesterday because of the curse, there was no easy way out even if "hypothetically" he survived the assassination attempt.
Still, there was no guarantee it would end there. It didn't mean all is fine and well.
The topic of his life and death was not that simple after all, as it would determine the overall reputation of the [Hart].
"…Fudge."
After marking the date, Seven stretched by the window, then threw a few slow punches into the air. Shadowboxing. After that, push-ups. Seven push-ups, specifically. That was his limit.
It was pathetic, but expected.
Even back on Earth, this had been included in his routine. Simply put, it was a shut-in's attempt at not completely rotting away before his computer screen.
His gaze drifted to the desk.
Scattered across it were again scribbles labeled [Basic Ways of the Sword]. They were stick figures parrying, deflecting, striking. Among them, one stood out. It was almost laughably simple: a sword barely moving, a single line intercepting another.
Yet its title was written in the most refined calligraphy of them all.
[Hart's Twilight Ascendancy].
A technique exclusive to the Hart lineage.
Seven closed his eyes.
He could feel the blue [Zi] flowing faintly through his veins and his heart burning pure white once more. Last night's backlash hadn't been fatal, and he was somehow surprised.
Because for the first time, he was lucky.
The novel had warned that those who even attempted to undo the curse of Nevidia could suffer consequences they would regret for the rest of their lives. Though, to be fair, many did try yet no one had ever actually succeeded.
Or at least, until the novel's latest update. Truth was, the novel had never even been finished.
That lazy bum of an author kept revising it over and over, using the same characters and the same overarching plot but constantly changing the order of events and the way the protagonist approached them.
Sometimes, it even felt like the main character was acting with knowledge of future events.
Seven years had passed, and the story was still only halfway through.
If Seojin remembered correctly, the last chapter he had read right before heading to the convenience store ended with the protagonist on the brink of death.
Again.
In fact, every time the main character reached a near-death situation, the updates would suddenly stop for a day or two. The author would return as if nothing had happened after deleting every single published chapter and restarting from the first chapter.
It was a never-ending cycle.
A cycle Seojin had hated with a passion as a reader.
"…It's like the author was playing a hardcore game," he chuckled. "A game where he resets every time the protagonist dies."
Absurd. That was the only word to describe it.
He let out a slow sigh and looked out the window at the falling snow. He had made a decision. He would not attempt to open a [Zi Ring] again for the time being until the attempt on his life is over. The first thing he needed to do was train his body. Stamina. Strength. Swordsmanship.
"…Seriously. Damn it," he rubbed his face. "I've never even touched a real sword."
Though he had mimicked sword forms before and copied movements from anime and novels, it cannot change the fact that he was swinging an empty air against an empty air. It was all an imitation.
However, he doesn't even know if this place had a training ground.
"Should I ask Iria?" he thought, then shook his head. "…Nah. It would be better to ask the knights instead."
He leaned back against the desk, thinking.
There were only six knights assigned to patrol the castle. They worked in pairs, rotating shifts every day. That much, at least, was clear from the memories he inherited. And that was exactly what bothered him.
Yesterday, when he went out with Iria, he hadn't seen the other four knights in the yard nor in the village which meant they had to be stationed somewhere within the walls. And really, where else would knights gather?
A training ground.
"…Calling this place a castle is a stretch," he muttered. "It's barely a manor."
Still, before holding a wooden sword, he could at least start by jogging around the yard—if it could even be called a yard. The open space was absurdly large that it would be fitting closer to a golf course.
"…Ah, damn it. This situation is such a pain."
He hated pain. He had always hated anything that caused him pain. Back on Earth, he had gone out of his way to avoid it. Physical pain. Emotional pain. Inconveniences. All of it. But here, pain was unavoidable.
Ironically, the easiest way to avoid pain would be to do nothing. To let the assassin succeed. To let himself be taken quietly.
But that meant death.
And he didn't want to die either.
If possible, if there was even the slightest chance to meet the Goddess, he wanted to go back to Earth. Still, there was no guarantee that dying here would send him back. There was no comforting certainty.
Then again, if he didn't want to die, then he had to train.
But to train means tiring himself, and tiring himself means enduring the pain of his body when it tells it wants to rest. But if he rests, that means he's basically surrendering himself. And with that, he's going to experience terrible pain when assassinated.
Truly, even in this world, ADHD still clung to him.
"I guess it really is true that the first step is always the hardest," he muttered as he opened the door. "…But it's not like I have a choice. Damn it aaaall!"
He froze, seeing a person slumped beside his door along with a tray of what seemed to be a 'delicious' set of food.
"…Iria?"
As if hearing her name, her eyes twitched. Dark circles lay heavy beneath them, and they were clear proof she hadn't slept at all! Slowly, her gaze was unfocused at first, until it found him.
Without a word, she pushed herself up and stepped forward, and hugged him.
"H-Hey! What are you…"
His first instinct was to pull away. Hug meant vulnerability. Nonetheless, he decided to let it happen anyway. It was not because he was a virgin nor he's someone who enjoys being touched by a girl, but simply because Iria was crying and she looked like someone who really needed it.
'Right," he thought, realizing something. 'I had locked the door and skipped dinner last night. It's only natural for her to be this worried.'
Of course, Iria would be worried. Especially when, just yesterday, things had finally begun to feel… normal again. Like how they were before Seven Hart had drowned himself in that premise of an impossible promise and pushed her away.
And if one night like this had shaken her so badly, he couldn't help but wonder how she had felt during those weeks when the real 'Seven Hart' had ignored and clearly showed that he hated her presence.
'Seriously,' he thought. Even someone as socially inept as him knew what to do in moments like this. 'I take it back. You're not half a loser. You're worse than that, Seven Hart.'
He patted her head and returned the hug.
"How could you make a girl cry this much?"