What had begun as a light training exercise for him lasted late into the day.
The others watched from the edges, some offering silent nods of approval as he pushed past exhaustion. A few whispered among themselves, remarking on his persistence.
By late afternoon, his sword arm burned, his breathing labored, and still he stood taller than when he entered.
A final round of conditioning: stance‑holding, core drills, some simple neigong‑like breathing patterns taught by a senior cultivator who tried to show him how internal energy flowed, though he felt nothing in return, just the pulse of exertion and will.
Physical discipline was something deeply ingrained in Kyle's bones, in this life and the last. And for no reason in particular, he felt that his and 'Kyle's personalities were so similar, the dividing line between them was practically non-existent.
Eventually, the cultivators had to go do some actual work. The soldiers quietly began to file out. A few lingered respectfully, bowing once more as Kyle sheathed his sword.
"Thank you for your training, Young Master. You always push us as much as you do yourself," one said quietly.
Kyle nodded. No words were needed beyond that.
He put his equipment back on the wall, his muscles weeping from fatigue and strain. He exited the hall.
That was something, I can get drunk using the sword if I'm not careful. He had a beaming smile on his face while walking back to his room.
But then he remembered, "I haven't seen Minerva today?" So he took a detour to her study, her most likely location.
Kyle paused outside the door to his sister's study, listening as the quiet scrape of charcoal against parchment fell silent. Taking a breath, he knocked and stepped inside.
His ten-year-old sister, Minerva, sat at a slender desk littered with scrolls and an inkstone.
Her small figure hunched in concentration, black hair tied back with a ribbon, eyes bright and alert. Books and diagrams were carefully stacked beside her.
"Minerva," he greeted softly, and she looked up, her face breaking into a delighted smile.
"Big brother!" She hurried over, impulsively wrapping her arms around his waist in a hug.
He chuckled, kneeling to her height. "How were your studies today?"
She straightened, brushing a curl behind her ear. " I finished early. I'm working ahead on the seventh tract now."
He nodded, impressed. "That's good. Keep it up."
As Kyle turned to leave, he nearly collided with her tutor, a tall, austere man in fine robes, with a book in hand.
Their eyes met. The tutor's lips twisted in a slight frown. As Kyle walked past, he did not mask his contempt:
"Talentless wretch." He whispered, but loud enough that Kyle heard.
Kyle stopped briefly, brow furrowed, not with anger, but mild disapproval.
He recognized the man: one of the instructors who had previously refused to teach him, insisting he was worthless as a student.
The tutor's puncture of Kyle Ravenshade's young pride brought no surprise.
Yet Kyle paid him no mind and bowed slightly, acknowledging his presence before continuing on his way.
The attitude behind the words stung in principle, but the tutor's teaching skills were real.
That skill was the very reason the Marquis had eventually re‑hired him, to educate Minerva, despite his pride being wounded.
The tutor himself, while clearly disdainful of Kyle's ability, remained professionally compelled by his contract.
Kyle understood that spite and respect could inhabit the same man.
He left the study, walking out into the corridor, where Minerva's tutor stood in the doorway, his expression unchanged, as Kyle's silhouette faded.
Though the words carried malice, Kyle felt no bitterness. He had known many such who saw his lack of cultivation and came to judge his predecessor.
Stepping on, he let the memories fade. Better to keep moving forward than dwell on scorn.
...
Kyle had just finished his rounds. Now he was back in his room, getting ready to put his mortal body to rest.
He had gone looking for Nuna in her quarters; she had not visited him today, so he was a bit worried.
When he arrived, her roommate told him that the Marquis had sent her on an important mission, so even though he was a bit disappointed that he would not be able to see her today, nor have her bathe him, he did it on his own.
The young brown haired maid from yesterday had offered to help him in the bath but he politely declined.
He sighed, "She should have at least told me that she would be out today." He complained while bathing.
"Am I being possessive?" He thought. "Nothing is wrong with being possessive, though."
Now dressed in his nightwear, he walked into his bed, but then, suddenly, the space in front of him distorted slightly, and...
Plop!
An object dropped straight onto his sheets.
"...." Kyle was startled, "What the hell...!?"
He picked it up. It was a scroll of some sort. Its edges frayed and brittle, flickering faintly in the dim light as if resisting illumination.
The parchment itself was yellowed and cracked, veins of decay spidering through it like dry lightning across desert soil.
"What is this..?" Kyle thought, unravelling it impatiently.
As soon as the fine lines of text appeared in his vision, his breath caught.
The symbols ebbed on the singular page, inked in deep crimson, bled ever so slightly, as if the scroll wept a slow, eternal grief.
A subtle aura reathed the scroll's frame, and its presence thickened the air, as if reality itself bent slightly around it, recoiling from the strength in the words.
Kyle felt oddly drawn to the words. But, at the same time, it also felt like gazing upon it for too long invited the sensation of being watched, not by eyes, but by intent oozing from the scroll.
"I've never seen this language before. What is this? Is this a part of the world's writing?" He thought, but then he shook his head.
He knew that this was not the same writing used in the books the ordinary folk read, and somewhere, somehow, something told him this text was unique.
And though he had never seen it before, neither he nor the Kyle before him, but he could read it.
The first line of text read.
To Kyle...
"What the helly!... Is this a letter of some sort? Let's read it through..."
To Kyle...
I'll start with a humble apology for running you over. I was driving a truck for the first time. So do find it in your heart to forgive me [Smiley face].
I felt bad for ending your life so prematurely, so I took it upon myself to expend a large chunk of my strength to transmigrate you into this world.
I think you will realise that this world might be familiar. I set the algorithm so that you would be sent to a world that you would feel most comfortable in.
I searched through your mind and based on fetishe... ehem, based on your personality and preferences, I found this world here.
Something like granting your heart's deepest, darkest desires.
Ahahahahahaha...!!! Not too shabby, ey! Maybe you should thank me after all. It's not every day you get to live in a world that fits your desires.
Kyle's eyes twitched in frustration. He read on.