Note : same as previous chapter
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The second day began before sunrise.
Reinhart was still half-asleep when Seraphine's voice cut through his dreams like a knife.
"Up. Training begins in five minutes."
He sat up groggily, every muscle screaming in protest. His legs were stiff, his shoulders heavy, his arms limp.
He stared at the ceiling.
Maybe if I die right now, she'll come to take me from grim reaper herself for training
But five minutes later, he was in the courtyard again — because fear of seraphine worked better than any alarm clock.
The mist was thicker that morning. Cold. Silent. Mocking.
Seraphine stood waiting, perfect posture as always, as if fatigue was a myth.
"Begin your warm-up circulation," she said flatly.
Reinhart started breathing in rhythm, guiding mana through his body like yesterday. The pain dulled slightly, warmth spreading through his chest. For a moment, he thought, Maybe this isn't so bad.
Then she spoke again.
"One hundred laps. Now."
His body screamed in protest, but his mouth said, "Yes, Instructor," and his legs started moving before his brain could stop them.
By lap thirty, his lungs burned.
By lap fifty, his vision blurred.
By lap eighty, he was running on instinct alone — part survival, part fear, part stubborn pride.
He crossed the finish line and collapsed face-first into the grass, chest heaving.
Seraphine walked up to him, expression unreadable.
"Seventeen minutes slower than yesterday," she said.
"Maybe because I'm dying," he wheezed.
"Then die faster," she replied.
Reinhart groaned, rolling onto his back. I've made a huge mistake transmigrating here.
"Today," Seraphine said, "we'll add body conditioning. Flexibility and balance."
Reinhart blinked at her. "Body… what?"
She demonstrated. It was art — precise flips, handstands, and stretches that looked effortless. When she landed, not even her breathing changed.
Then it was his turn.
He tried a forward roll. It turned into a tragic face-plant.
A handstand attempt ended with him toppling sideways.
When she told him to hold a stretch, his legs trembled like wet noodles.
Every muscle burned. His back ached. His arms gave out halfway through a push-up.
At one point, he just lay there on the ground, staring blankly at the sky, whispering,
"Just… bury me here."
...
Seraphine's shadow fell over him.
"Up."
"I can't move."
"Then circulate mana."
He blinked. "Wait — I can use mana for this?"
Seraphine tilted her head slightly, as if realizing something. "...I forgot to mention. Yes. It enhances recovery and stamina."
Reinhart just stared at her, mouth open. "You forgot?"
"Get up," was all she said.
He wanted to scream, but he obeyed.
He forced mana into his limbs — a shaky, unsteady flow — and immediately felt warmth easing some of the pain. His muscles loosened slightly. His breathing steadied. It wasn't perfect, but it helped.
And for the first time that day, he felt a small spark of hope.
That hope lasted about ten minutes.
Because Seraphine handed him a wooden sword next.
"One thousand swings," she said.
He stared at the weapon, then at her. "You're joking."
"I don't joke."
He started swinging.
The first few strikes were wild and uneven — his wrists stiff, his elbows bent, his shoulders hunched forward.
"Straighten your spine," Seraphine said. "Your stance is collapsing."
He adjusted — barely. The next few swings made loud whacks as the blade smacked against the air wrong, vibrating up his arms.
"Don't flail," she said. "The sword is not a club."
He tried to fix his grip, but his fingers slipped with sweat.
"Again."
He swung. The angle was off; his wrist twisted. Pain shot up his forearm.
"Your shoulders are too high," she said coldly. "You're fighting the sword, not guiding it."
By swing fifty, his hands were raw.
By two hundred, his shoulders screamed.
By three hundred, his lower back burned from the constant tension.
By five hundred, he couldn't lift his arms.
When he stumbled, Seraphine tapped the wooden sword with hers.
"Lower stance. Feet shoulder-width apart. Use your waist, not your arms."
He tried again — awkwardly, desperately. His swings looked clumsy, half-hearted, every muscle rebelling.
By eight hundred, his grip slipped completely, and the sword clattered to the ground.
He wanted to cry — and this time, he actually did.
Not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet, hopeless tears as he stared at his blistered palms.
Seraphine watched him silently for a while. Then, without a word, she picked up the sword and placed it back in his hands.
"Finish what you started."
And he did.
Swing by swing. Posture corrected, pain ignored, form improving by sheer survival instinct.
Until he couldn't feel his body at all.
When he finally collapsed again, she simply said, "Good. Tomorrow, again."
The rest of the week blurred into a haze of pain and repetition.
Each day was the same:
Run.
Stretch.
Fall.
Circulate mana.
Swing.
Collapse.
He stopped keeping track of time. The courtyard became his world. The sound of his breath, his heartbeat, his footsteps on stone — that was his rhythm now.
By the sixth day, his sword swings no longer slapped through the air — they cut it cleanly. His shoulders found rhythm, his stance steadied. But every correction came with pain, every progress with exhaustion.
By the seventh day, his body had changed slightly. His balance improved. His swings grew smoother. His mana circulation steadier.
But the exhaustion never left.
Every night, he fell into bed trembling, muscles twitching from overuse.
Every morning, Seraphine's calm voice dragged him back out.
Sometimes, he caught himself mumbling nonsense while running. Sometimes, he laughed mid-collapse just because crying again felt too embarrassing.
By the eight day , he could feel mana pulsing naturally with his movements — his breathing syncing to it, his steps lighter, his control sharper.
But the pain remained his closest companion.
On the ninth day, he collapsed midway through sword swings. His vision dimmed, sweat dripping into his eyes.
Seraphine stopped beside him, her expression softer than usual.
"You've improved," she said.
"Really? Because it feels like I'm dying better each day."
"That, too," she said with the faintest ghost of a smile.
He gave a weak laugh, half delirious. "I can't tell if you're training me or killing me."
"Both. Only one of them builds strength."
He lay there, staring up at the dimming sky, too tired to argue.
But as the breeze brushed his face and his heartbeat slowed, he realized something strange — he didn't hate it anymore.
The pain had purpose. The exhaustion meant progress.
And under it all, he could feel mana humming inside him — stronger, steadier, alive.
"Tomorrow," Seraphine said, walking away, "we'll continue."
Reinhart closed his eyes, whispering to himself,
" i cannot do this , I have to do something about her otherwise i will die before even stepping at the academy grounds "
And for once, he smiled when he said it
It was a mischievous smile