The next morning began with the kind of golden sunrise poets loved and people like Eliot despised. The curtains were already drawn, flooding the room in warm light that practically screamed, Wake up, you useless noble!
Eliot groaned, burying his face deeper into the silk pillow. His hair was a mess of red and gold strands, sticking up like a disorganized battlefield. Whisper—the smug fox spirit—was coiled lazily in the corner of his consciousness, her tails flicking faintly like ripples in a pond.
"Another glorious day in which you pretend to be human," she drawled, her voice like smoke curling through his mind. "Are you planning to sleep through your own demise again?"
"I was planning to ignore you," Eliot mumbled, voice muffled by his pillow.
"Cute," Whisper said. "Unfortunately, your butler is already on his way with a bucket of water."
The door creaked open before Eliot could even groan again.
"Good morning, Young Master," said Kieran, tone neutral but expression slightly too amused. "Your mother requested that your training start early today."
"That woman is my greatest enemy," Eliot muttered, rolling over dramatically.
"She's your mother," Kieran corrected flatly, "and the Head Mage of Astervale. Also, breakfast will be served in fifteen minutes. Your brother's been waiting in the courtyard since dawn."
Eliot groaned again. "Why is Benedict awake at dawn? Who wakes up voluntarily?"
"Responsible people," Kieran replied. "Also, those who can wield a sword without falling over."
Eliot sighed. "Fine. Give me ten minutes to mentally prepare for physical suffering."
"You said that yesterday," Kieran said as he turned to leave. "And the day before."
By the time Eliot finally made it outside, Benedict was already mid-swing, his blade flashing under the sun like liquid silver. His older brother's every movement was precise—calculated, confident, frustratingly elegant.
Eliot dragged his feet across the gravel, still half-asleep and half-annoyed at existing.
Benedict paused mid-swing and turned with a grin. "You're late. Again."
Eliot squinted. "I arrived exactly when I meant to."
"That's not how time works."
"It is when you're a noble."
Benedict laughed, lowering his sword. "If you keep talking like that, you'll never survive the Academy."
"Perfect," Eliot said. "That's the dream."
Kieran stepped forward, carrying two wooden swords. "Not happening. Your mother's orders are clear: no slacking. You're to train until you can swing properly without tripping over your own dignity."
Eliot sighed dramatically and accepted the sword. "Ah yes, the noble tradition of making the weakest family member sweat in the name of pride."
Whisper snickered in his head. You're a disaster, and yet somehow still entertaining.
"Not helping," Eliot muttered.
"What was that?" Benedict asked.
"Talking to myself. My only intelligent companion."
Benedict raised an eyebrow. "You need more friends."
"I have spirits," Eliot said dryly.
Kieran cleared his throat. "Focus. Twenty swings, correct stance, no shortcuts."
The first swing was awkward. The second was worse. By the fifth, Eliot's arms burned like fire. By the tenth, his entire body screamed mutiny.
He stumbled, breathing hard. "How—how do people enjoy this?"
"Because it makes them stronger," Benedict said easily, not even sweating.
"Strong people are overrated," Eliot grumbled.
"Lazy people are extinct."
"Then I'll be the first of my kind," Eliot shot back.
Kieran sighed. "You have potential, young master. You just lack… conviction."
"I have conviction," Eliot said. "I'm deeply convicted to not die."
Whisper chuckled again, her tails flicking. Your sword form is tragic. Do you want me to fix it?
Eliot mentally glared. You'd make me do backflips or something equally ridiculous.
Oh, absolutely.
He smirked slightly. "I'll pass."
After sword drills came what Eliot dreaded even more—spirit synchronization.
Under Lady Celene's supervision, he sat cross-legged beneath the old spirit tree at the edge of the training field. Its roots glowed faintly with blue light, like veins carrying ethereal life.
His mother stood before him, arms folded, her sharp gaze unyielding. "You're trying too hard," she said calmly.
Eliot opened one eye. "I think that's the opposite of my problem."
"Spirit energy doesn't respond to force," Celene continued, ignoring his tone. "It responds to resonance. You must calm your mind."
Eliot inhaled, exhaled, and pretended to care deeply about breathing. Whisper watched from his inner world, smirking.
You're terrible at meditation.
Thank you. I try.
Do you even know what you're trying to summon?
Peace of mind?
Whisper sighed. You're hopeless.
But then, for just a moment—his breath aligned with the wind. The tree's glow brightened, faintly responding. Spirit energy trickled toward him, tentative but curious.
Celene's eyes widened slightly. "Good. Maintain that. Don't lose focus."
Eliot's expression softened. He felt something—like distant whispers brushing against his skin. The voices of small spirits—wind, dust, leaf—all murmuring in rhythm.
Then Whisper's tails brushed his consciousness, disrupting the fragile flow.
Oh, how delicate you are. If I so much as breathe wrong, you shatter.
The connection broke instantly. The light faded.
Eliot exhaled sharply. "There, it's gone. Wonderful. Let's all go home."
Celene pinched the bridge of her nose. "Again."
He groaned. "Can't I just buy a spirit at the market?"
"This is your heritage," she said. "You must earn it."
Benedict, sitting nearby polishing his sword, chuckled. "Maybe the spirits don't like lazy people."
"They like me," Eliot muttered. "Whisper does."
"Whisper doesn't count," Celene said without looking up.
Eliot frowned. "Why not?"
"Because she's more trouble than you are."
Whisper hummed with faint amusement. She's not wrong.
Hours Later
By evening, Eliot's arms felt like overcooked noodles. His hair was damp with sweat, his tunic clinging uncomfortably.
Benedict was still training, energy endless as ever. Celene watched both sons with quiet satisfaction.
Kieran finally dismissed them. "That's enough for today. Young Master Eliot, your progress—while unconventional—was not entirely terrible."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Eliot said, collapsing onto the grass.
"Don't get used to it," Kieran replied.
Benedict sat beside him, smiling faintly. "You did better than yesterday."
Eliot raised a brow. "You mean I didn't faint?"
"Exactly."
"That's… encouraging, I guess."
Whisper's voice drifted softly through his mind. You're improving. Slowly. Painfully. But still improving.
Why do you sound proud? Eliot asked mentally.
Because you didn't give up after the first failure, she murmured. And because your spirit energy—it's changing. You're starting to resonate, even if you don't realize it.
Eliot frowned faintly, staring up at the dusky sky. "Resonance, huh…"
Don't overthink it, Whisper whispered, voice fading like wind through leaves. Just keep breathing, little lord.
And so, as night settled over Astervale, Eliot Astervale—the so-called Lazy Lord—took his first step toward mastering both body and spirit. Not because he wanted glory, or power, or prestige.
But because surviving this world meant pretending to care long enough to fool everyone—including the fox watching from his shadow.