For the next three days, Velanica did not let me rest.
Morning, noon, and whatever passed for late afternoon in this manor's schedule were all claimed by her training. If I was not swinging a wooden sword until my arms burned, I was forced to stand still in a stance that made my legs shake, or dodge strikes that came from angles I did not think were physically possible. When my body finally refused to move, she shifted to talking instead, pacing the arena while I sat on the packed earth, gulping water and air in equal measure.
Thanks to her, I learned more about this kingdom than I had in the entire time since I woke up here. She spoke between corrections and blows, explaining things in the same blunt, efficient way she fought. About divine symbols, the marks of gods' favor that granted power and shaped status. About black bone, the condition that had once marked Theodore as defective, brittle, a liability, until his bone returned to normal after the divine symbol awakened. About divine arts, techniques that channeled the energy of those symbols into attacks, defenses, enhancements, things she assured me I had no business attempting until I could at least hold a sword without looking like I was strangling it.
"And that," she said at one point, flicking my forehead with unnecessary force, "is the difference between having power and knowing how not to die with it."
I did not understand everything she told me. Some of it slid out of my mind the moment I tried to grasp it, too foreign and complex to properly settle. But fragments stuck. Names of regions, orders of knights, ranks of nobility, the rough structure of the kingdom beyond these manor walls. Enough to form a blurry map in my head, lines and shapes I could maybe fill in later.
While Velanica was turning my body into something that might one day resemble a fighter's, the butler was moving through the manor like a quiet storm.
Gol Banner, my slowly returning memories supplied one evening as I watched him from the hallway, arms laden with neatly folded clothes that looked far too pristine for the chaos inside my head. His name was Gol Banner. The house master's name, Nerious Valtair Roosevelt. The details came in flashes now, sharper than before. Snippets of childhood lessons, fragments of conversations, the feel of a small hand holding Nerious's larger one in a crowded hall. Nothing complete, nothing whole, but enough that these people no longer felt entirely like strangers.
Gol was busy from dawn until well after dark, overseeing preparations for the journey to the academy. The way he packed everything was almost artistic. Clothes folded into precise rectangles, layered by use and season. Books wrapped to avoid damage. Maintenance tools for weapons secured in small cases. Bottles and jars labelled in tidy handwriting, each one placed exactly where it belonged in travel chests that fit together like parts of a puzzle.
I had never seen someone pack with such clinical efficiency. In my old life, my version of packing had been stuffing clothes into a bag five minutes before leaving and hoping nothing important was forgotten. Here, every item had purpose, every placement considered.
Watching him work, I realized how much of Theodore's life had been held together by this man in the background.
Between training sessions and stolen glances into my own slowly returning memories, the three days ended in a blink.
On the morning of departure, I found myself standing in front of the manor, the air brisk and clear, the sky a pale blue washed clean by the early light. I had expected, foolishly, that nobles always used white horse-drawn carriages, the kind I had seen in old fantasy illustrations and period dramas. Ornate, polished, pulled by perfectly groomed horses with braided manes.
What came instead was different.
A literal fantasy moment rolled into the courtyard, scales and leather and steel.
The vehicle that waited for me was not a carriage, not in the way I understood it. It was built low and long, its body reinforced with dark metal plating, runes etched faintly along the sides. Instead of horses, a ground wyvern was harnessed at the front, its powerful body coiled with contained strength. It stood on four clawed limbs, tail twitching lazily, eyes slitted and intelligent. Its hide was a muted olive green layered with thick, overlapping scales that looked capable of deflecting more than just arrows.
A ground wyvern dragger.
The harness connected to the vehicle was made of reinforced leather and chain, wrapped firmly around the wyvern's chest and shoulders. Its breath misted faintly in the cool morning air, each exhale accompanied by a low, rumbling sound that thrummed through the ground beneath my feet.
I could not stop the quiet, disbelieving laugh that escaped me.
"This is really a fantasy world," I murmured under my breath.
Servants moved around the dragger, securing luggage, making final checks. Gol stood near the entrance, overseeing everything with his usual calm attention, occasionally adjusting a strap or straightening a crate.
Then came the part I had been dreading more than the trip itself.
Farewells.
I bid farewell to everyone who was important to Theodore.
To Nerious, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed but gaze sharp. He did not offer a hug, and I did not expect one. Instead, he placed a hand briefly on my shoulder—light, almost formal, but steady.
"Do not waste this opportunity," he said. It was not harsh, not exactly. Just firm. "The academy is where futures are decided. Make yours."
To Gol, who bowed at the waist and said, "I will be in the capital ahead of you, young master. Your dormitory and necessities will be prepared." His eyes, however, softened slightly at the corners in a way I did not remember seeing before. "Please travel safely."
To Sienna and Vienna, who clung to my sleeves with matching pouts.
"You better bring us souvenirs," Vienna demanded.
"And don't forget us just because you meet new people," Sienna added, chin raised in a small, defiant angle.
"I won't," I said, and for once, the words felt easy to say. "We'll play again when I come back."
They did not let go until Gol gently coaxed them back.
Even Velanica came to see me off, though she stood a little distance away, arms crossed, wooden sword resting against her shoulder.
"Try not to die in some dumb way," she said. "If anyone at that academy gives you trouble, hit them first, explain later."
"That sounds like terrible advice," I replied.
"It works," she said with a shrug. "Most of the time."
Her gaze lingered on me for a heartbeat. "Remember what I told you. You are not as weak as you think, but you are not strong enough yet to pretend you know everything. Learn. Watch. Train. And if they have a dueling ring, use it."
I nodded. "I'll remember."
I climbed into the dragger, the interior lined with reinforced wood and cushioned seats that felt out of place in something that looked like it could charge into battle. As I settled in, the door closed with a heavy, final thud.
Through the small window, I saw them all one last time; Nerious with his unreadable expression, Gol with his composed bow, the twins waving both hands energetically, Velanica standing like a crooked shadow with a sharp grin.
The ground wyvern snorted, muscles tensing.
The dragger lurched forward.
As the manor gate receded behind us and the road to the capital opened ahead, one thought circled quietly through my mind.
An academy of magic. A kingdom ruled by power and symbols. A life that was never meant to be mine.
Whatever awaited me there,
I would not face it as the old Leon who drifted through days half-asleep.
I would face it as Theodore Valtair Roosevelt, whoever that truly turned out to be.