As Lucan heaved what little he’d managed to eat of his breakfast into a chamber pot, he found himself reflecting upon the life choices that he had been indulging in with no qualms up until a few days ago without any care or remorse and wondering what the hell he had been thinking.

  Then the next round began and a feverish, queasy Lucan began dry heaving, for there was nothing left to expel. Fifteen minutes later, Lucan finally rose from where he had been doubled down and walked over to the sink.

  Looking at his reflection upon the polished crystal mirror, Lucan flinched as his bloodshot eyes met his gaze. Dark circles hung beneath his barely recognizable brown eyes, his skin had taken on a waxy quality, a layer of stubble covering his skin looking especially unsuited for his face when coupled with his dishevelled, curly black hair.

  Is this what I’ve been reduced to? Lucan asked himself, not understanding in that moment just how he had let things go this far. How did I not notice before? Just how did I let things get this far?

  Another wave of nausea assailed his senses, which had Lucan reaching for the faucet’s handle before pulling it outward and releasing a flow of crystal clear water that was synthesized from expending water attuned mana stones and a stationary type formation spell.

  Spending a good ten minutes just rinsing his mouth, Lucan felt the nausea ease up, if only by a little. It was only then, in a moment of respite, that he realized how weak and frail he felt, a bone-deep weariness that could only be felt after years of neglecting his physical health.

  “Damn it,” Lucan muttered. “Fucking damn it all!” He yelled, his voice laden with bottled up frustration and self-loathing.

  Silvas Anderle had witnessed the end of a kingdom, watching everyone and everything he held dear to him perish before his eyes and he had chosen him— Lucan Velmoria, out of all people.

  Lucan fucking Velmoria, who found himself wavering in the battle against his own withdrawal symptoms, as his lips went dry, his throat felt parched and the memory of warm liquid sloshing down his throat to ease the pain remained fresh, as tempting and alluring as ever.

  His heartbeat was racing, his hands felt clammy and Lucan felt like he was trembling ever so slightly as he stood before the crystal mirror, seeing himself for what he truly was for the first time in years, perhaps the first time in his entire miserable life.

  Then a knock sounded out against the bathroom door.

  Lucan found himself rudely snapped out of his reverie, as Mira’s voice sounded out from beyond it, “Are you alright?” She asked, her tone as supportive and understanding as ever.

  “No,” Lucan replied in a hoarse voice.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “It’s just withdrawal, Mira,” Lucan replied, trying his best to keep the edge out of his voice.

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  Lucan didn’t know if he succeeded or not, as Mira turned out to be too shocked to ask anything besides, “You’re quitting?”

  Shock was the emotion audible in her tone, her first reaction. Not hope.

  Lucan couldn’t blame her for the reaction.

  “More like puking my guts out,” Lucan replied flatly. “Well that and my heart feels like it’s going to explode, I’m feeling feverish and it feels like the world’s going to end. What have I done to myself, Mira?”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” She asked, the concern in her tone having gone up by a few notches, now sounding very worried, yet still remaining devoid of hope.

  “I’m fine, Mira,” Lucan hurriedly replied, as if getting the words out quickly would turn them into reality. “All this…,” He paused, his breath hitching. “It might not be my fault, but it is my responsibility, Mira. The world is unfair, but that doesn’t mean that I can just roll over and die because the duchess finds my existence unsightly. No, I will get through withdrawal— I have to if I want to make anything of myself at the Imperial Academy and live up to the weight of my forefathers’ name, no matter how much I despise it, it is the only way,” He explained and with every word that escaped his lips, Lucan’s conviction grew even if he spoke in a raspy, hoarse voice.

  Memories of a life never lived flitted through his mind, as images of burning towns, landscapes being ravaged by the remnant mana of higher circle spells and the sheer terror that even the greatest of knights, Silvas Anderle, could not escape when confronted by the empire’s mages wielding that terrible, otherworldly black mana. When other people said that they felt like they were carrying the world on their shoulders, it was a mere metaphor. But for Lucan, it was as close to the truth he could hint at without being branded insane.

  Giving up was easier than ever and Lucan could not call himself brave. Neither was his will like iron. If Silvas Anderle’s emotional vulnerabilities could be counted on one hand, Lucan’s would require an abacus. But even then, Lucan couldn’t just sit back and let the few things he cared for be turned to ash.

  He wasn’t the right man for the job—- not by a long shot. And he was well aware that even if he reformed himself and gave it his most earnest shot, he would still likely fail. Even with the memories of the future, so vast were the forces arrayed against him.

  And that was okay. His life only had the meaning given to it by those few around him that he cared for and to expend it to give them a chance, well— it was probably more than what he deserved.

  “I understand, my liege,” Mira’s voice was gently carried across through the wooden door that separated them. Lucan did not wish for formalities between them and normally, Mira had no problem with that instruction.

  “Thank you, Mira,” Lucan warmly replied. “And yes, you can help. There are a few things I need you to get for me.”

  A mage was known for many things, but physical strength unfortunately was not one of them.

  To an Aura Expert, even one at the Gathering Stage, a single-handed blade that weighs three kiloweights would not be a challenge to handle at all, in fact it would be considered a very light blade, which would ultimately make it pretty inefficient.

  Lucan could lift the Nightsilver-edged Fell Iron blade, but to swing it would risk losing grip over it and to practice with it had a decent chance of spraining, bruising or straight up fracturing his wrist. He was an apprentice mage and barely one at that, never having attended a formal imperial school like the children of merchants and a limited number of peasants did, while his own private education had been hobbled from within his household.

  So instead, the solution he’d come up with until he found a workaround for his limitations, was to have Mira acquire a long wooden branch that was as straight as she could find it, a carving knife and a strip of long black cloth.

  He’d been dreading the moment where he’d pick up a sword with intent to practice with it, for then Lucan would know for certain just how much of Silvas Anderle’s skills had passed on to him for certain— and with that certainty, would come either hope or despair.

  Fortunately or unfortunately, he couldn’t delay it any longer.

  It was time to train.