The city did not notice when Nev disappeared into routine.
That was the point.
For the first few days after the Holder assessment, his life followed a simple pattern. Wake before dawn. Eat little. Train until his muscles trembled. Rest just enough to avoid collapse. Then repeat. He stopped thinking in terms of days and started measuring time in fatigue, recovery, and small improvements that only he could feel.
The underground training room became his world.
It was a wide stone chamber built beneath the estate, reinforced with old metal frames and layered wards meant to withstand Holder energy. His father had commissioned it years ago, back when ambition still burned in his eyes. The room held practice dummies, weighted restraints, old weapon racks, and a simple observation platform. No windows. No distractions. Just space, silence, and effort.
Nev liked it.
He started each session the same way. Breathing. Slow. Controlled. Not to calm himself, but to listen. Since the second shard embedded itself in his body, the world had changed in subtle ways. Movements reached him before they happened. Small shifts in air pressure, tension in muscle, intent sharpening like a blade before a strike. It was not foresight. It was instinct refined to something dangerous.
At first, it overwhelmed him.
Servants approaching the door. A maid pausing before knocking. Even distant footsteps in the hall above. Everything arrived early, like echoes pulled forward in time. It took effort to stop reacting to everything. He learned restraint the same way he learned sword forms. By failing repeatedly until the body understood.
Only then did real training begin.
Nev did not train blindly.
He remembered the fights he had seen since entering this world. The assessment bouts. Street scuffles. Guild demonstrations. Every motion replayed in his mind, stripped down to essentials. How a Tier 1 Holder shifted weight before striking. How a veteran rotated the wrist instead of the shoulder to conserve energy. How Hazel, the skilled trainee he fought earlier, used precision rather than force.
Hazel had been efficient.
That was what stuck with Nev. No wasted movement. No flourish. Every step existed to serve the next. Nev practiced Hazel's stance first, copying it exactly. Then he broke it. Adjusted foot placement. Lowered the center of gravity. Changed the timing of the follow-through.
It failed. Often.
His blade struck too early. His balance slipped. His reactions were sharp but misaligned. Several times he was forced to stop, breathing hard, hands shaking from strain. Each failure carved a clearer understanding into his muscles.
He was not trying to become Hazel.
He was trying to become something that could defeat Hazel.
Days passed.
Nev left the estate only when necessary. When he did, it was to buy supplies. Monster cores of low purity. Recovery elixirs. Simple tonics to keep muscles from tearing apart under repeated strain. He avoided anything flashy. Nothing that would draw attention. The black market vendors remembered him as quiet, polite, and difficult to read.
More than once, he noticed eyes lingering on him.
He let them.
Back in the training room, he integrated what he bought into his regimen. Monster cores were used sparingly. He crushed them, diluted the energy, and absorbed it slowly. He refused shortcuts. Power gained too fast had a way of breaking people. He had seen enough broken lives across worlds to know better.
When exhaustion forced him to stop, he sat on the stone floor and focused inward.
The shards never spoke.
They were not voices or memories. They were presence. Weight. A sense of something foreign but obedient, like tools waiting to be used properly. The first shard anchored him across lives. The second sharpened his perception. Nev tested their limits carefully, pushing just enough to learn, never enough to expose himself.
Weeks blurred.
By the second week, his body changed.
Not dramatically. No sudden growth or obvious transformation. But strength settled into him quietly. Movements became smoother. Recovery faster. His breathing steadier even under strain. He sparred against the dummies with increasing speed, striking weak points he marked himself, forcing precision under pressure.
He trained unarmed combat as well.
Nev had learned early that weapons could be taken away. Hands could not. He practiced grappling, counters, joint locks, and breaks. Not flashy techniques. Efficient ones. Methods meant to end fights quickly. He imagined opponents stronger than him. Faster than him. Larger than him.
Then he imagined how they would die anyway.
At night, he reviewed information.
Guild movements. Monster activity near the borders. Rumors passed through traders and guards. The Obsidian Order's influence grew quietly. Soulbound expanded their expeditions deeper into dangerous territory. Somewhere beneath it all, the cult remained active, unseen, patient.
Nev did not chase them.
Not yet.
By the third week, something shifted.
His control improved.
Where before he reacted to intent, now he could filter it. Focus only on threats. Let background noise fade. This made him calmer. Deadlier. He practiced entering that state deliberately, lowering his presence, masking intent. Even the estate guards began to overlook him more easily when he passed.
It pleased him.
The sword he bought became an extension of his body.
At first, he trained with weights attached to his wrists and blade, forcing slower, heavier movement. When he removed them, speed exploded outward. He practiced drawing, striking, sheathing, and repositioning until the motion felt inevitable. One action flowing into the next without thought.
He named no techniques.
Names made things rigid.
Nev preferred adaptability.
On the twenty-sixth day, he pushed too far.
His muscles locked mid-swing. Pain flared white-hot through his arm and shoulder. He collapsed to one knee, breathing ragged, sweat soaking his clothes. For several minutes, he did not move. He simply sat there, feeling his heartbeat, feeling how close he had come to damaging himself permanently.
It reminded him of something.
The void.
That silent place between lives where mistakes carried no mercy.
He rested for the remainder of the day.
The next morning, he returned to training with adjusted limits.
By the end of the month, Nev was different.
Still Tier 1. Still officially weak compared to the monsters he would soon face. But his foundation was solid. His instincts sharp. His movements precise. More importantly, his mind was calm.
He was no longer reacting to the world.
He was preparing to shape it.
On the final night, Nev stood alone in the training room, sword lowered, breathing steady. He looked at the worn stone floor, the damaged dummies, the faint marks of countless failed attempts.
A month had passed.
It did not feel like progress.