Change Is Coming (11)

The sleek, snow-white vehicle glided silently down the long stone-paved driveway of Greysteel Manor. Its chrome finish shimmered beneath the evening sun, cutting a stark contrast against the neatly trimmed emerald hedges lining the path.

Inside the car sat a woman.

Her dark blue hair, long and silky, cascaded down her back, tied into a high ponytail that swayed faintly with her movements. Stray strands framed her face, softening her sharp features. Her complexion was smooth, her expression cold yet refined, exuding a poised elegance that bordered on intimidating.

She wore a white tailored suit, pristine and fitted perfectly to her figure. Subtle silver-plated armor pieces reinforced her shoulders and forearms — elegant yet practical. Resting beside her, nestled against her seat, was her rapier — its white leather-wrapped handle gleamed faintly beneath the dim interior light. The handguard curled like silver thorns, and the blade's slender sheath was crafted from polished ivory steel.

Her gaze, however, was distant — fixed upon the manor that steadily came into view. Her glistening blue eyes held layers of color — flecks of silver swirled within the sapphire irises, like stardust trapped in an endless ocean.

Her head leaned against the window, yet her face betrayed no hint of comfort. No warmth. Only an empty, unreadable expression.

The car slowed to a halt, its engine purring softly before cutting out.

Click.

The car door lock released.

The woman sighed softly — a breath that held more weight than she intended — then reached for her rapier before stepping out.

"L-Lady Grisha!"

Her driver, a nervous middle-aged man, rushed around the vehicle's side, fumbling with his gloves as if unsure how to carry himself. "My deepest apologies for not opening the door for you sooner!"

Grisha paused in place, sparing him only a sidelong glance.

"That won't be necessary," she stated calmly. "I can manage opening my own doors… besides…"

Her gaze returned to the manor — her childhood home. The once familiar stone walls, white-brick towers, and arching iron gates felt distant — like fragments of a life she had long left behind.

"I won't be long," she murmured. "You don't need to wait on me."

Without another word, she turned and began walking toward the entrance.

The driver stood still, watching her retreating back — his face creased with unease.

—

The air inside Drexsic Manor's training hall felt dense — heavy with heat, sweat, and exhaustion. The sunlight from the windows poured in fiercely, gleaming off the polished wooden floors.

The rhythmic thud… thud… thud of fists colliding with a leather training bag filled the room.

In a secluded corner, Vryne El Drexsic stood before the makeshift punching bag he'd crafted with alchemy — hardened leather reinforced with tightly woven mana threads. His knuckles — wrapped tightly in fingerless gloves of black leather — struck the bag again and again. The gloves, sturdy yet flexible, clung to his hands like a second skin, enhancing his grip and protecting his fists.

Sweat poured down his face, dripping from his disheveled amber hair. His short-sleeved compression shirt clung tightly to his lean frame, his toned muscles straining with each strike.

His breathing was ragged, yet controlled — his mind locked in fierce concentration.

Step. Pivot. Twist. Punch.

Step. Pivot. Weave. Strike.

Each punch grew sharper — each strike packed more weight. But Vryne's footwork stumbled, his stance faltered — a slight misstep sent his momentum spilling sideways.

"Damn it…" Vryne muttered between heavy breaths.

He staggered back, wiping his face with his forearm. His muscles ached — an unfamiliar burn searing his arms and legs.

"Boxing's footwork isn't as easy as I thought…"

He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, sighing. Yet despite his frustration, he knew his efforts weren't in vain.

"The original Vryne didn't train like this… but I've got one advantage."

His gaze drifted to his own reflection in the polished floor — his lean physique, neither massive nor frail. The body he'd inherited from Vryne was durable, conditioned from years of noble upbringing. But strength alone wouldn't save him.

Two problems remained:

1. His Adapter Ability — While powerful, it required repeated effort, trial, and error to improve. Vryne knew he couldn't simply 'memorize' techniques — he needed to face real pressure, real fights to trigger his body's natural adaptability.

2. His Stamina — The original Vryne underestimated endurance training. His reliance on mana techniques and swordsmanship gave him a strong offense — but once fatigue set in, he couldn't sustain prolonged battles. In the original timeline, that was what allowed the protagonist to exploit Vryne's weakness and ultimately kill him.

"I won't let that happen."

—

Vryne sat cross-legged on the polished floor, closing his eyes. His breathing slowed — deep and rhythmic.

Mana training wasn't as simple as drawing power from within. It required control — complete awareness of his body's internal flow.

focus… breathe… follow the pulse.

The mana within him stirred faintly, sluggish yet present — an unfamiliar warmth flickering inside his chest.

He visualized it — an endless black void where strands of energy drifted like wisps of smoke.

From his mana core — a fragile, ember-like sphere nestled deep within his soul — faint tendrils of mana stretched outward. Each thread danced, weaving like ink curling through water.

Vryne's method was unconventional — drawn from fragments of obscure texts rather than established techniques. Instead of rigid mental formations, he visualized his mana like rippling tides — swaying and shifting with his breath.

"In… and out… steady… no force… no rush…"

His body relaxed — his pulse slowed. The strands of mana responded, expanding and filling him like cold mist seeping through cracks.

When Vryne finally opened his eyes, faint traces of black mist coiled loosely around him — a sight that never failed to unsettle him.

His mana had no color, no vibrancy — just pitch-black emptiness.

"It's like a void… like nothingness itself."

He clenched his fingers tightly — feeling the strength that had been absent before.

"It's growing… slowly, but it's growing."

Vryne rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders to loosen the stiffness in his muscles. The black mist receded, curling back into his body like smoke drawn into a vent.

His gaze shifted to the punching bag once more. Stepping forward, he raised his fists, mimicking the stance he remembered from the boxing manual.

A moment of pause. Then…

"Wait… I'm in the wrong stance."

He adjusted his posture — lowering his guard slightly, weight balanced, elbows tucked, one foot slightly forward.

"Better…"

He exhaled sharply, muttering under his breath.

"Glad no one's around to see that…"