Ch 3: The Pinacle of Power -3

Kyle had never been the patient type.

Waiting for the butler to return with a dulled, ceremonial sword was a waste of time. If he was going to reclaim his power, he needed to start now.

His body was weak. His limbs barely had any muscle, his stamina was pitiful, and he was certain that a single punch from his past self would shatter this frail form like glass.

But that was fine.

Because power wasn't just about strength—it was about control and building a foundation.

And control was something Kyle had mastered long ago.

His golden eyes gleamed as he left the estate halls behind, making his way toward the private training grounds without waiting for his butler to return. 

He moved slowly, pacing his steps, feeling his body as he walked. His breathing was shallow, but not unbearable. His fingers twitched with discomfort, but they responded.

There was no innate power in his veins—not yet. But that didn't mean he couldn't fix that.

By the time he reached his private quarters, he had already pieced together several unpleasant truths. 

His body was in horrible condition. His muscles were atrophied, his nerves untrained, and his endurance nonexistent. 

This was the body of someone who had lived in absolute indulgence—a noble who had never trained, never suffered, never fought.

It was pathetic.

Kyle stepped into the small practice garden adjacent to his chambers and immediately scoffed.

The space was overgrown with weeds, the stone pathways cracked, the training dummies untouched. The racks of wooden weapons were pristine, without a single sign of use.

The previous owner of this body—the real Kyle Armstrong—had never trained a single day in his life.

Kyle clicked his tongue in irritation.

"A disgrace. He had all the resources, all the time, and still chose to remain weak." 

He muttered. 

It was one thing to be born frail. But to accept it without a fight? To live in fear of failure rather than try?

Kyle despised that type of person.

"Unlucky bastard. Looks like he died without even trying." 

He said, shaking his head. 

Kyle felt no sympathy for the boy who had once occupied this body. 

In his past life, Kyle had been born doomed, yet he fought, bled, and clawed his way to power. This noble heir had everything and wasted it.

So be it.

This body belonged to him now.

Kyle strode over to the weapon rack and picked up a wooden sword. The moment he lifted it, he frowned.

The weight distribution was terrible—top-heavy, unbalanced, a toy rather than a real weapon. The grip was rough, clearly never adjusted for proper use.

It was garbage.

But it would have to do.

He tightened his grip, exhaled slowly, and focused.

The first step was to test his innate energy.

Kyle had once wielded power beyond mortal comprehension—a force that had brought entire empires to their knees. 

But this body… this cursed, weak body…

Could it even handle a fraction of his old strength?

He concentrated, trying to pull forth his power—just a sliver, a whisper of what once was. He channeled it through his fingers, into the wooden blade—

And then—

BOOM!

The sword exploded.

Splinters shot out in every direction, the shockwave rattling the walls. Kyle instinctively threw the remains of the sword away before his now-fragile hand could get injured.

Tsk.

Pathetic.

His control was perfect—he had only used the smallest fragment of his power. 

But this body couldn't handle it. His strength was like a storm raging inside a fragile cup—too much force, too weak a vessel.

Kyle exhaled slowly.

'This… will take time.'

He looked at his hand, unharmed but trembling slightly from the recoil. His past body would have laughed at such a weak reaction. But this was his reality now.

He needed to rebuild himself from the ground up.

Before he could contemplate his next step, a sharp gasp echoed from the entrance of the garden.

Kyle turned just in time to see his butler standing frozen in the doorway, his face pale as death.

The man's eyes were locked onto the broken remains of the wooden sword—no, not just that. He had barely dodged it.

The sword Kyle had thrown had missed him by inches.

The butler blinked rapidly, his face losing what little color remained.

Then, in a single swift motion, he rushed forward and grabbed Kyle by the shoulders.

"Young Master—quickly! We must hide you!" 

He hissed, his voice urgent. 

Kyle stared at him, unimpressed. 

"…Hide me?"

The butler's eyes darted around in absolute panic. 

"It's an assassination attempt! Someone tried to kill you!" 

He whispered fiercely. 

Kyle almost laughed.

He was the one who threw the sword, but the butler had already convinced himself that this was part of some grand assassination plot.

The man's paranoia was almost admirable.

"You saw the explosion! Someone planted a trap! A weapon meant to detonate in your hands! This was a clear attempt on your life!" 

the butler continued, voice shaking. 

Kyle raised an eyebrow. 

"And your first instinct is to hide?"

The butler hesitated. 

"Well… I…"

Kyle shook his head, stepping past the panicked man. 

"If someone wants me dead, hiding won't save me."

The butler flinched but quickly followed after him. 

"Then what should we do, Young Master?"

Kyle thought for a moment.

His body was far too weak for real combat, but he couldn't sit still and wait to be ambushed either. He needed a plan.

Step one: Build his foundation.

 He needed to restore his strength, train his body, and adapt to this world's power system. His past knowledge would be useful, but only if his body could handle it.

Step two: Identify the threats.

If there really was an assassination plot against him, he needed to know who was behind it. Was it internal—his own family? Or external—another noble house?

Step three: Establish dominance.

The real Kyle Armstrong had been seen as a joke. That worked in his favor. No one would expect him to rise.

Kyle's lips curled into a small smirk. Good.

Let them underestimate him.

It would only make his eventual rise all the more satisfying.

For now, he needed one thing.

"Forget the wooden swords. Did you get me a real sword?" 

Kyle said as he stepped forward, his golden eyes sharp. 

The butler paled.

"Young Master, that's—"

"Give it here and leave me alone."

The butler swallowed hard but nodded. 

"…Understood."

Kyle turned his gaze to the sky, his smirk never fading.

The heavens had cast him aside.

But they had made a mistake.

They should have destroyed him completely.

Because now, he was here—and he was coming back.