Chapter 3: Stronger or dead

Waking up in another world should've come with a grace period.

A week of rest. Maybe some divine spark. At least a training montage.

Instead, I woke up sore from hauling lumber, my arms aching like someone had replaced them with wet ropes. My "bed" was a splintered cot that smelled like old cheese, and I was expected to command a county with less resources than a D-grade survival sim.

No one said "good morning." The birds didn't sing. I think one tried to scream at me, though. Even the birds here were angry.

Good.

That matched my mood.

---

My name is Vihan Wyvrling. I am sixteen, technically noble, practically a walking corpse with a title, and officially tired of being weak.

I've survived for two weeks in this cursed game-turned-reality, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's this:

You either grow stronger—or you die.

---

"Again," Arden barked.

I grit my teeth and lifted the training sword. My arms shook. My shoulders burned. Sweat dripped into my eyes.

"Again."

I swung. He blocked it with a snort.

"You fight like a scribe."

"I was a gamer," I muttered.

"What's that?"

"A scholar. With very fast fingers."

He sighed. "Again."

We'd been at this for an hour. At first, it was embarrassing. Then frustrating. Now it was personal.

Arden didn't hold back. He was in his fifties, grey in the beard, but he fought like the battlefield still owed him blood. Every strike of his wooden blade left bruises. Every dodge he forced out of me left me panting.

But I was learning.

My footwork stopped sucking. My swings stopped being wild. And most importantly, I stopped flinching every time he raised his arm.

"You'll never be a duelist," he said, finally lowering his blade. "But you're stubborn. That's something."

"Thanks," I said, collapsing onto the dirt.

"Don't thank me. Thank yourself for not vomiting today."

---

Every morning began with drills. Every evening ended with bruises.

In between?

Ruling.

Sort of.

I signed off on lumber routes. Approved repairs on the town well. Had my steward go over trade agreements with Baron Dareth. We now had an incoming supply of iron tools and salted meat in exchange for cursed glade timber.

Progress.

Small, pathetic progress.

But it meant fewer starving children in the streets and one less riot this week, so I called it a win.

---

Lyra returned from her little spy network two days later, grim and silent.

I found her in the tower library, sharpening a dagger on a bone whetstone.

"You're tense," I said. "Did someone try to kill me again?"

"Not yet," she said. "But they're watching. Greymoor. Two other minor lords too. You've stirred things up. Rumors of ghosts. Trade revival. Bandits dying mysteriously. You're on their map now."

"Good. That's where I want to be."

"Be careful what you wish for," she said. "Visibility attracts arrows."

"Then I'll wear thicker armor."

She glanced at me. "You still fight like a scribe."

"Scholars with abs are dangerous," I said, flexing what I hoped was a developing bicep. "Give me a month."

She didn't laugh, but I think her mouth twitched.

---

I wasn't a warrior. Not yet.

But I could feel the change.

Every day I fought, every cut and bruise—I got stronger.

I started running laps in the courtyard. Climbing the keep stairs with bags of stone. Swinging swords until my hands blistered, then wrapping them and swinging again.

I studied old Wyvrling tactics from dusty tomes. I memorized maps of the Duchy, tracked political rivalries, assessed which nobles were corrupt, paranoid, pious, or broke.

I meditated. Practiced breathing. Tried a few weird rituals Brother Caldus taught me—not because I believed them, but because this world did have magic, and I was desperate to understand what kind of spark ran through my blood.

Was I magical? Maybe.

Had I felt anything? Not yet.

But I wanted to.

Because in a world of wizards and wyverns, I refused to be just another body in a ditch.

---

Then came the messenger.

A boy no older than thirteen, riding a broken-backed mule, covered in road dust and fear.

He bowed so fast he nearly ate gravel. "Message from the capital, Your Grace. For your eyes."

He handed me a scroll sealed with black wax.

I cracked it open. Read it twice.

Then once more, slower.

"Arden," I called.

He came running, hand already on his blade. "What is it?"

"The king is summoning all lords to a High Assembly. Three weeks from now. At Castle Arador."

Arden cursed.

Lyra appeared at the door. "I overheard. That's not a summons. That's a test."

"I know."

King Alric of House Virewyn. The one who "allowed" House Wyvrling to keep one county after our downfall. He was old, paranoid, and obsessed with loyalty.

He wanted to see me.

He wanted to measure me.

And if I showed up weak, disrespected, or clueless?

He'd finish what history started.

---

That night, I stood before a cracked mirror in my chamber.

I didn't look like a ruler.

Pale. Gaunt. Eyes too big, arms too thin. Scars forming on my shoulders from Arden's training.

But there was something new in my reflection, too.

A hardness. A spark.

I wasn't just surviving anymore.

I was becoming.

---

So I made a plan.

Three weeks. That was enough time to do something.

Step one: Fix my wardrobe. Lyra helped source a tailor from the south. We stitched together the old Wyvrling colors—black and silver—with new crimson trim. Symbolic rebirth. Reclaimed legacy.

Step two: Select an entourage. I wasn't going alone. Arden, Lyra, and Caldus would come. Plus two guards who didn't actively smell like sheep.

Step three: Make a statement.

A gift for the king. I commissioned a sculpture from local artisans—a wyvern curled around the sun, made of obsidian and iron. Dramatic. Dangerous-looking. Expensive enough to look impressive, but cheap enough to not bankrupt us.

I wasn't walking into that court as a beggar.

I was walking in as a shadow from the past.

And shadows make people nervous.

---

The night before our departure, I sat atop the keep again.

The stars were sharp. The wind colder than usual.

I stretched my arms. Felt the soreness. The strength beneath it.

I was far from powerful.

But I was no longer helpless.

Not a pawn. Not a victim.

Something was waking in me. Not magic. Not yet.

But will.

Drive.

Fire.

I am Vihan Wyvrling.

Last of my line.

And if the king wanted to see me then I will make damn sure he'd remember me.