Beyond Death: the rise of atreya

The morning light is filtered through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the room. My body felt foreign yet familiar—frail yet buzzing with newfound determination. Memories of the previous night played in my mind: my father's sharp words, my mother's tearful relief, and that fleeting, otherworldly vision.

[To change one's fate is to embrace the unknown.]

The words haunted me, challenging me. I was no longer just Sung Ming Woo, a failed athlete who succumbed to cancer. Nor was I simply Atreya Kerwin, the sickly young master of a noble house. I was something in between—someone standing at the crossroads of two lives, with a choice to make.

"Rise, Atreya," I murmured to myself, gripping the edges of the bed. "If this is my second chance, I won't waste it."

Before I could dwell further, a knock at the door broke the silence.

"Enter," I called, my voice hoarse yet steady.

The maid from before stepped in, carrying a tray of breakfast. Her expression was softer now, though her eyes still carried traces of worry. She set the tray down on the bedside table and hesitated.

"Young Master, the Baron has requested your presence in the training yard after your meal," she said, her tone careful.

Training yard? My mind raced. This body was weak—barely able to hold a sword, let alone swing one. Yet the idea of training stirred something within me. It was an opportunity to prove myself, not just to my father but to the entire household.

I nodded. "Thank you. Tell him I'll be there."

The maid's eyes widened slightly, but she quickly bowed and left the room.

I stepped into the training yard, my heart pounding as the cold morning air bit at my skin. Rows of knights in polished armor sparred, their blades clashing in rhythmic, precise movements. Stable hands, guards, and even some of my cousins turned their attention to me, eyes narrowing in disdain. Whispers rippled through the crowd.

"The sickly young master thinks he can train?"

"Look at him—barely standing. Pathetic."

The muttered words sliced into me, but I forced myself to keep walking, my chin held high. I wouldn't show weakness, not now. I was Sung Ming Woo—a fighter who refused to bow to fate—and I was Atreya Kerwin, the son of a baron who needed to rise from the shadow of shame.

Before I could dwell on their gazes, a voice boomed across the yard.

"Atreya!"

Darius Kerwin stood at the far end, his towering figure casting a long shadow across the training grounds. His arms were crossed, his expression a mask of stern authority. He wasn't just testing me—he was setting an example for everyone watching. Failure here meant humiliation, not just for me but for him.

"You will start with the basics today," he said, gesturing to a set of wooden practice swords. "Pick one up. Show me you haven't forgotten everything during your long rest."

A surge of nervous energy coursed through me as I approached the practice rack. The sword felt heavier than I expected, its weight unfamiliar in my weak grip. My muscles, still stiff from days of inactivity, screamed as I lifted it. I swallowed hard and positioned myself in what I hoped was a passable stance.

Darius raised an eyebrow, a small scoff escaping his lips. "Begin."

The first strike was pitiful. The wooden sword wobbled as I swung, my arms trembling from the effort. Laughter erupted from a few onlookers, harsh and biting.

"Is this truly the son of the Kerwin family?"

"Even a squire has more strength than that."

My jaw clenched. A part of me wanted to drop the sword, to walk away and hide from their judging eyes. But the vision of that sanctuary and the woman's whispered words echoed in my mind. [To change one's fate is to embrace the unknown.]

I adjusted my stance and swung again, this time focusing not on the eyes around me, but on the beat of my heart, the will to fight that simmered within. The swing was cleaner, firmer. It still wasn't enough, but it was better. The jeering quieted for a moment, a ripple of surprise spreading among the crowd.

Darius's eyes narrowed, unreadable. "Again," he commanded.

And so I did. Again and again, each swing chipping away at my weakness and doubt. My body ached, my breath came in ragged gasps, but I kept going. This wasn't just practice. This was a declaration—a silent promise to myself and everyone watching that I wouldn't let this weakness define me.

As the sun rose higher, casting sharp shadows on the training yard, the whispers began to change. No longer just jeers, some carried a note of reluctant curiosity, even respect.

And as I swung that sword one last time, pain coursing through my arms like fire, I realized something. This was only the beginning of my fight to reclaim power over my destiny.

I will overcome this. No matter how many times it takes.