"I have a question," Ibnor grunted, breaking the strained silence as he continued his chin-ups, sweat sheeting down his torso.
"That is a statement, Second Young Master," Zainal's voice cut through the air, flat and unyielding.
Ibnor dropped from the bar with a controlled thud, flexing his aching shoulders.
"Am I allowed to ask questions at all, or just make statements?" he grumbled.
"Is that your question, Second Young Master? If it is…"
"No! Fine! Why are we doing this?" Ibnor cut him off, exasperation thick in his voice.
"This is what you wished for, is it not?"
"I mean, why are we simply doing physical conditioning? Why not something else? Like, mana drills or combat forms?" Ibnor wiped sweat from his brow, eyeing the endless array of equipment.
"To increase the foundation, of course."
"Shouldn't you be teaching me something more… practical?" Ibnor pressed.
"And what would that be?"
"I don't know, martial arts or something." The words felt inadequate, even to him.
"What do you need martial arts for?" Zainal countered, his gaze unwavering.
"Maybe so I can fight back when a dungeon breaks… Or something…" Ibnor trailed off, picturing himself clumsily flailing against a monster.
"And break your bones in the process?" Zainal's voice held no sarcasm, just cold, logical assessment.
"Then what's the purpose of this training, then?" Ibnor demanded, throwing his hands up in frustration.
"Stamina. Endurance."
"What's the use?"
"So you can run away."
Ibnor stared, jaw slack. He wanted to scream.
"That's it?"
"You want to survive. Are you not?"
"It's not enough. You know what I mean. I can't just run forever." Ibnor sighed, running a hand through his damp hair.
"And you know the answer as to why we are doing this." Zainal's eyes seemed to bore into him, a silent challenge.
Ibnor let out a long, defeated breath.
"Fine. I know… Foundation is above all else. Without the foundation, everything else will crumble easily."
The words, though true, felt bitter in his mouth.
"An excellent conclusion, Second Young Master. Though it made our entire conversation meaningless."
Ibnor narrowed his eyes, a flicker of genuine annoyance overcoming his exhaustion.
"Are you ever going to stop being so uptight, Mr. Zainal?"
"I would when you show a satisfying improvement, Second Young Master."
"If I were to show 'satisfying improvement,' it would mean I have talent, and if I did, we wouldn't be here, having this conversation," Ibnor retorted, his voice laced with weary irony.
"Indeed, Second Young Master."
"Doesn't that indirectly mean that you won't stop, ever?" Ibnor groaned inwardly, pushing himself off the floor to begin another set.
While straining through another set of push-ups, Ibnor's gaze flickered towards the young woman seated at a gleaming chrome bench. Aryssa, as ever, was a still, watchful presence, monitoring him with her stoic face, a small notebook clutched in her hand.
"She acted like nothing happened." The thought pricked at him, a stark contrast to the raw emotion that had shattered her composure just yesterday.
Ibnor stopped, pushing himself up from the floor. His muscles screamed in protest, but he ignored them.
"Give me five minutes, Mr. Zainal," he gasped, his chest heaving.
Zainal, a dark silhouette against the vast training hall, shifted his weight. His gaze, an unblinking dart of assessment, flickered from Ibnor to Aryssa and back.
"Don't take too long, Second Young Master."
Ibnor moved towards the bench, his legs stiff with exertion. As he approached, Aryssa, with practiced, almost detached efficiency, held out a towel. He snatched it, wiping the rivers of sweat from his face and neck.
"Enjoying my suffering?" he muttered, the words thick with exhaustion and a hint of sarcasm.
Aryssa's expression remained perfectly unreadable.
"I'm not. And it wasn't suffering, Young Master. To us common people, it's called training." Her voice was cool, level, completely devoid of warmth.
"Is that so?" Ibnor snorted, a short, humorless sound.
"Still so icy, huh?" He thought as he took a long, desperate swig from his water bottle.
"You're an eyesore," He said, gulping down the water. "Be useful and go somewhere else."
"I must decline. As per Clause 3, Article 4, being your personal assistant requires me to be on standby, near you at all times." Aryssa stated, mechanically.
"'Near me' does not mean 'in front of me'," Ibnor retorted.
"Where else should I be?" Her brow furrowed, a faint hint of genuine confusion.
"I don't know, this is a state-of-the-art training facility. Make use of it." Ibnor waved his hand, gesturing vaguely at the immense, echoing training facility around them.
"What?!" Aryssa's composure fractured.
Her eyes widened, a rare, fleeting glimpse of genuine shock breaking through her impassive mask.
"What?" Ibnor asked, genuinely confused by her sudden, unexpected reaction.
"Are you serious?" Her voice was hushed, almost disbelieving.
"About what?"
"Using the facility?"
"Knock yourself out. Go wild. I don't care. Just not 'here'."
Ibnor took another sip of water, then without waiting for her response, turned and resumed his sets, dropping into a punishing rhythm of burpees. He left Aryssa utterly dumbfounded at the bench.
"Is he for real?" Aryssa's mind began to race, a chaotic swirl of disbelief and suspicion. "It's hard even for a licensed Awakener to secure consistent access to this place, and yet, he just… allowed me?"
The Fenrir training center was more than just a gym; it was a fortress of elite combat, a testament to the Ezad Group's unparalleled influence. Access was fiercely guarded, a privilege reserved for top-tier combatants and the corporation's most trusted security forces. This was an opportunity beyond anything she could have dreamed of.
"I'm not one to let such a chance go… but what's he planning?" The question, born of years enduring the whims and cruelties of the Ezad family's Young Master, lingered like a cold shadow in her thoughts.
The relentless cycle continued, Ibnor's days a blur of classes and punishing training. During academy hours, one would find him simply present in the classroom, physically there but mentally elsewhere, his sharp mind efficiently soaking up theoretical knowledge from a distance.
For some reason unknown to him, Aryssa, despite being told multiple times she was free—even encouraged—to sit at the front, had somehow returned to her usual spot beside him. Days bled into weeks, each one filled with Ibnor's endless repetition, until finally, the day of the Awakening Ceremony arrived.
The ceremony, as grand as its name suggested, was, in practice, a remarkably simple event. Students were led into a vast, hushed hall, the collective anxieties of the nervous youths almost palpable in the air. One by one, their names were called, and they stepped into a spacious, sterile chamber. Inside, a precise stream of mana was injected into them, designed to activate their dormant latent abilities. Everyone possessed some form of inherent power, from highly valued offensive capabilities capable of leveling buildings, to minor, almost mundane abilities like hands that could glow faintly, just enough to light a dark room.
"What kind of ability will I have?" Ibnor wondered, a rare flicker of true curiosity igniting within him.
Unlike the established lore for most characters, the original Ibnor's ability was never revealed in the game. He had no existing information to predict his own outcome, which was both unsettling and, strangely, liberating. He was a blank slate in this one crucial aspect.
Beside him, Aryssa, who usually wore her stoic face like an impenetrable mask, couldn't help but betray her nervousness. Her subtle fidgeting, a constant motion of her fingers against her thigh, even caught Ibnor's attention through his own anticipation.
"What is she worried about?" he thought, a familiar surge of game knowledge flooding his mind. "She'll awaken the telekinesis ability, and later, it will perfectly complement her blade skills. She'll master it completely and create her own distinct style, becoming well-known in the field."
He felt the sudden, absurd urge to physically slap his own forehead.
"Oh, she doesn't know it yet, of course, she's nervous."
The irony of knowing so much about her crucial future, while she fretted over her present, was almost comical.
"Hands," Ibnor said, his voice gentle, interrupting her anxious thoughts as he opened his palm towards her.
"Huh?" Aryssa was caught off guard, blinking in surprise.
"Give me your hands," Ibnor repeated, his voice firm but reassuring.
Aryssa hesitated for a moment, her eyes wary. Then, with a reluctant sigh, she allowed Ibnor to take her hands. She braced herself, expecting him to do something more, some new, humiliating trick, and quietly resigned herself to whatever fate he had in store. But he simply sat there, quietly holding her hands, his thumb slowly tracing calming circles on her skin.
"How was the investigation that I asked you to do?" he asked, his voice low, cutting through the general murmur of the hall, as if they were the only two people there.
"Her name is Sofeea. An orphan with two younger siblings. Currently a second-year student at Avalon Academy," Aryssa recited, her voice regaining its professional composure, the switch almost instantaneous.
"If I didn't ask, when were you going to give me the results?" Ibnor's tone was mild, but there was an underlying current of expectation that made her flinch inwardly.
Aryssa went silent, her gaze falling to their interlocked hands. It was a miscalculation on her part, born of a rare moment of empathy. She had felt a strong sympathy for Sofeea, recognizing a shared, desperate situation, and had hoped Ibnor would simply forget about her, leaving her to handle the protection discreetly.
"Current situation?" Ibnor pressed, cutting into her thoughts.
"Having financial difficulties. Juggling two part-time jobs to support her siblings. Living on scholarship," Aryssa reported, her voice flat, the harsh facts laid bare.
"Anything else?"
"Her landlord is currently trying to take advantage of her financial crisis. There have been a few times he's tried to…"
"I guess the protection we provided was utilized, then?" Ibnor cut her off, a grim note entering his voice.
"Indeed," Aryssa nodded.
"Keep protecting her… And I want him gone." The finality in his voice brooked no argument.
"Noted." Aryssa's grip on his hand tightened almost imperceptibly.
"And… arrange a meeting."
"What are you going to do?" Aryssa asked, her suspicion returning, a flicker of worry in her eyes.
"Indeed… What am I going to do…?" Ibnor questioned himself inwardly, genuinely pondering the best approach, mentally sifting through solutions.
"I'll just hire her or something." He landed on the simplest, most direct one, the kind his father would approve of.
"Please keep it... within reasons," Aryssa cautioned, the word carrying a weighty history between them, a silent accusation of his past capriciousness.
Ibnor let out a soft "Heh," a genuine, amused sound that surprised even himself.
"Not worrying about your own ceremony anymore?"
Aryssa was taken aback. Indeed. Her earlier nervousness had completely vanished, replaced by concern for Sofeea and confusion over Ibnor's unpredictable intentions. She looked at Ibnor, who was now watching the other students with an amused expression, then down at her hand, still interlinked with his, a strange warmth spreading through her palm. Just as she was about to say something, her name echoed through the hall, cutting through the hushed murmurs.
"Aryssa Leyman!"
"Go. Don't worry. It's going to be alright." Ibnor let go of her hand, giving a gentle squeeze before he released her.
She stood up, her mind suddenly blank of all strategy, all worry, all doubt. The sheer weight of the moment pressed in on her as she followed one of the facilitators, walking towards the chamber where her fate awaited.
Back at the Ezad Group Headquarters, Harris sat in his expansive office, the city sprawling beneath his panoramic window. A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Come in." Harris called out, his voice a low rumble.
The door opened silently, and Zainal stepped inside, his posture as impeccably straight as ever.
"Good morning, Master Harris."
Harris waved a dismissive hand.
"Zainal, how many times must I tell you? Drop the formalities when we're alone. We've been through too much for that."
"My apologies, Master. Old habits," Zainal replied, his voice betraying no emotion, though a flicker in his eyes might suggest a slight amusement at their enduring routine.
Harris chuckled, a rare, genuine sound.
"You are still going to keep that up, aren't you? Of all things, you made pressing other's button your forte." He leaned back in his plush leather chair. "Today's the Awakening Ceremony, isn't it?"
"Indeed, Master Harris," Zainal confirmed.
"And Ibnor," Harris mused, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "After spending your time with him, what do you truly make of him?"
Zainal paused for a moment, his gaze distant, as if sifting through countless shared memories and observations of the boy they had both watched grow.
"He is… a blank sheet."
Harris winced, a visible shudder passing through him.
"Blank sheet? Zainal, it can't be that bad, can it? You know what I'm hoping for here."
"On the contrary." Zainal continued, his tone unwavering. "He is without the rigidness of prior training, without the ingrained flaws of inherited talent. A clean slate. A foundation we can truly build upon, together."
Harris stared at his old comrade, then let out a resigned laugh, shaking his head.
"You haven't changed a bit, have you?" He picked up a cigar, a faint smile playing on his lips. "So, a clean slate, you say? That's... more than I dared hope for, coming from you."
"Assuming, of course, he can maintain that resolve." Zainal added.
"He seemed determined enough," Harris continued, taking a slow sniff of the unlit cigar. "But I hear you haven't actually taught him anything beyond basic conditioning?"
"And risk him learning something incompatible with his latent ability?" Zainal countered, his voice perfectly even.
"I see," Harris murmured, a knowing glint in his eye. "So, it's not just him who's eagerly waiting for today, is it?"
"I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about," Zainal replied, completely poker-faced.
"Riiight," Harris drawled, a smirk spreading across his face. "Whatever you say, old friend. Whatever you say."
"Should I inform Madam that you are secretly contemplating a cigar, Master?" Zainal's voice was devoid of malice, yet the threat was clear.
"Don't you dare!" Harris yelped, instinctively tossing the unlit cigar onto his desk. "And I haven't! Yet..."
"If you say so, Master."
"Get. Out." Harris pointed to the door, a mock scowl on his face.
"Then, if you'll excuse me, Master." Zainal gave a polite nod, a flicker of triumph in his eyes, and smoothly exited the office.
"Damn old fox!" Harris grumbled, reaching for the 'safely' discarded cigar with a sigh.
Aryssa walked out of the chamber, a long, shaky exhale of relief escaping her lips. The hushed murmur of the hall felt suddenly louder, the air lighter. She made her way towards Ibnor, a strange sense of normalcy accompanying her steps.
It was perplexing; gravitating back to his side these days felt less like a duty and more like a reflex, devoid of the familiar revulsion she'd once known. She reached him and took a seat without a word.
She was just about to share the news of her latent ability when she stopped herself, the words catching in her throat.
"I wanted to share the news with him? Me? Want to? Him? Of all people? Aryssa, are you out of your mind?" She battled herself internally, a cacophony of disbelief and confusion.
She sat silently, expecting him to reach for her hands again, perhaps offer another comforting gesture. But nothing happened. He just sat there, looking at nothing in particular, clearly lost in deep contemplation. A frown would settle between his brows, ease, then return.
Soon, he seemed to snap back to awareness.
"Ah, you're here. Welcome back." He said it nonchalantly, almost as if he hadn't noticed her absence at all.
Aryssa remained quiet, unsure how to respond. Her silence, however, finally made him turn his head, his eyes focusing on her.
"What's wrong? It can't be that bad, right?" he asked, a hint of concern in his voice.
"Wait… what if my existence changed everything? What if she didn't get telekinesis?" Ibnor's thoughts spiraled again, his brow furrowing deeper.
The very foundation of his survival strategy—relying on his meta-knowledge—could be crumbling.
"He's worried about me? It can't be, right? It's impossible… Right?" Aryssa watched him, perplexed, as he became preoccupied with his thoughts once more.
She saw the rapid darting of his eyes, the way his fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh, as if searching for a solution to an invisible problem.
"So? How is it?" he urged, pulling himself back and looking at her intently. "The Awakening?"
"I've... I've got telekinesis," she replied hesitantly, still trying to reconcile his apparent concern with the Ibnor she knew.
"Huuu... thank God!" he exhaled, a profound sigh of relief escaping him.
"Good. Good. It didn't change. Otherwise, how will she be a capable fighter as I knew?" he thought, his shoulders visibly relaxing.
"Is he... that worried? About me?" Aryssa thought, her confusion only deepening.
The feeling was utterly perplexing.