The morning passed more slowly than Philip had expected.

  By the time he noticed it, the bowl of porridge on the table had already cooled. Barley porridge, cooked a little thin. If he had to be honest, it did not taste bad—at the very least, it lacked the bitter, medicinal smell of boiled herbs.

  Philip picked up the spoon and took a few more bites.

  This body, after all, still needed to eat. That sounded obvious enough, but for him it felt slightly… unusual. In the past, eating had often been nothing more than a step in the process of maintaining a body. No one had cared whether it tasted good.

  Here, it was different.

  A gentle breeze drifted through the window, carrying with it the scent of dried grass from the backyard. Occasionally, the faint clucking of chickens could be heard somewhere beyond the coop.

  Small sounds like these… if one thought about it carefully, they were quite convincing. The human mind rarely fabricated details this mundane during dreams or hallucinations.

  Philip set the spoon down.

  From somewhere in the distance came the sound of metal striking metal. Not loud, but steady in rhythm.

  He tilted his head slightly, listening.

  A sharp clack, then a pause. After that, someone’s voice barked a short command.

  It sounded like the training yard for the guards.

  Philip stood and walked toward the window.

  From this room, he could see a corner of the courtyard below. Two guards were practicing. One appeared older, his movements steady and confident. The other was younger, and every swing of his sword lagged just half a beat behind.

  Philip watched them for a while.

  To be fair, their technique was not bad. But compared with the standards of a regular army… there was probably still a noticeable gap.

  Then again, that was hardly surprising.

  Montserrat was only the territory of a minor baron. Most of the soldiers here were farmers who had been trained for a few seasons. Expecting them to fight like royal knights would be asking too much.

  Philip rested his arms on the windowsill.

  If his memory could still be trusted, the world would begin to change in the coming years. Not small disturbances, but events that would force the entire kingdom to react.

  A weak territory… under those circumstances rarely survived long.

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  The thought left him silent for quite some time.

  It was not exactly worry. More accurately, he simply recognized a somewhat unpleasant reality: at the moment, he had no authority to do anything at all.

  Philip was the third son.

  Within the kingdom’s noble system, that position… to put it gently, was rather insignificant. He did not manage land, did not participate in political decisions, and did not even possess a legitimate reason to interfere with military affairs.

  If he suddenly started giving orders to the guards, people would probably assume the fever had damaged his mind.

  Not an entirely unreasonable conclusion.

  Philip exhaled softly.

  Perhaps it would be better to start with smaller things.

  He turned and looked toward the corner of the room.

  The wooden sword was still lying there.

  Philip picked it up. It was quite light—the sort of training weapon meant for children. He rotated his wrist a few times, as though testing how this body responded.

  Not very well.

  The muscles were weak, and his wrist felt stiff.

  Philip tried a swing.

  The wooden blade cut through the air with an awkward sound. The arc of the strike was far from straight.

  He glanced at his hand.

  Judging objectively, this body had never trained seriously.

  Philip tried again.

  This time he moved more slowly. Instead of swinging hard, he adjusted his stance and wrist position. Very basic things—the sort of drills even new recruits practiced every day.

  One movement.

  Then another.

  Truthfully, he was not entirely certain he remembered every technique correctly. His past combat memories were somewhat chaotic. Most of the time, he had not been the one holding the sword.

  Still, a few principles remained.

  Keep the center of gravity steady.

  Do not overextend the swing.

  Breathe evenly.

  Philip repeated the motion several more times.

  After about ten minutes, his arm began to ache.

  That… was fairly predictable. An eight-year-old body rarely tolerated long periods of training.

  He placed the wooden sword back on the floor.

  Perhaps it was best to stop here.

  If he suddenly began training too intensely, the people in the house would surely notice. A child who had just recovered from a fever yet spent hours swinging a sword every day… would sound rather suspicious.

  Philip sat down on the edge of the bed.

  An idea—or rather, the outline of a plan—began to form.

  First, he needed to become stronger.

  Not the kind of strength found in knightly tales, where a single person could defeat entire armies alone. Just strong enough to protect himself, or at least not die meaninglessly.

  After that came learning.

  The history of the kingdom, the relationships between territories, the military situation… in the past, he had barely paid attention to such things. Looking back now, that had likely been a rather obvious mistake.

  And finally—though Philip did not particularly enjoy thinking about this—he needed to earn Baron Montserrat’s trust.

  Not immediately.

  In fact, trying too quickly could have the opposite effect. A child who suddenly became “too intelligent” after recovering from a fever often made adults suspicious.

  It would be better to change little by little.

  A little more diligent.

  A little more disciplined.

  A little less troublesome than before.

  Philip leaned back against the wall.

  Thinking about this, he let out a quiet chuckle.

  In his previous life—or whatever might resemble a previous life—he had once believed that power came from grand things: wars, magic, decisions that shaped entire kingdoms.

  But if one looked at reality a bit more carefully, many things seemed to begin with far more ordinary acts.

  Waking earlier than others.

  Training consistently.

  Taking the time to study things that were, frankly, quite boring.

  And, to put it bluntly… avoiding stupid decisions.

  Philip glanced at the wooden sword.

  Perhaps tomorrow he would train a little earlier.

  Even ten more minutes would be enough.

  There was no need to rush.

  At least this time, time itself—so it seemed—was still on his side.