The first time Jorvik had traded his room for the smaller one, he hadn't realized how bad it was.
The adrenaline rush, the promise of mana cream—both had sweetened the deal.
Blinded him from what it really was.
Or maybe he had known exactly how bad it was.
Maybe he had just convinced himself it was temporary.
The room was small.
The parchment walls were peeling, flaking onto the floor in tiny, brittle pieces waiting to be dusted away.
There wasn't even enough space for a proper bed frame.
Just the bed itself.
And beside it—bottles. Empty bottles of mana cream.
The window overlooking the fields was the best part of the room.
But compared to the high, sprawling view of his original chamber…
This sucked.
Two steps. That was all it took to reach the other end of the room.
Jorvik picked up a bottle. The glass was light.
Empty. Just like the rest.
All of them had been used.
He had traded everything.
His room.
His wealth.
His clothes.
His servants.
All for the hope of catching the Elders' attention.
He slouched onto the bed.
Looking at what he had left.
A noble's life, traded for a servant's quarters and a few bottles that were already drained.
"And yet…" He squeezed the bottle. His grip tightened.
"Not enough!"
He hurled it at the floor.
Glass shattered, scattering like stars across the dimly lit room.
His eyes locked onto the other bottles. His breathing quickened.
He ran toward them. Kicked them.
They smashed against the wall.
Fragments embedded themselves into his boot.
"I have given… everything!!!" he roared.
Before he had taken mana enhancements, he had already reached his peak physique, superior compared to the average peasant.
But by Major House standards? He was mediocre.
He squeezed his fist flexing his bicep. It was bigger now.
He could feel new strength flowing through his veins
And yet—
He was still nothing compared to Valen.
Nothing compared to Kaelus.
"No! I'm not even asking to be better than Valen or Kaelus… not yet…"
He had looked down on Liam.
Mocked him.
He had heard all the rumors.
So how? Why?
Why had Liam beaten him?
"I've sacrificed everything! When will my turn come?!"
His eyes darted toward the window.
Nothing.
No messages. No summons. No signs.
"Answer me! You were the one who gave me the sign!"
His voice cracked as he grabbed the old splintered chair.
Lifted it.
Slammed it into the window.
Glass exploded outward.
"Give me a sign! Tell me what to do!"
He kept swinging. Kept smashing.
The chair legs cracked.
A screw popped loose.
The entire thing collapsed in his hands.
Breathing heavy, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his forearm.
The plan.
Beat Liam.
Become Baron.
Become Emperor.
"Beat Liam… Become Baron… Become Emperor…"
His fingers dug into his scalp.
"BEAT LIAM. BECOME BARON. BECOME EMPEROR???"
His fist slammed against the wall.
The parchment ripped like wet paper.
"I can't even complete STEP ONE!!!"
He kept punching. Again. Again. Again.
This game was rigged.
From the beginning.
He had never stood a chance.
And yet, they had let him believe he had one.
They fed him lies.
They never believed in him. Not once.
Valen and Kaelus.
They were the bane of his existence.
Gifted with mana enhancements for free, while he had to buy his.
If both of them died a painful death, Jorvik would celebrate it.
Would desecrate their graves.
"Stop!!!"
His own voice snapped him out of it.
His thoughts were spiraling.
Losing control.
It's not over.
It's not over…
"There's a way…"
He clenched his fists, ignoring the bloodied knuckles.
He needed a plan.
Pah!
The memory hit him like a slap—
Liam's palm smashing into his jaw, his chest.
It was tattooed into his mind.
He unbuttoned his white shirt.
Turned toward the cracked mirror.
His chest—reddened, slightly torn.
Wrinkled where the impact had softened his muscles.
He pressed his fingers against it.
The flesh gave in too easily.
'I can't think of anything…'
Plans existed.
He could simulate fights in his mind.
He could imagine himself beating Valen in a duel.
So why was it so hard to imagine himself beating Liam?!
His teeth clenched.
His body trembled.
'Trust me. No matter how strong you are… if your opponent has a proper weapon?
It doesn't matter how powerful you are.
You can be defeated.'
The former knight's words echoed in his mind.
A sudden revelation struck.
That message… wasn't for me.
"It wasn't a warning. It was advice."
He repeated it aloud.
Letting the words change in his mind.
No matter how strong my opponent is…
If I have a proper weapon…
It doesn't matter how powerful they are.
They can be defeated.
"I can beat Liam."
He met his own gaze in the mirror.
Then he turned.
Grabbed a parchment.
Snatched a pen.
The old plan was too simple.
He scribbled down the new one.
Prepare my weapon.
Prepare the place.
Trap Liam.
Beat Liam.
This time, it wasn't about following orders.
He had never felt so trapped in his life.
He was born at a disadvantage.
No parents to guide him—just hired teachers and indifferent servants.
No favor. No recognition.
His life had always been slightly better than a peasant's.
A carrot dangled before a pig.
But never given.
Jorvik had chased that carrot.
Obeyed. Followed.
Convinced himself that one day, he would be accepted as one of them.
Deep inside, he had known it wouldn't work.
That their priorities wouldn't change.
Not with his commitment.
Not with his sacrifices.
It was the same lie they sold to the peasants.
And if it didn't work for them, then why would it work for him?
Slowly, carefully, he reached for a shard of broken glass from the window.
Gripped it.
Then dragged it along the edge of his small bed.
Cotton spilled out.
He pulled at the stuffing.
Hollowing it out.
"I'll follow my own plan…"