Chapter 106: The Favour (4)

[ Ding~ Affinity Selection Card Has Been Used ]

His vision shifted—translucent blue panels unfolded before him, the familiar touch of the System spreading across his mind.

[ Affinity Available to Select ]

1. Wind

2. Fire

3. Lightning

Michael's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching the glowing list like it was an enemy.

So these are the options, huh?

He rubbed his temple with one hand, thinking carefully. His current arsenal was clear:

Ice Affinity is cold, sharp, absolute. Devastating offensively, but taxing if overused.

Space Affinity is his trump card, unstable and volatile, demanding a higher rank than his current body could endure. Every use shaved at his mana reserves and threatened to tear his flesh apart.

Ice for offense, space as last resort. What I lack is defense.

Wind would serve as a shield, he knew. Its nature was evasive, flowing. Defensive barriers, enhanced agility. Logical. Safe.

Fire was too redundant; it was pure offense, and his Ice already filled that role in a colder, more versatile way.

Which left Lightning with the properties of raw, destructive, merciless also a blade that pierced rather than shielded.

Michael's finger hovered in the air over the first option.

Wind— The smart choice but this choice of someone planning for survival.

But his chest tightened and his lips curved into a small, defiant smile.

In the end… survival wasn't what he was aiming for.

He dragged his finger away, tapping the last option.

[ DING~ Congratulations to Host for Awakening Lightning Affinity ]

The world exploded.

It wasn't a gentle spark.

It wasn't a faint glow.

It was a storm.

A surge of electricity crashed into his body, starting at his heart and ripping through every nerve like a serpent of light.

His muscles convulsed violently, his teeth clenched so hard he tasted iron, his vision blurred with white arcs crawling across his retinas.

"Gh—ahhh!"

Michael collapsed onto the floor, limbs twitching uncontrollably.

His breath came in broken gasps, chest heaving as if he were drowning on dry land.

Blue-white sparks danced across his skin, crackling along the veins of his arms.

The pain was unlike anything he had felt before.

Fire burned, ice froze, but lightning—lightning devoured.

It was wild, merciless, tearing his mana circuits open and forcing itself into them like molten steel through glass pipes.

His body screamed.

His mind wanted to black out.

Ten seconds. Just ten seconds.

But each heartbeat stretched like eternity.

So this… is lightning…?

His vision swam, sweat soaking his clothes until they clung to him. His hands clawed against the marble, leaving shallow cracks. For a moment, he thought his heart would burst from his chest.

And then—silence.

The sparks faded into faint wisps of ozone, leaving his body numb, trembling. He lay flat on the floor, staring up at the high ceiling of the suite. His chest rose and fell rapidly, but a crooked grin spread across his lips despite the sweat streaming down his face.

Every instinct screamed exhaustion. Every rational thought whispered you almost killed yourself.

And yet… he felt stronger.

The raw edge of power still hummed beneath his skin, coiling in his veins like a predator waiting to be unleashed.

Breathless, Michael let out a hoarse laugh.

"Just kidding…"

His voice cracked, but the humor was genuine.

He turned his head slightly, eyes glinting with defiance as he whispered again:

"Fuck defense."

His body ached, his muscles screamed, but his smile grew sharper.

"The best defense is offense."

A faint spark flickered across his fingers, leaving behind the scent of burnt ozone. He clenched his fist, the hum of power buzzing within.

"And Lightning…"

He exhaled, almost reverent, almost mad. "Lightning is the sharpest spear."

The room's silence returned, but now it felt different. The air smelled of storms, as if the room itself recognized a new master.

—

Supreme Hall — Ground Floor

Time : 10:57

The Academy grounds were quiet under the weight of night.

The usual clamor of footsteps, laughter, and sparring chants had long died away, leaving only the low hum of enchanted street lamps that bathed the stone paths in soft, amber light.

Michael stepped out of the Supreme Hall, closing the tall glass doors behind him.

The cool wind brushed against his face, carrying the faint scent of grass and the distant perfume of night-blooming flowers from the garden.

His private training room was just as good as better, in fact, equipped with the latest mana simulators.

But tonight, after the storm that had raged through his body with the awakening of Lightning, he wanted air. Real air. Space to breathe.

The moon hung low, a pale silver coin cast in velvet darkness.

He walked slowly, hands in his pockets, letting the quiet sink into him.

As he neared the wide stone arch that marked the training grounds, a sound broke the stillness.

Swish.

Shoosh.

Swish.

The crisp hiss of steel cutting through the air, repeated with almost mechanical rhythm.

Michael tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. The grounds were supposed to be deserted at this hour.

He followed the sound, footsteps echoing softly against the stone. Under the floodlight glow, he saw him.

Alex.

The boy stood drenched in sweat, shirt clinging to his back, his chest heaving with exertion.

His wooden practice sword rose and fell, over and over again, tracing the same arc without rest.

The ground around him was marked with scuffed lines proof he had been at it for hours.

Michael slowed his approach, watching for a moment. There was no brilliance in Alex's technique. No dazzling footwork, no refined blade aura.

But there was something else—something raw. Relentless repetition. A dogged refusal to stop.

Michael's lips quivered upward. So that's the kind of person you are.

He let his presence be known.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Alex froze mid-swing, head snapping up toward the sound of footsteps. His eyes widened when he saw who it was.

"M-Michael?" His voice cracked, surprise and unease mingled together. He quickly lowered his sword, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

"Ah… I was just… practicing."

Michael raised a hand in casual greeting.

"Yo, Alex. Still awake?"

The boy looked embarrassed, as if caught doing something shameful rather than commendable. His gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders stiff. "Yeah… just practice," he repeated, quieter.

Michael narrowed his eyes slightly. He'd heard that tone before back when kids tried to hide bruises behind forced smiles. Not confidence. Not pride. Guilt, almost.

He took a few steps closer, stopping just outside the boy's personal space.

"You always train this late?"

Alex hesitated, grip tightening around the hilt of his practice sword.

"…Sometimes."

"'Sometimes,' huh?" Michael's voice was calm but probing. "It's almost midnight. Don't tell me this is just a hobby session."

Alex flinched, his jaw clenching. He still wouldn't meet Michael's eyes.

Michael crossed his arms. "You know, the Academy gives all of us plenty of hours during the day. Facilities, instructors, sparring partners. You could use those."

"…I can't." The words slipped out, almost a whisper.

Michael tilted his head.

"Can't? Or won't?"

The silence stretched. The only sound was the faint chirp of crickets somewhere beyond the wall.

Finally, Alex's shoulders sagged. His voice trembled, but he forced himself to answer.

"…It's not like that. I—I…"

Michael softened his tone.

"Alex. I already told you—you can say anything to me."

The boy's grip loosened. His arms shook as though the weight of his secret was heavier than the sword. He swallowed hard before speaking.

"…Because of them."

Michael's brows furrowed. "Them?"

"The nobles." Alex's lips trembled as the word left him. He finally lifted his gaze, and Michael caught the faint shimmer of tears forming in his eyes. "Whenever I go to the training grounds during the day, they… they challenge me. Over and over."

He bit his lip, voice breaking. "If I refuse, they remind me—'You know what happens if you don't play along, Alex. You know what will happen to your family.'"

His chest shuddered as he sucked in a breath, tears beginning to roll despite his effort to hold them back.

"So I have to accept it every time. Even if I fight back, even if I win, they use their family names. Their power. My family doesn't stand a chance against them."

The wooden sword slipped from his hands, landing with a dull clatter on the ground. He covered his face with his palms, his body shaking as quiet sobs broke free—the raw sound of a boy carrying more than his share of chains.

Michael's chest tightened.

He didn't laugh. He didn't scoff. He didn't look at Alex as weak. Instead, he stepped forward without hesitation and wrapped his arms around the boy in a firm, grounding embrace.

Alex stiffened, shocked. He had expected mockery from the Rank 1, not comfort. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air before slowly lowering, trembling against Michael's shirt.

Michael's voice was steady, low, close to his ear. "You've done well, Alex. Protecting your family like this… enduring it for their sake. That takes strength most people can't imagine."

The words pierced deeper than any blade.

Inside Alex's chest, something shattered. For so long, it felt like his heart had been locked away in a cage, bound with chains of fear and humiliation.

But at that moment, the chains cracked, one by one, until the cage fell apart.

Someone saw him. Acknowledged him.

The tears flowed freely now, but they weren't just from despair.

Michael pulled back slightly, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. His eyes held no pity, only respect.

"You told me you want to join the Royal Knights one day, right? Then keep pushing. Keep fighting. Courage isn't the absence of fear so keep standing despite it."

"Never Back down from your goal, believe in yourself that one day you will fly high so high that no one can reach you"

Alex reply as he smiled " yes , I will definitely to be a knight and I will follow my heart "

Alex wiped his face roughly with the back of his hand, sniffling. His eyes, still wet, burned with a flicker of flame. He bowed his head slightly.

"…Thank you."

Michael gave him a small smile.

"No thanks needed. Just don't give up."

The boy bent down, picked up his practice sword again, and without another word began swinging once more. The blade hissed through the night air, sharper now, fueled by something new inside him.

Michael stepped back, watching quietly.

There was no dazzling aura, no technique to rival prodigies but what he saw made his lips curl into a knowing smile.

Michael promised himself

'Alex don't worry, I will make this Nobel pay for what they did to you 10 times worse than yo '

Talent could be beaten. Bloodline could be beaten.

But willpower is the kind Alex carried was unbreakable.

Michael turned to leave, the sound of Alex's steady swings following him into the night.

This world… it's not like the game I knew, he thought. These aren't NPCs with fixed roles.

They bleed, they cry, they fight. And Alex… maybe he isn't as ordinary as I thought.

The thought lingered as he slipped back into the shadows, leaving the boy with his sword and his fire.

Michael walked slowly across the empty stone court, hands slipping back into his pockets. Behind him, the rhythm of Alex's sword cuts filled the silence.

Swish.

Shoosh.

Swish.

It was steady, almost hypnotic.

Michael's eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced over his shoulder one last time.

The boy was too focused.

Every swing of his blade carried an obsessive precision, as if he were carving his soul into the arc.

That kind of persistence… that kind of hunger… it doesn't belong to an ordinary student.

Michael stopped at the edge of the lamplit path, a frown tugging at his lips.

His mind began to drift back not to the Academy, but to his memories of the game.

Alex. Alex… why does that name itch in the back of my head? I know I've heard it before.

He combed through the catalog of characters from his countless hours of gameplay.

Nobles, instructors, hidden bosses, forgotten side-quests. None matched.

And yet—

He turned his head again, watching the boy's back, the sweat glistening on his skin, the relentless motion of his blade.

No… wait. It can't be. That Alex?

A shadow crossed Michael's expression.

His pulse quickened as a face from memory rose in his mind.

Commander Alexander… one of the Seven Spears of the Royal Guard. The youngest commander. The man who, in the late-game, stood toe-to-toe with the Heroes in the last Demon King battle.

Michael's throat tightened. His rational mind screamed no. The pieces didn't fit.

Commander Alexander was known for his unyielding charisma, his unmatched physique, his battlefield instincts. This boy is skinny, shaky, bullied into night training. It was the opposite.

And yet.

Michael's gaze hardened.

"…No way," he whispered under his breath, voice barely audible even to himself.

"His physique, his personality, his current strength… it doesn't match at all."

But doubt gnawed at him.

The image of Alex, crying but still swinging his blade with renewed fire, overlapped in his mind with the legendary commander standing on a war-scorched battlefield, sword raised high.

Michael clenched his fist slowly, forcing himself to turn away. "It can't be him," he muttered.

And yet, the thought refused to die.

The echo of steel cutting air followed him all the way back into the night.

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