NOVPUBAshok stepped into his dorm, the weight of his purchases finally settling as he moved to place each item in its rightful place.
With swift efficiency, he changed into his tracksuit, the familiar fabric grounding him as he set about arranging his new acquisitions.
The Alarm Clock found its place on the side table, resting beside the Communication and Transfer Orb gifted by the Duke.
Without hesitation, he discarded the old bedsheet and pillow, replacing them with the magically enchanted ones, their enchantments promising comfort beyond anything mundane.
Next, he turned to the Mini Temperature Regulator and Automatic Air Freshener—two of the finest creations produced by the Magic Engineering Division.
The Temperature Regulator, a pair of swirling rings rotating in harmony, held an uncanny resemblance to the grand rings hovering above the Academy Castle.
And the moment he placed them in position, they activated instantly—cooling the room with precision, while the delicate fragrance of flowers seeped into the air.
His final task—the arrangement of daily consumables.
With focused determination, Ashok began stacking his supplies, shaping them into a towering pyramid beside his bed.
It took him ten full minutes, each placement deliberate, measured, until at last—it stood completed.
A satisfied smirk crossed his face as he took in the sight—a perfect structure, a momentary reflection of another time.
This pyramid?
It reminded him of the Beer Pyramid he had built in his previous life—a small, personal indulgence in an otherwise strategic world.
And with that—his room felt more like his own.
Ashok glanced at his wristwatch, noting the time—five minutes before noon.
Without hesitation, he rushed out of his dorm, his strides measured and quick, heading straight for the roof of the Aether Dormitory.
This place wasn't just a random selection—it was his chosen sanctuary, the ideal location for practicing the Helion Flow Technique.
Two critical factors had made the rooftop his preferred choice:
Solitude—few students ever ventured here, ensuring a space free from unwanted attention or distractions.
Sunlight—this spot had unobstructed exposure to the sun, a necessity since the technique relied solely on natural solar energy.
While training inside the Academy's designated rooms was possible, the results would be lackluster at best, and performing it in open grounds would invite unwanted stares and speculation.
Neither option suited him.
The rooftop, however, was perfect.
Fortunately, the Art had never mentioned any adverse effects from skipping a session, meaning he felt no concern over missing the early morning practice.
Instead, Ashok positioned himself under the full intensity of the midday sun, feeling the heat settle against his skin.
The twelve movements were already etched into his memory, every sequence meticulously understood—in theory.
But when Ashok attempted the first posture, reality struck like an unforgiving weight.
His body refused to cooperate, muscles stiff, unyielding, resisting the stretch with every fiber of his being.
Yet—he didn't give up.
Straining against his own limitations, he held the position for a full minute, forcing his body to obey.
Then, without pause, he moved to the second movement, repeating the struggle.
By the third movement, the strain had already begun to take its toll—sweat dripped down his back, soaking his clothes, exhaustion creeping into every joint.
Standing under the unrelenting heat of noon, his stamina was being drained rapidly, but that wasn't the worst of it.
The peculiar stretches, each one pressing against his neglected muscles, felt like agony, his mental endurance being tested with every second.
And that was where the real challenge lay.
Because in his previous life, he had been a die-hard gamer, completely distant from anything remotely physical.
Years of inactivity had built a barrier, one that now threatened to make him quit before he had even truly begun.
The thoughts of giving up were creeping in, whispering temptations of ease, of returning to what was comfortable.
The thought of collapsing into the cool embrace of his bed, of savoring chilled alcohol, began to creep into Ashok's mind—a tempting escape from the exhaustion weighing him down.
His body ached, his limbs protested, his willpower started to waver.
But he couldn't afford to surrender.
Because no matter how enticing the temptation was—he still remembered.
The words of the God of Fate echoed within him, unrelenting.
He had been brought into this world for a reason—not to carve out his own destiny, but to assist the main characters in fulfilling theirs.
A fate forced upon him, a role dictated from the very moment of his arrival.
Yet, despite the inevitability of it all—he refused to accept that as his only truth.
Ashok still couldn't forget the circumstances of his arrival, how his soul had nearly merged with Adlet, how his identity had been at risk of being erased entirely.
But above all else—he could never forget Morrathis.
The promise he had made to her, the vow to fulfill her Three Desires, was more than mere words.
It was binding, his soul tied to her will, tethered by forces beyond his control.
And if he succumbed now—who would fulfill those promises?
If he did not become stronger, how would he ever be able to see Morrathis' face, the very desire he could not complete in his previous life.
If he remained weak, wouldn't he be reduced to nothing more than a pawn, exactly as the God of Fate intended?
If he stagnated, wouldn't the main characters—the true prodigies—trample over him without hesitation, without concern?
And beyond all of that—what of his promise to the Duke?
That, too, had been a commitment made without hesitation, and he had no intention of letting it crumble under the weight of failure.
Ashok gritted his teeth, pushing aside the thoughts of surrender, forcing his body to endure the pain, the exhaustion, the mental strain.
He would not let fate dictate his path entirely.
He would not let weakness define him.
If survival in this world demanded strength—then he would claim it, no matter the cost.
And so—he persevered.
Ashok refused to let failure take hold—because if he did not gain the strength he desperately needed, his vast knowledge would turn into a curse rather than an asset.
Knowledge without power was a double-edged sword, and in this world, weakness was a death sentence.
To remain stagnant meant becoming nothing more than a pawn, trapped within the intricate game designed by the God of Fate, doomed to insignificance.
And he would not allow that.
Fueled by the sheer force of his determination, Ashok pressed forward, advancing through the sequences of the Helion Flow Technique.
His muscles screamed in protest, pain tearing through every fiber, but he endured.
By the eighth posture, exhaustion gripped him—his limbs heavy, movements slower, precision faltering.
The ninth posture came as a brutal challenge, his body refusing to fully comply—but still, he did not surrender.
He forced his form as best as he could, his breath ragged, his mind screaming one unyielding thought—
'No matter how hard it is, I will give my best.'
With staggering effort, he pushed himself into the twelfth and final posture, completing the sequence despite the weight of fatigue.
Finally, he straightened, returning to the initial standing position, his chest rising and falling with deep, exhausted breaths.
A glance at his wristwatch.
Fifteen minutes.
That was the total time he had taken to perform the technique for the first time.
The result?
Ashok's body, despite having shifted into a relaxed position, was far from at ease—every muscle screamed in protest, his limbs aching with the strain of unfamiliar movement.
Sweat poured from his skin, soaking into his tracksuit, its enchantments unable to keep up with the sheer exhaustion, as droplets dripped onto the rooftop beneath his feet.
If he were to honestly assess his performance, it barely reached ten percent of the true execution of the Helion Flow Technique.
The memory of the masterful movements, of the man who had executed them flawlessly, remained vivid in his mind.
And if he were to compare himself to that image, then he had not even touched the 'P' of Perfection.
But he had never expected perfection on his first attempt—because he understood the reality of his limitations.
The reasoning was clear—Adlet's body had always been suited for a mage, and it was only natural that it lacked the natural flexibility and endurance of a trained close-combat fighter.
Unlike warriors who honed their physical strength daily, his body had developed stiffness, unused to the rigorous demands of such techniques.
Yet despite the struggle, the pain, the gap between him and mastery, Ashok had taken the first step.
And that—mattered more than anything.
'No point in thinking about Adlet,' Ashok reminded himself, pushing aside any lingering comparisons.
Instead, he focused on recovery, taking a brief five-minute break, allowing his body to regain some stamina before attempting his second repetition of the Helion Flow Technique.
The technique was meant to be performed continuously for an entire hour, from 12:00 P.M to 1:00 P.M, but Ashok was fully aware that attempting such intensity on the very first day would only wreck his body rather than strengthen it.
And so, he tried again.
But this time—his performance was even worse than before.
After another brief rest, he attempted a third repetition, but even then, his execution remained far from ideal.
By the time he completed his third repetition, the clock had struck 1:00 P.M, marking the official end of the training period according to the Helion Flow Technique.
Technically, he could continue, but he knew that pushing beyond the designated hour would yield diminishing results.
Because training the body was not about forcing immediate success—it was a slow, methodical process that demanded patience and endurance.
And so—his first day of practice concluded, leaving behind exhaustion, sweat-soaked effort and a clear understanding of battle ahead.
