The money taken from the church had put out the immediate fire. Even after returning what the villagers had paid for holy water, more than half remained.
It was a large sum, but not enough to clear all debts. The root problem was the money borrowed from loan sharks in the nearby city. Interest had snowballed until it matched the principal, and it was still growing. Even the manor itself had been mortgaged. If the debt was not repaid in time, they would be thrown out onto the streets.
I’ll have to go to the Demon King’s Castle.
Edward had decided this from the moment he reincarnated. To search the castle for answers. But for that, he needed to rebuild his body first.
Another mountain to climb.
When he first checked his condition after reincarnating, despair hit him harder than disappointment. Even for someone who had been sickly, his body was in terrible shape. Against a temple knight, he could win with a single strike. But if he had faced a true expert in prolonged battle, he might have lost.
The first step in rebuilding was to eat well. Their meals had always been poor, but with money no longer an immediate problem, the food improved. Edward gradually increased his intake until Frederick was shocked at how much he could consume. He also made a habit of stretching whenever possible.
With strength and flexibility slowly returning, Edward began serious training.
“My lord!”
Frederick shouted from behind as Edward ran, but Edward ignored him and kept going.
“What are you doing?”
“Exercising.”
Frederick sprinted ahead and blocked his path.
“Don’t get in my way.”
Edward swerved and kept running.
“For a patient with mana reflux, exercise is forbidden!”
“You’re wrong. If you avoid it, you’ll just wither away. You need to strengthen your body until it can endure the reflux. That’s the truth.”
Movement stirred the mana within the body. That meant reflux struck harder, damaging the body further. Patients usually avoided exertion, but that only slowed the decline—they still died in the end.
If, however, the body grew strong enough to withstand the shocks, the flow could eventually be stabilized. Reflux would worsen at first, but if the crisis was endured, a plateau would come.
Edward had learned this from the knowledge absorbed through Black soul.
“And where did you learn that?”
“…From a book.”
“Another one of those heretical grimoires, no doubt.”
“No. This time I’m certain.”
“You were certain last time too. And look—you lost your memory reading one.”
Edward didn’t answer. He just kept running.
The course circled the outer road around the village. There was a drill yard inside the walls, but Edward had chosen to run outside deliberately.
“Huh?”
“The young lord?”
Villagers blinked in surprise at the sight of him running.
“Should he be doing that?”
“What if it makes him collapse?”
Concerned voices followed him, but Edward ignored them.
Halfway around the village, he noticed more people gathering. Word had spread, and they had come to watch. He acknowledged them only with a brief nod and kept running.
Damn peasants, let’s see how long you sit idle.
He wasn’t exercising inside the manor for a reason. He wanted to provoke the farmers who had abandoned their fields. His message was silent but clear: If I, a dying man, can fight to live, then what excuse do you have, perfectly healthy as you are?
At first, they only looked confused. But Edward knew that if he continued, they would feel something.
What kind of steward runs like that?
Even as Edward increased his pace, Frederick didn’t fall behind. Despite his formal tailcoat restricting movement, he easily matched Edward stride for stride—and filled the air with endless nagging.
Edward had thought Frederick’s nagging had lessened after the trial, but since this concerned his health, it had only intensified.
What the hell is he even saying?
Edward’s breath grew ragged. He couldn’t catch Frederick’s words anymore. He had barely run half a lap, but sweat poured like rain, and his lungs burned.
“Ugh…”
Suddenly, something surged up inside him. Reflux had begun.
Cough!
Blood sprayed from his mouth.
“My lord!”
Edward’s legs gave way, and he stumbled forward, but he didn’t lose consciousness. His stomach churned, his head spun, and nausea overwhelmed him.
“I knew this would happen!”
Frederick’s voice shook as he rushed to support him.
“Young lord!”
The villagers who had been watching hurried over.
Edward shoved Frederick aside.
Spit!
He spat out blood-mixed saliva.
“Stand back.”
“My lord!”
The steward refused to move.
“Don’t make me say it again.”
This time, Edward’s voice carried sharp authority. Frederick flinched and stepped back.
“Haa…”
Edward steadied his breathing, then pushed himself up on shaky knees. Frederick moved to help again, but froze when he met Edward’s cold glare.
“Why are you doing this to yourself?”
“I told you. To live.”
“Then you should be resting.”
“That’s the mistake. If you don’t believe me, check it yourself. See if anyone with reflux disease ever lived long by sitting still.”
Frederick had no answer. He didn’t know of any.
“This conversation is over. Don’t interfere. That’s an order.”
Edward forced his body forward once more.
He missed the body he had in his previous life—honed by endless battles with the Demon King’s army. His movements were the same, but his frail body couldn’t keep up. It felt like running in chains.
He wanted to break them.
If I keep at it, it’ll get better.
Compared to the hells he had endured in his past life, this was child’s play.
Edward began running again.
***
The young lord had begun to exercise.
For nobles, training the body was a duty—after all, when war came, they were expected to lead their knights into battle.
But for a man with only a short time left to live, whose illness made exertion dangerous, it was another matter entirely.
“Why is he doing this?”
“I heard it’s the only way to overcome his disease.”
“Really? He spits blood every time he runs.”
“He probably read another one of those strange books.”
“It looks dangerous…”
“Exactly. He’d be better off resting quietly. What if something truly awful happens?”
Despite the villagers’ concerns, Edward never missed a day. And each day, without fail, he coughed up blood.
Steward Frederick begged him with tears in his eyes, but Edward refused to yield. Instead, he scolded anyone who tried to interfere.
He even increased the intensity of his training. At first he could barely manage one lap around the village, but soon he added an extra lap each day. He began incorporating strength training as well.
Push-ups and squats at first, then lifting the iron weights normally reserved for knights’ drills.
And always in front of the barren, cracked farmland rather than the drill yard inside the walls.
“How long will he keep this up?”
“Shouldn’t someone stop him?”
With strength training added, Edward’s coughing fits grew worse. His skin, already pale, became almost ghostly.
On the seventh day, he finally collapsed unconscious.
“If you keep this up, I won’t stand by any longer!”
Frederick, pushed beyond his limit, snapped.
“And if you don’t?”
Edward asked as he shook off the cold water poured on him to wake him.
“I’ll resign.”
“You’ve worked hard. I’ll make sure your severance is generous.”
“My lord!”
Even Frederick, in the end, could not bend Edward’s will. The training continued. His condition worsened, but his regimen only grew harsher.
The villagers, with no fields left to till, began gathering daily to watch their young master’s desperate struggle.
“This won’t do.”
On the fourteenth day, one of the soldiers stepped forward.
“Young lord.”
“What is it?”
“May I join you?”
It was Patrick, Logan’s friend and a sergeant.
For soldiers, physical training was a duty. Yet in these times, they only stood guard, neglecting real exercise. Edward hadn’t pressed the issue—he’d been unable to pay their back wages, though he had covered the current month.
“Of course.”
Edward gave a wan smile.
“Then me too.”
Once the sergeant joined, the other soldiers followed.
“Let’s go.”
The soldiers fell in step with Edward, circling the village.
“One! Two!”
Patrick shouted the cadence, and the others echoed it.
After several laps, the soldiers exchanged uneasy glances.
“He’s… really keeping up.”
They hadn’t realized until running alongside him just how much stamina Edward had built.
“Have we grown that soft?”
“No. He’s just that strong.”
Until the domain went bankrupt, Griffith’s soldiers had been infamous for harsh training. But even so, Edward’s progress was remarkable. In a short time, his strength and endurance had grown at an astonishing pace.
The villagers hadn’t noticed before. His frailty, his bloody coughing fits, his fainting—those had overshadowed his gains.
Another week passed.
“Young lord,” one soldier said after training, “you look healthier than usual.”
For the first time, Edward had finished without spitting blood.
“Thank you.”
Edward smiled faintly, as if he understood what the soldier meant.
“The young lord…”
From a distance, villagers whispered as they watched.
The soldiers who sweated beside him did not see the difference, but from afar, it was clear.
His once dull black hair gleamed. His pale skin showed color again. His hunched shoulders straightened, making him look taller. And his violet eyes—unique to the Griffith bloodline—shone with vitality.
He still bore signs of illness, but compared to before, he looked almost reborn.
“He’s changed.”
Logan murmured. He had watched Edward train every day. At first, he had wondered why. He had even asked, worried that Edward was pushing too far.
Edward had only laughed. Better to try something and die than do nothing and wait for death.
Logan had thought it foolish. Not like the young lord at all.
Griffith is not finished.
Now, Logan finally understood what Edward had meant.
“Logan?”
“Where are you going?”
“To farm.”
“What?”
The others stared at him. The ground was cracked and dry; even driving a plow into it seemed impossible.
But Logan wanted to try. To reclaim the land, to plant seeds. Like Edward, he wanted to do something—anything—rather than sit idle and wait for ruin.
“I’ll sow crops.”
“Are you mad?”
“There’s no rain.”
No rain meant no harvest. That much was true. But hadn’t they said the same of Edward? That with his illness, training was impossible? That he might collapse or die?
Yet he had not stopped. And in the end, he had produced a small miracle.
A small miracle, yes—but a miracle nonetheless. Like the first drop of rain after a long drought.
The villagers, long dulled by idleness and drink, felt something stir within.
“Maybe…”
Logan glanced up at the sky before heading home.
That day, he began carrying water from the mountain stream to his fields. It was pitifully little compared to the size of the land, but he persisted. Slowly, he moistened the earth until it softened. Then he sank the plow into the ground.
Edward trained. Logan farmed. The villagers watched the two of them in silence.
“What if…”
One day, Hans spoke.
“What if it really rains?”
No one answered. Rain was a miracle. Yet lately, they had been seeing miracles every day.
Edward grew stronger before their eyes. His once-thin frame filled with muscle. His sickly complexion all but disappeared. It had been over a week since he last coughed blood. Even Frederick, who had fretted every day, finally gave up watching over him and returned to his duties at the manor.
The young man who had been expected to die soon now lived as if he would live forever.
“Except for him, the rest of us are still doomed.”
Someone muttered, watching Logan grunt and sweat as he hauled water.
“Should we try too?”
Hans’s question met no reply. But one by one, the villagers drifted away—not to the tavern, but back to their homes. To brush the dust off their farming tools.
Cliche Novel 