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    Soaking in the cool river, Alexander felt a rare calm wash over him. The flowing water leeched some heat—wasted energy, technically—but this body was filthy beyond reason. Besides, today marked his rebirth. Scrubbing away the old grime carried a certain weight.


    Sten perched on the bank, staring at the rippling current, lost in thought.


    “What’s on your mind?” Alexander asked, curious. After everything, he’d started seeing Sten as a friend, not just a servant.


    “Young master, that mercenary was something,” Sten said, eyes gleaming with awe. “Svanti struts around bullying everyone, but in front of that guy? Didn’t even dare breathe. Man…”


    A beat later, he added, “Wish we could be that badass someday.”


    “We will,” Alexander said, slow and firm. “No one’s going to push us around anymore.”


    “Oh.” Sten’s reply was half-hearted, skepticism plain. Hard to blame him—Alexander was a broke noble scraping by on scraps. Who’d buy that promise?


    “Come wash up,” Alexander said with a grin, steering the conversation elsewhere.


    “Sure.” Sten stood, shedding his ragged clothes. He waded downstream from Alexander, yelped, and leapt in—only to scramble back out moments later.


    “What’s wrong?” Alexander asked.


    “Hurts…” Sten grimaced, teeth bared. The evening’s beating had left bruises blooming across his skin; the cold water stung like needles.


    “Tough it out,” Alexander said gently. “We’ve got to clean up. No more living like we used to.”


    “I know, young master,” Sten mumbled, though confusion flickered in his eyes. What did bathing have to do with ditching their old ways?


    Alexander lingered in the river for hours. Sten, who’d joined later, finished first. By the time Alexander climbed out, Sten was crouched by a small campfire, poking at something with focus.


    “What’s that?” Alexander caught a faint, savory whiff, his senses sharpening.


    “Cassava, young master,” Sten said, grinning. “You told me to grab some clothes from town, right? On the way back, I snagged a few from Old Tom’s field.”


    Alexander shook out the threadbare shirt Sten had “borrowed,” slipping it on. His eyes locked on the roasting cassava, throat tightening as he swallowed hard. Food was energy, and he craved it—badly. First, he needed to reforge this weak body; its absorption rate was abysmal, barely twenty percent efficient. Then, he’d prep for those crystals. Both demanded fuel.


    “Here, it’s ready.” Sten skewered a piece with a stick and handed it over.


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    Alexander didn’t hesitate. He peeled off the charred skin in seconds and devoured it, then tackled the rest, wiping them out in minutes.


    Sten beamed, practically glowing. Call it loyalty—or servitude—but seeing Alexander eat lit him up more than eating himself.


    “Got more?” Alexander asked softly.


    “You’re still hungry?” Sten hesitated. “Should I dig up some more?”


    “Yeah, go for it. Grab as much as you can,” Alexander nodded. A few pieces barely scratched the surface—maybe a single Yuan, if that. With this body’s pitiful digestion, it was nowhere near enough.


    “Got it.” Sten sprang up, darting upstream toward the cassava patch.


    It couldn’t have been far. Half an hour later, Sten bounded back, triumphant, dumping a tattered shirt stuffed with over twenty tubers onto the ground.


    Alexander tipped them into the fire, prodding with a branch. He didn’t wait for them to cook through—just plucked one out when it felt right, peeled it, and ate, blowing on each scalding bite.


    Sten’s grin stiffened. He’d never seen his master like this. One cassava vanished in two gulps, then another, a whirlwind of hunger. In a blink, only three of the twenty-plus remained.


    “Go get more,” Alexander said, exhaling deeply. “No rush—eat these first, rest a bit, then head out.”


    “You’re still not full?” Sten yelped, incredulous.


    “Just do it. Don’t ask.”


    “Oh…” Sten’s laugh turned wry. “Thing is, young master, Old Tom’s soft on us ‘cause we’re pitiful. He lets a little digging slide. But if I go again… he’ll lose it.”


    “You’re stuck on him? No one else in Crestwood grows cassava?”


    “Someone else’s field?” Sten’s eyes widened. People picked on the weak—Sten knew that well. Starving, he’d scavenged from farms before, earning beatings every time. Old Tom was the only one who never swung. Habit kept him coming back there.


    “What’s the problem?” Alexander tilted his head, genuinely puzzled.


    “Alright…” Sten gritted his teeth and stood. He was older now, faster. Maybe he’d dodge trouble this time.


    “Eat first. Rest,” Alexander said, voice low.


    When Sten returned, hauling another bulging sack, he was spent. He dropped the cassava and collapsed, snoring before his head hit the dirt. Dawn’s first light woke him, groggy and guilty—he’d forgotten to say goodnight. Blinking, he scanned for Alexander, then froze, jaw dropping.


    The cassava was gone. A heap of peels lay scattered. Alexander sat in the river, eyes shut, still as death.


    “Young master!” Sten bolted up, splashing toward him in a panic.


    At the shout, Alexander’s eyes opened, glinting with an odd, sharp light. He’d spent the night channeling every scrap of energy into this body, reshaping it from the ground up. The difference was night and day.


    Raphael’s pallid skin had warmed to a soft, clean glow—pure, almost luminous. Their hair had been the same once, black and coarse, but now Sten’s looked like tangled straw while Alexander’s flowed like silk, glossy and dark. The skeletal ribs poking through his chest had softened, his frame filling out—sturdier than Sten’s by far.


    The real shift was deeper. The old timidity, weakness, despair—all erased. From the curve of his lips to the spark in his eyes, Alexander radiated poise, maturity, and a reckless, devil-may-care edge.


    Seeing him fine, Sten exhaled, but then gawked anew. How’d he get so… good-looking?


    Alexander fished a smooth pebble from the riverbed, weighing it in his palm. With a flick, he hurled it. A shrill whistle cut the air as it streaked across, slamming into a sycamore on the far bank. Bark splintered, fragments bursting outward. The tree shuddered, leaves raining down, a shallow, bowl-sized dent marking the trunk.


    Not bad, Alexander thought, nodding. Throwing conserved energy compared to brawling—just a burst, not a drain. He had little left, but enough for a dozen more shots like that.


    “Sten, didn’t you say there’s low-tier beasts in those woods?” Alexander said, voice steady. “Let’s go check it out.”


    “Gods above… young master, where’d you learn that?” Sten stammered, equal parts shock and glee.


    “Weird, huh?” Alexander smirked. “Plenty more weird’s coming your way.”