The hiss of the Battle Online VR pod’s pneumatic seal releasing sounded less like advanced sci-fi technology and more like a weary sigh of relief.
Inside the pod, the ambient lighting shifted from a harsh tactical blue to a soft, neutral white.
Asterius pushed open the heavy canopy and swung his legs out over the rim of the capsule.
He sat on the edge for a long moment, running a palm over his face to wipe away a thin sheen of sweat.
Across a grueling, uninterrupted six-hour streak of virtual matches, he had systematically dismantled what felt like a small army of self-proclaimed “martial arts prodigies.”
To a man who had mastered both grand magic and the high art of the blade in his past life, the flashy, over-choreographed techniques of these modern VR fighters were almost painful to watch.
They relied heavily on high-tech force-feedback predictions, flash over substance, and dramatic stances that left their vital points exposed like wide-open doors.
They had zero concept of actual life-or-death combat—completely lacking the brutal efficiency of a warrior who had bled, suffered, and killed on a real battlefield.
They played at fighting; Asterius survived it.
Glancing over at the glowing digital clock resting on the cluttered wooden desk across the room, Asterius blinked.
*17:48.*
Nearly six in the evening.
Time had completely slipped away while he was busy handing out humbling, swift lessons in the virtual arena under his masked avatar.
Realizing his stomach was beginning to register its own empty, echoing complaints, he shed his lightweight VR gear, tossed it onto the pod’s side rack, and threw on a presentable pair of casual clothes—a simple fitted charcoal shirt and dark trousers.
He paused in front of the full-length mirror near the door.
Ceres Turner’s face looked back at him.
It was still the same face, but the soul behind the eyes had fundamentally reshaped how that frame held itself.
The quiet insecurity that used to hang over the young man was entirely gone.
Stepping out into the hallway, Asterius padded down the wooden staircase, his footsteps quiet and deliberate.
The lower floor of the house was bathed in the soft orange glow of the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds, mixed with the flickering rhythmic blue light of the living room’s wide-screen television.
Perched on the central sofa was Ceres’s younger sister.
She sat with her legs tucked neatly under her, draped in an oversized hoodie, staring blankly at some bright, nonsensical variety show.
Her expression was a masterclass in teenage nonchalance—cold, distant, and utterly unbothered by the universe or anything happening within a ten-mile radius.
Asterius stood at the foot of the stairs for a second, feeling an unexpected, sudden wave of awkwardness.
Here was a man whose soul belonged to a legendary figure—an ancient magic user and master swordsman who had traversed terrifying wildernesses, slain monstrous abominations, and commanded warbands in a past existence.
Yet, standing in a quiet suburban living room, the prospect of striking up casual, normal sibling small talk with a cold teenage girl felt wildly out of his depth.
Fighting a horde of devouring beasts felt straightforward; talking to a younger sister felt like walking through a minefield blindfolded.
Clearing his throat softly, he crossed the rug and awkwardly lowered himself into one of the adjacent couches, sitting up just a little too straight, resting his hands flat on his knees like a soldier awaiting inspection.
“So…” Asterius began, actively fishing for something reasonable and normal to say.
“How come you’re not at school today?
Did classes get canceled or something?”
His sister didn’t answer immediately.
Slowly—almost painfully so—she turned her head away from the television screen.
Her sharp, dark eyes locked onto him with a look that seamlessly combined utter confusion, deep suspicion, and a mild touch of genuine pity.
“Ceres,” she said, her voice dropping into a flat, dry deadpan.
Asterius froze instantly.
A sudden, faint prickle of heat crept up the back of his neck as he felt a wave of sheer embarrassments wash over him.
*Saturday.* Right.
In his past life, days were measured by solar cycles, lunar phases, and seasonal migrations of beasts—not two-day academic breaks enforced by a civilian board of education.
“Right.
Obviously,” Asterius muttered hastily, clearing his throat again to cover up the blunder while adjusting his posture.
“Just…
testing you.
Seeing if you were keeping track of the date.”
“Right.
Testing me,” she repeated, her tone entirely devoid of belief.
She slowly turned back to the TV.
“Brilliant test, big brother.”
“Anyway,” he pushed forward, eager to bypass his blunder.
He scanned the quiet house, noticing the stillness coming from the adjacent kitchen.
“Where’s Mom?
It’s getting late.
She’s usually in the kitchen around this time, isn’t she?”
“She’s at the restaurant,” his sister replied, not taking her eyes off the screen.
“It’s the weekend dinner rush.
She took an extra shift to handle the inventory.
She won’t be back until late tonight.”
The mention of the restaurant triggered a wave of lingering memories from Ceres’s mind.
Asterius recalled the small, perpetually busy eatery located in the commercial district downtown—the Turner family’s primary source of income, kept afloat almost entirely by their mother’s tireless, grueling work.
Ceres’s mother worked long hours, grinding away to support her children and ensure Ceres had enough resource support for his mediocre martial attempts.
A quiet, profound sense of respect for the woman surged in Asterius’s chest.
She was a warrior in her own right, fighting a daily war against debt and fatigue.
As the silence stretched between them once more, interrupted only by the loud sound effects of the television show, Asterius shifted his posture.
He leaned back slightly, resting his chin on his knuckles as he looked at his sister again.
This time, however, he wasn’t looking at her through the casual lens of an embarrassed older brother trying to survive small talk.
He was looking through the sharp, analytical eyes of a veteran who had observed thousands of warriors over a lifetime.
He observed the subtle, deep rhythm of her chest as she breathed.
He noticed the tight, disciplined coil of her shoulder muscles beneath that oversized hoodie, the precise alignment of her spine even while lounging, and the barely perceptible, warm hum of physical vitality radiating faintly from her skin.
Her pulse was steady, slow, and remarkably heavy for a girl her age.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he calculated her internal energy refinement.
“You broke through,” Asterius noted quietly, his tone dropping its awkwardness and taking on a calm, effortless certainty.
“Fifth stage of Body Building, isn’t it?
Your vitality breath is much more compact than it was last week.
His sister’s entire body went rigid.
She snapped her head back toward him so fast her hair whipped across her face.
Her cool, indifferent facade shattered instantly, replaced by wide, stunned eyes.
For as long as she could remember, her older brother Ceres had been thoroughly mediocre.
He was a well-meaning, fragile boy who struggled to grasp even the basic breathing techniques of body refinement, perpetually stuck near the bottom of his peer group.
For him to not only notice that she had secretly made a breakthrough in her personal training, but to pinpoint her exact stage and diagnose her vitality density just by sitting on a couch across the room…
it was utterly impossible.
“How…” She hesitated, her brow furrowing deeply as she stared at him like he was a complete stranger who had worn her brother’s skin.
“How do you know that?
I haven’t even told Mom yet.
I barely stabilized it this morning.”
“It’s not hard to spot if you know what to look for,” Asterius replied smoothly, leaning back further into the couch and resting his arms along the cushions.
“Your breath control is leaking residual energy because your foundation hasn’t fully set, but the core density is undeniably Fifth Stage.”
His sister didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she uncurled her legs from under her and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.
Her sharp eyes began to scrupulously scan every single inch of his frame, taking him in with an intensity she had never directed at him before.
The more she looked, the more her furrowed brow deepened.
Something was fundamentally wrong with the picture in front of her.
Or rather, something was startlingly, impossibly *right*.
The Ceres she had known her entire life was pale, slightly slouched, and carried a perpetually hesitant, naive aura—the look of a young man far too soft and fragile for the dangerous world they lived in.
He had always looked like a stiff breeze could knock him over, carrying himself with the subtle hesitation of someone who expected to fail.
But the guy sitting across from her right now?
His pale complexion was gone, replaced by a healthy, warm vitality.
His broad shoulders were squared, completely relaxed without an ounce of tension.
His lean frame was no longer fragile; beneath his fitted shirt, she could trace the distinct, dense outline of compact muscle that seemed coiled like a spring.
But more than the physical changes, it was his presence.
His eyes, which used to flicker away awkwardly during any confrontation or direct eye contact, were steady, deep, and carried a weight that felt strangely intimidating.
“Wait a minute,” she blurted out, throwing her usual detached posture completely out the window.
She squinted at him, pointing an accusing finger.
“What on earth happened to you?
You look…
totally different.
You don’t look like a walking paper towel anymore.”
Asterius blinked, caught entirely off guard by the colorful metaphor.
*A walking paper towel?*