He turned on his heel, determination radiating from him. The wolf padded silently behind him, a grey shadow of unmet potential. Lloyd marched back through the gardens, past the fountains, ignoring the suddenly very judgmental-looking topiary animals, and headed straight for the heart of the estate's culinary operations: the kitchens.

  He burst through the kitchen doors with purpose, startling a small army of white-aproned staff who were busy chopping, stirring, and generally making deliciousness happen.

  "Cook!" Lloyd announced, his voice louder than intended. Heads snapped up. Whisks paused mid-air. A pot lid clattered to the floor.

  The Head Cook, a stout woman named Martha whose glare could curdle milk from fifty paces, turned slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. "Young Master Lloyd? Is everything alright?" Her tone suggested she suspected everything was very much not alright.

  "Perfectly alright, Martha," Lloyd beamed, trying to project 'confident heir' rather than 'man on a bizarre System-mandated mission'. "I require… chicken."

  Martha raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Chicken, sir? For breakfast? You just had sausages."

  "Not for me," Lloyd clarified, gesturing vaguely behind him. The small wolf poked its head nervously around Lloyd's legs, eliciting a collective gasp from the kitchen staff. "It's for… the dog."

  "Dog?" Martha squinted at the creature. "Looks more like a skinny wolf, if you ask me, sir."

  "Details, details," Lloyd waved dismissively. "He requires sustenance. Urgently. A large portion, please. Cooked. Preferably roasted, if it's not too much trouble. Breast meat is good. Maybe a leg?" He was mentally calculating the nutritional requirements for rapid wolf strengthening. Protein. Lots of protein.

  Silence descended upon the kitchen, broken only by the nervous shuffling of feet and the timid whining of the wolf, likely overwhelmed by the sudden attention and the overwhelming smell of food it wasn't eating.

  "A… large portion?" Martha repeated slowly, exchanging bewildered glances with her sous-chefs. "For… the wolf-dog?"

  "Indeed," Lloyd confirmed crisply. "As much as you can spare. Immediately."

  Martha hesitated for only a second before decades of ingrained service kicked in. "Right away, Young Master Lloyd." She barked orders, and suddenly the kitchen staff scrambled into action, albeit with numerous confused backward glances towards Lloyd and his scrawny companion.

  Minutes later, Lloyd was presented with a platter piled high with glistening, roasted chicken. Enough chicken to feed a small family.

  "Excellent!" Lloyd declared, taking the heavy platter. He turned to leave, the wolf trotting eagerly at his heels now, its nose twitching.

  As the kitchen doors swung shut behind him, he could already hear the hushed, frantic whispers erupting.

  "Did you see that? Young Master Lloyd?"

  "Feeding a wolf? In the house?"

  "Said it was a dog! Blind as a bat, that one…"

  "And the amount of chicken! Enough for the Duke's hunting hounds!"

  "Has he gone mad? First the sofa business with the new mistress, now this…"

  "Maybe it's a phase?"

  "Feeding a scrawny wolf roast chicken? That's not a phase, that's a cry for help!"

  Lloyd ignored them, a smirk playing on his lips. Let them gossip. He had a mission. He carried the platter back to the secluded clearing in the garden.

  "Alright, Fang," he said, setting the platter down. "Feast."

  The wolf needed no further encouragement. It fell upon the chicken with a ferocity that belied its frail appearance, tearing into the meat, crunching bones, its tail now wagging with genuine enthusiasm. Lloyd watched, fascinated. This was… progress? Maybe? 5 SC worth of progress, hopefully.

  He sat on the grass, leaning back against the oak tree, watching the wolf eat. The System. Chicken. A weak wolf spirit. It was all bizarre. But it was his bizarre reality now. And he finally had a tool, a path forward. Even if that path started with poultry.

  He spent a good hour there, watching the wolf demolish the chicken, occasionally glancing at the System interface, which remained stubbornly unchanged. No immediate coin reward. Right. Seven days. Consistency. Fine. He could do consistent. He’d managed eighty years of consistency on Earth, after all. Mostly consistently showing up for work and complaining about the commute.

  The wolf, eventually satiated, licked its chops, looked significantly less pathetic, and curled up near Lloyd’s feet, letting out a contented sigh before promptly falling asleep.

  Lloyd looked down at the sleeping spirit. Maybe it wasn't so bad. Just needed some TLC. And a metric ton of chicken.

  The lingering scent of roast chicken, a surprisingly persistent aroma for such an ethereal concept as Spirit Power cultivation, seemed to follow Lloyd Ferrum like a particularly savory ghost as he navigated the upper corridors of the Ferrum Estate. He’d successfully completed Day One of ‘Operation: Canine Cuisine Upgrade’, his scrawny wolf spirit—now tentatively dubbed ‘Fang’—was currently digesting enough poultry to alarm a small village, and Lloyd possessed precisely zero System Coins for his efforts. Still, progress. Baby steps. Or rather, chicken-fueled wolf steps.

  Now came the next item on his mental checklist, one far more daunting than facing down a potentially judgmental Head Cook: visiting his wife. Rosa Siddik. The seventeen-year-old political bride who had, with admirable efficiency and chilling politeness, relegated him to the sofa on their wedding night a week ago. A status quo that had persisted for three long, awkward years in his previous timeline before his untimely, and still frustratingly vague, demise.

  He sighed. That had to be sigh number… thirteen? Fourteen? He was losing count, but it felt like a personal best for pre-lunchtime existential angst. Being back in his nineteen-year-old body, brimming with the cynical wisdom and accumulated weariness of an eighty-year-old Earthling, was proving to be a masterclass in cognitive dissonance. His knees didn’t creak, but his soul felt ancient.

  He approached the door to their shared suite – her room, his mind automatically corrected, a habit ingrained from years of sofa-bound exile. The heavy oak panel, intricately carved with scenes of Ferrum ancestors looking stoic and vaguely disapproving, seemed to loom larger than usual. He paused, his hand hovering over the polished wood.

  Okay, Lloyd, game plan, he coached himself internally. Remember Earth. Remember taxes, traffic jams, terrible reality TV. This is just… interpersonal conflict. With potential magic involved. You handled board meetings where executives threw metaphorical staplers at each other. You can handle a frosty teenager.

  But could he? Nineteen-year-old Lloyd certainly couldn’t. That poor sap had been paralyzed by awkwardness, terrified of conflict, and utterly clueless about navigating the complexities of an arranged marriage, let alone the treacherous currents of noble society. He’d defaulted to passive avoidance, hoping the problem would just… go away. Which, technically, he did, by dying. Not the ideal resolution.

  This time, he resolved, steeling himself with the memory of lukewarm instant coffee and the sheer boredom of his second retirement, things will be different. No more Sofa King. Time to actually engage. Even if it’s like trying to engage with a particularly beautiful, well-dressed iceberg.

  He thought about the System, the tantalizing promise of power flickering at the edge of his awareness. Gaining strength was paramount. But strength in Riverio wasn’t just about Spirit Power or Void abilities. It was about influence, alliances, perception. Having his own wife treat him like an inconvenient piece of furniture wasn’t exactly projecting strength or stability. If he wanted to survive, let alone thrive and maybe figure out why he died, he needed to change the dynamics within these very walls. Starting now.

  He took a deep breath, channeling the calm he used to employ before complex physics simulations or explaining to his Earth grandkids why wifi wasn't actual magic (a surprisingly difficult conversation). In… and out. He knocked, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet hallway. Silence. He knocked again, a fraction louder, firmer.

  "What?"

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  The voice from within was muffled, sharp, laced with impatience. Not exactly a welcoming mat rolled out. More like verbal barbed wire.

  Lloyd winced internally but kept his external expression neutral. Progress, not perfection.

  "Rosa? It's Lloyd," he called through the thick door, pitching his voice to be clear but not aggressive. "May I come in?"

  A beat of silence stretched, long enough for Lloyd to mentally inventory the potential projectiles within the room. Then, a resigned sigh, barely audible. "The door is unlocked."

  Not quite a 'yes', but definitely not a 'get lost'. He'd take it. Pushing the heavy door inward, he stepped across the threshold, bracing himself.

  The room was as opulent as he remembered. Sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows, illuminating the rich tapestries depicting pastoral scenes, the gleaming dark wood of the vanity table cluttered with silver-backed brushes and delicate vials, the plush velvet armchair angled towards the fireplace. And dominating the space, the enormous four-poster bed, a fortress of silk sheets and embroidered pillows.

  The scent of expensive potpourri, predominantly lavender and something vaguely citrusy, hung in the air. But underneath it, fainter, yet distinct to his slightly re-awakened senses, was a low hum. A subtle vibration of energy, like the thrumming of a plucked string just beyond the range of normal hearing. It centered around the bed.

  Rosa sat there, perched not defensively this time, but regally, in the exact center of the mattress. Her legs were crossed in a meditative posture, hands resting palms-up on her knees. Her eyes were closed, long dark lashes brushing against her high cheekbones. Her usual severe hairstyle was slightly loosened, tendrils escaping to frame a face locked in intense concentration. The air around her seemed clearer, sharper. The sunlight didn't just illuminate her; it seemed to cling to her, drawn towards the focus of her power.

  She was cultivating. Drawing in the ambient Spirit Energy from the world, funneling it into her core, refining it, making it her own.

  Lloyd watched, a complex mix of emotions swirling within him. Awe, certainly. Even in his first life, he’d known she was talented, far more than him. Seeing it now, with the perspective of age and a rudimentary understanding of the underlying mechanics gleaned from the System's cryptic hints and Earthly scientific parallels, her skill was even more apparent.

  He felt the familiar, bitter tang of inadequacy, the echo of nineteen-year-old Lloyd’s frustration. He remembered Master Elmsworth’s patient, yet ultimately fruitless, attempts to guide his own cultivation. While other students felt the flow, the pull of energy, Lloyd mostly felt… itchy. Like his awareness was scraping against a rough, unyielding surface. He could sense the energy, vaguely, like static electricity on a dry day, but drawing it in? That was another matter entirely. It was like trying to fill a swimming pool with a teaspoon, while Rosa wielded a firehose.

  His internal estimate hadn't been far off. If she absorbed nine units of energy in a given time, he was lucky to scrape together one. Maybe one and a half on a good day, with a following wind and favourable astrological alignments.

  It all comes down to the Spirit Core, Lloyd mused again, his gaze fixed on the subtle intensity radiating from Rosa. His inner eighty-year-old scientist and engineer took over for a moment, analyzing. That little metaphysical engine, nestled somewhere near the soul, they say. Everyone’s born with at least one. It’s the gateway, the processor. It draws in the raw, untamed energy flowing through nature – the air, the earth, the light – and converts it into usable Spirit Power, unique to the individual.

  But the number of cores… that’s where the real lottery happens. Most people? Just the one. Like me. He felt a phantom frustration, a memory of straining, concentrating until his head pounded, only to feel the barest trickle entering his core. My single core feels… sluggish. Inefficient. Like a clogged filter.

  Then you have the blessed ones. The heaven-favoured few. Two cores are rare, a sign of significant potential. But three? His gaze drifted back to Rosa, still lost in her meditative state. Three cores, like Rosa has. That's exponentially better. Three engines working in parallel, drawing in energy at triple the rate, or perhaps even more synergistically. It explains her speed, her effortless absorption.

  He pictured the stages of power again, visualising them like levels in the game the System resembled. Manifestation: gather enough processed energy, get yourself a Spirit Stone – usually jammed into a sword hilt because those Anti-Spirit Stone sheaths are damn convenient – and poof! You can summon your spirit companion. Like Fang, my little chicken-loving wolf.

  Ascension: Keep gathering, keep refining. Get strong enough, talented enough, maybe bribe your Spirit with enough treats, and you can start actually using its innate abilities directly. Fire breath, shadow steps, whatever its specialty is. Still need the rock, though. Power boost is significant, maybe tenfold what Manifestation offers. Most dedicated Spirit users reach this.

  And then… Transcend. He let out an involuntary breath, the word itself feeling heavy with significance. The final stage. Forge such a bond with your Spirit, understand it so deeply, that you can merge. Become one entity. No more Spirit Stone needed. You are the power. They say it’s another tenfold leap, maybe more. But less than five percent of users ever manage it. It requires talent, dedication, and a connection most people can only dream of.

  He looked at Rosa, the sunlight haloing her focused form. With three cores humming efficiently, she wasn't just on the fast track; she was practically driving a magical bullet train towards Manifestation and likely beyond. While he… well, he was still trying to figure out how to hotwire his own sputtering engine, armed only with poultry and a mysterious digital shopping list.

  But, a new thought intruded, sharp and hopeful, sparked by the memory of the System interface, maybe the base specs don't matter as much now. The System lets me buy Spirits. Plural. Maybe even more Cores, though that wasn't explicitly listed. It lets me upgrade them. Maybe my single, crappy core can be… overclocked? Modified? Maybe Fang, despite his scrawny start, can become something formidable with enough System Coins invested. The possibilities, vague but intoxicating, bloomed in his mind.

  His contemplation was shattered as Rosa’s eyes snapped open. The serene, focused energy around her vanished as if switched off. The air grew still, heavy. Her dark eyes, cold and sharp as obsidian shards, fixed directly on him, standing just inside the doorway. The transition was jarring, from tranquil cultivator to wary sentinel in the blink of an eye.

  She tilted her head, a minute, precise movement, like a predator assessing potential prey. Or perhaps just an annoying insect that had wandered into its territory. Her gaze swept over him, taking in his presence, his posture, the very fact that he was there, apparently uninvited and unwelcome.

  "Well?" Her voice sliced through the quiet room, crisp and devoid of any warmth. It held the ingrained authority of her noble upbringing, layered with the sharp impatience of youth. "Are you going to stand there gawking like a fool all day, Lloyd?" She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Or did you actually interrupt my cultivation for a reason?"

  The familiar wave of nineteen-year-old Lloyd’s anxiety washed over him – the urge to shrink back, stammer an apology, mumble an excuse about needing a book or checking the time, and make a hasty retreat to the comforting neutrality of the hallway sofa. He felt the heat rise in his neck, the sudden dryness in his mouth. Old habits died hard, especially when reinforced by years of awkwardness and a distinct lack of positive interaction.

  But the eighty-year-old pragmatist, the scientist who’d faced down academic ridicule, the man who’d lived long enough to know that avoidance solved nothing, pushed back. No. Different approach this time. Change the script. He needed to establish a new dynamic, or he’d be stuck in the same rut that likely contributed to his early grave last time. This wasn't just about romance; it was about survival, alliance, and not spending the rest of his potentially short second life sleeping on upholstery.

  He consciously relaxed his shoulders, forcing down the nervous tension. He met her icy stare head-on, holding it steady. And then, dredging up a confidence he hadn't possessed at nineteen but had cultivated over decades on another world, he let a slow, easy smile spread across his face. It felt strange, like wearing someone else’s expression, yet also liberating.

  He tilted his head, mirroring her earlier gesture, but deliberately infusing it with playful curiosity rather than suspicion. "Actually," he began, his voice smooth, consciously pitched lower, warmer than his usual hesitant tones. The sound seemed alien coming from his own throat, but he pressed on. "I wasn't just gawking like a fool."

  He let the smile widen slightly, allowing a hint of mischief into his eyes. "I was admiring the view."

  Rosa blinked. Just a flicker of surprise in those guarded eyes, quickly suppressed, but it was there. Her carefully constructed wall of indifference had been momentarily breached by the unexpected maneuver. She recovered quickly, suspicion flooding back into her expression like a tide reclaiming the shore.

  "The… view?" she repeated, her voice flat, skeptical. She deliberately looked away from him, scanning the opulent room with exaggerated slowness. "The view of what, exactly? The ridiculously overpriced vase my aunt sent? The drapes that clash horribly with the carpet? Or perhaps," she finished, her gaze snapping back to him, sharp and challenging, "the wardrobe you seem so fascinated with?"

  Lloyd chuckled softly, a genuine sound this time, surprising them both. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. Her defensiveness was predictable, almost comforting in its familiarity. It was the change in his own reaction that felt significant.

  He took a deliberate step further into the room, closing the distance between them slightly. Not encroaching on her personal space, not yet, but moving out of the liminal doorway zone. Establishing presence.

  "No," he said, his smile softening, becoming less playful and more sincere. He kept his gaze locked with hers, refusing to be intimidated by her frosty glare. "The view of you, Rosa."

  He paused, letting the simple statement hang in the air for a pregnant beat, watching her reaction. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. Was that a faint blush creeping up her neck, or just a trick of the light? Hard to tell. She pressed her lips together, annoyance warring with… something else? Confusion?

  He decided to press his advantage, however slight it might be. "You're incredibly beautiful when you're concentrating, you know," he continued, his voice maintaining its calm, warm tone. He leaned casually against the bedpost nearest him, adopting an air of relaxed confidence he definitely didn't feel bubbling beneath the surface. "All focused and powerful." He tilted his head again, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "Although, I have to admit," he added, his tone dropping to a near conspiratorial whisper, "you're even more striking when you're scowling at me like I've just tracked mud all over your pristine existence."

  He held his breath, bracing for the explosion. The indignant retort. The demand that he leave immediately and perhaps consider setting himself on fire in the hallway. He had thrown down a gauntlet, disrupting the established order of awkward silence and mutual avoidance. Now, he waited to see if she would pick it up, or simply freeze him out completely. This was new territory, uncharted and potentially perilous. But infinitely more interesting than the sofa.

  The air in the room crackled, the previously tentative shift in atmosphere vanishing like smoke in a gale swept through an open window. The delicate balance Lloyd had attempted to introduce, the slight disruption to their cold, established routine, had shattered against the wall of Rosa’s immediate and potent displeasure. Her eyes, which had perhaps flickered with a microsecond of unguarded surprise, now blazed with a chilling fury. It wasn't hot rage, not the explosive anger of lesser tempers; it was the frigid, focused indignation of someone whose control had been unexpectedly challenged. The faint hint of a blush, likely imagined by Lloyd in a moment of wishful thinking, was utterly eradicated, replaced by a pale rigidity. Her features, already defined by a certain aristocratic sharpness, hardened into an icy mask of command.

  "Get. Out."

  Each word was a perfectly formed icicle, clipped and sharp, delivered with the precise force of a physical blow aimed directly at his unwelcome presence. It wasn't merely a request fueled by irritation; it resonated with the ingrained authority of a Viscount's daughter, the assumed privilege of nobility, and the sharp, defensive reaction of someone deeply uncomfortable with vulnerability or unplanned intimacy. This was the Rosa he remembered from the fragmented, awkward memories of his first life – the young woman who wielded distance and disdain like both a shield against perceived threats and a sword to keep the world at bay.

  Lloyd’s smile, the one he’d carefully constructed from eighty years of worldly experience and plastered onto his nineteen-year-old face, didn’t waver, though the muscles around his mouth tightened infinitesimally. A tiny betrayal of the effort it took. He held his ground, maintaining the deliberately casual lean against the sturdy mahogany bedpost. His posture was meant to convey a lack of intimidation, a refusal to be cowed, a stark contrast to the cringing retreat his former self would have executed. Nineteen-year-old Lloyd would have been halfway down the corridor by now, tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape the palpable disapproval, mumbling apologies for breathing the same air. Eighty-year-old Lloyd, however, had faced down corporate sharks, navigated academic minefields, endured the stark realities of military life on Earth, and developed a resilience far exceeding mere teenage indignation, even magically enhanced indignation.

  "I don't think so," he replied, his voice remarkably calm, maintaining an even, almost conversational tone that directly contradicted the glacial hostility radiating from her. "We're married, Rosa." He let the word hang in the air for a beat, a simple statement of fact that felt loaded with unspoken complexities. "This is technically my room too, even if current sleeping arrangements are..." he paused, searching for a diplomatic term, "...unconventional." He gestured vaguely towards the plush, yet undeniably lonely-looking, sofa nestled against the far wall, a silent acknowledgment of the status quo he was now determined to dismantle.

  Rosa's eyes narrowed further, becoming dangerous slits of obsidian fury. The air temperature seemed to drop several degrees. "I warned you," she hissed, her voice dropping to a low, menacing whisper that was somehow more terrifying than her earlier shout. It vibrated with suppressed power, a predator’s warning before the strike. "Don't push me, Lloyd. You have no idea what you're dealing with."

  He simply looked back at her, the smile still playing faintly on his lips, his eyes holding hers steadily. He refused to break contact, refused to show the fear that nineteen-year-old Lloyd would have felt consuming him. Deep within her gaze, behind the icy anger, he saw it – the flicker, the gathering storm of focused energy. Raw Spirit Power coalescing, preparing to be unleashed. He knew what was coming. He braced himself internally, not physically – there was no physical defense against this – but mentally. He dredged up reserves of fortitude honed over decades of disparate challenges on Earth: the focused intensity needed to debug lines of faulty code under crushing deadlines; the stubborn persistence required to argue grant proposals with committees seemingly designed to say 'no'; the sheer grit developed during grueling military drills under unforgiving instructors; the quiet endurance learned during long, tense watches in simulated combat zones. These experiences, seemingly irrelevant in this world of magic and nobility, had forged a core of resilience within him, a bedrock beneath the surface of the awkward nineteen-year-old body he inhabited.

  Suddenly, it hit him.