In the beginning... there was only darkness.
A pitch-black room. Strange figures she had never seen before.
A cold metal table, slick with blood and a stench so foul it turned her stomach.
A blinding light overhead pierced her vision, forcing her eyes shut.
Her lips were cracked from dehydration. Her body frail, skeletal ... had long since been stripped of anything that once sustained it.
The people around her had no faces, not in her eyes. And their words… were barely comprehensible noise.
What had they done to her?
She didn't know. All she remembered… was the screaming ... and how much it hurt.
From the depths of the girl, black tendrils erupted, tearing through those strangers like paper ... ripping them apart, pulverizing them into a grotesque pulp of blood and flesh.
In that darkness, her only ally… was the shadow.
The princess opened her eyes.
The first thing she saw was a massive gash carved into the wall in front of her.
She was still in her usual nightwear. And this… this was her room in the elite wing of the temple.
Barefoot. But what truly unsettled her were the bloodstains on her hands.
Sansa trembled. Her chest burned.
"It's alright. You're safe now."
A warm hand gently patted her head. It belonged to a masked man who had appeared behind her, soundlessly.
His crimson eyes gleamed behind the mask ... visible even in the pitch-black room. But Sansa knew him. She recognized him the moment she saw him, and that only stirred the turmoil inside her further.
With a strained voice, she asked the question that had haunted her since she awoke ... still trapped in a sleepwalking nightmare.
"Was this… my doing?"
She looked at the blood on her hands. Oliver Khan immediately shook his head.
"You didn't do anything."
"It was just a nightmare."
With a motion faster than sound, his hand struck her neck gently. Sansa collapsed into unconsciousness, and he caught her before she hit the floor.
"Just a bad dream," he murmured.
He placed her back in bed and brushed aside strands of her platinum hair—now slowly darkening to black.
Without thinking, his hand moved to his side, feeling the wound in his gut, still seeping blood.
But within a moment, the flesh knit together. The deep gash sealed itself almost instantly.
Oliver Khan said nothing. But his eyes said a lot as he looked down at the sleeping princess.
—Frey Starlight's POV—
Make idle conversation with... friends.
Eat more. Sleep again.
Oh, and… take a dump.
I wake up every morning at 5 AM. Head out for light cardio ... just a warm-up for the rest of the day.
A habit I picked up while preparing for the Victoriad.
After my early training session, I return to my room. It's usually 6 AM by then.
I take a quick shower ... not because I sweat much (this body barely does) ... but it's a habit I've kept from even before my reincarnation. This body used to have an obsession with cleanliness... and I'm not sure I've completely shaken it.
After showering and glancing at my lean but toned frame, I get dressed and leave.
On the way, I always seem to run into Snow, Danzo, or even Ghost ... who shows up like he teleports in.
We chat about the most meaningless things. Utter nonsense, really. But it's typical for kids our age… or rather, their age.
After that? Just more training.
And even more training.
At the end of the day, I spar against one of the most dangerous swordmasters alive ... Melina, wielder of the Claymore.
And that's exactly what I was doing now, side by side with Snow Lionheart.
Wielding a legendary weapon grants tremendous destructive power to its bearer. But that leap in strength only truly manifests for people like me and Snow.
We were barely at Rank B. But because our weapons were Rank SS, the true range of our power climbed dangerously close to Rank S. That's why Balerion has always been my greatest trump card.
But it's a different story when an SS rank weapon falls into the hands of an SS rank Awakened.
At that level, the weapon is no longer the primary source of power ...it becomes merely a tool, a refined conduit that brings out the wielder's full potential.
And that's exactly what was happening in our battle against Melina.
"Don't become overly reliant on your weapon. It's just a tool. It can make the battle easier, yes ... but it won't win it for you."
If your foundation is weak, no weapon will matter.
This was our fourth day training under Melina, and even with the two of us fighting her together—Snow and I—we still hadn't managed to land a single hit.
We had thrown everything we had at her. I'd even used the Blood Form and my new Shadow Property.
Sure, it made the battle more chaotic, more explosive ...but I was still losing. Badly.
"Snow Lionheart," she called out. "You still lack full control over your sword. You need to learn how to channel its abilities properly."
I had exchanged countless blows with her myself.
Her claymore was just like Balerion ... fused to her arm. Except hers was absurdly long.
"Your strikes are powerful, Frey Starlight."
Sparks flew with every clash of steel.
With each step, I found myself driven back ... crumbling beneath her sheer force.
"Strong, yes… but empty."
She raised her hand, and her blade moved automatically ...almost with a will of its own.
"You don't seem interested in getting stronger."
When she said that, her crimson eyes locked onto mine.
I forced a faint smile.
"Was it that obvious?"
"It was. You're different from the Frey I saw during the Victoriad."
So… she'd been watching?
"I thought I was doing a decent job hiding it."
"You are. But your sword is far more honest than you."
Truth be told, my current state was objectively better than back then.
I had the Supreme Shadow Property now. I was beginning to understand how to harmonize with the shadow Adaptation
There was still a massive gap between the Victoriad Frey and the one I was now.
Somehow, the person I was back then felt so much stronger.
"Is that what they call… drive?"
The drive to live. To push forward. To become better and stronger.