The Last Banner

The study was small and dim, its stone walls lined with wooden shelves sagging under the weight of dusty tomes and parchment rolls. A single narrow window let in a sliver of grey daylight, highlighting the worn desk at the center of the room. Behind the desk sat Hadrian's tutor, an elderly man with a thin frame, a wispy white beard, and sharp eyes that betrayed a keen intellect despite his years.

Hadrian entered cautiously, his steps slower than he would have liked. Every muscle in his body protested the movement, but he masked his discomfort behind a neutral expression. He was careful not to let the old man notice his trembling legs as he lowered himself into the hard wooden chair opposite the desk.

The tutor glanced up from the open book on his desk, his brows lifting slightly. "Ah, my lord Hadrian. To what do I owe this rare visit? I'd begun to think your recovery might keep you confined indefinitely."

Hadrian leaned back slightly, letting his gaze drift over the cluttered desk. "I thought it was time to catch up. Can't have you thinking I've grown lazy."

The tutor gave a dry chuckle, closing the book with deliberate care. "Lazy, no. But prone to distraction? That would hardly surprise me." He gestured to the map spread out beside the book, its corners pinned under stacks of ink-stained paper. "If you're serious about catching up, we'll begin with the geography of Thrace."

Hadrian nodded, keeping his expression attentive as the tutor began to speak. He described the boundaries of their duchy, the neighboring human territories, and the natural features that shaped the region. As the old man's words flowed, Hadrian felt a strange clarity settling over him. Each detail—the names of rivers and mountains, the positions of key cities—etched itself into his mind with startling precision. It was as if his brain had become a sponge, absorbing everything with perfect retention.

He blinked, his gaze narrowing on the map. This isn't normal. He could see every line of the map, every name and landmark, as clearly as if he had been studying it for weeks.

"Hadrian," the tutor said sharply, breaking him from his thoughts. "Are you listening?"

Hadrian glanced up, forcing a small smile. "Of course," he replied smoothly. He gestured to the Xal River marked on the map. "You were just explaining how this acts as a natural barrier against goblin incursions from the west."

The tutor paused, his bushy brows lifting slightly. "Indeed, I was." He leaned forward, peering at Hadrian with a curious expression. "Perhaps your fever didn't dull you after all. You recall that quite well."

Hadrian shrugged, keeping his tone casual. "It's an interesting detail. I'm just trying to keep up."

The tutor nodded, though his gaze lingered on Hadrian for a moment longer before he returned to the lesson. He spoke of trade routes, mountain passes, and the precarious balance between the duchies. Each word wove a picture in Hadrian's mind, vivid and complete.

By the time the lesson ended, Hadrian's body was drained, but his thoughts raced. The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning: Photographic memory. It wasn't just knowledge from his past life—he could retain every scrap of information he encountered here, as vividly as if it had just happened.

"Thank you," Hadrian said as he rose from the chair, steadying himself against the desk. "This was... helpful."

The tutor raised a brow, his expression skeptical. "I'll believe that when I see you return tomorrow."

Hadrian smirked faintly. "You might be surprised."

As he left the study, his mind churned with possibilities. If this ability worked the way he suspected, there was no limit to what he could learn—or how quickly he could rise.

The room was dim, the brazier in the corner reduced to faintly glowing embers. Shadows danced across the rough stone walls as Hadrian sat on the edge of the narrow wooden bed, staring at the floor. The day had left his body utterly drained, but his mind refused to settle.

The puzzle pieces of this new world swirled in his thoughts. Magic, gods, and... him. A reincarnated outlier dropped into a fractured society on the brink of collapse. The photographic memory he'd discovered earlier in the day was a startling advantage, one he could hardly believe was real. But it was. Every map, every word, every lesson from his tutor was now etched into his mind, as vivid as if it had been carved in stone.

God had sent him here for a purpose, that much was clear. And like it or not, Hadrian knew he had to start somewhere. Survival wasn't just about playing along; it was about building himself up.

With a sigh, he stood, his legs unsteady but holding. He took a moment to glance around the small room—bare walls, a single brazier, a dusty table. The flickering light caught his reflection in the tarnished mirror mounted crookedly on the wall. He stepped closer, narrowing his eyes as he studied the figure staring back at him.

He was short—too short. Barely 5'5", his body thin and wiry with none of the strength he'd had in his old life. His golden-blond hair, slightly wavy, was tousled from the day, and his sharp features hinted at potential handsomeness if not for the hollows under his eyes. The sickly frame, the pale skin—it grated on him. This body is pathetic, he thought bitterly.

"Alright," he muttered, turning back to the bed. "Time to change that."

He dropped to the floor, the cold stone biting into his palms. With a deep breath, he positioned his hands and lowered himself into the first push-up. His arms screamed in protest, his chest trembling as he forced his body upward. One. Two. By the third, his arms gave out, and he collapsed onto the hard floor.

He rolled onto his back, panting, the ache in his muscles gnawing at his pride. "Get up," he hissed to himself. "Do it again."

He pushed himself up and planted his hands firmly on the ground. Gritting his teeth, he began again. One. Two. Three. Four. His arms shook violently, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Five. Six. Seven—

A sudden flash of light filled his vision, and a soft ping echoed in his ears. Startled, Hadrian collapsed to the floor, blinking rapidly as glowing text hovered in front of him.

Name: Hadrian

Race: Human

Level: 0

XP: 0/100

Stat Points: 0

Attributes:

Strength: 9

Dexterity: 10

Constitution: 4

Command: 11

Intelligence: 14

Charisma: 10

Skills:

Otherworlder Knowledge: Grants photographic memory of advancements and knowledge from your past life, as well as anything learned in this world.

The words hovered in front of him, clear as day, as though written on a sheet of glowing parchment. His breath hitched, his heart pounding. He stared at the text, his mind racing to make sense of it.

"A... system?" he muttered aloud, his voice cracking slightly. The implications hit him like a hammer. This wasn't just some random blessing—this was structured, measurable. A tool, and a powerful one at that.

His gaze lingered on the attributes, the numbers a stark reminder of his current limitations. Strength 9. Constitution 4. It was no wonder this body felt like it might collapse under its own weight.

But then his eyes flicked to the skill section, and something clicked. Otherworlder Knowledge. That explained everything—his photographic memory, his ability to recall every lesson, every map, every detail. It wasn't just a coincidence; it was an intentional advantage.

He exhaled slowly, his mind finally settling. God had sent him here, and God had given him this. For what purpose, he wasn't sure yet. But it didn't matter. What mattered was that he had something to work with—a way to climb out of this fragile shell and into something stronger.

The glowing text faded, but the determination in his chest only grew. He glanced back at the mirror, his pale reflection staring back at him. 5'5" and thin as a twig. He curled his fingers into a fist, watching them tremble.

Strength and constitution. The pieces were falling into place. If he could increase those, this body could grow stronger and healthier, The thought sent a flicker of excitement through him. He wasn't stuck like this.

Hadrian dropped back into position, his muscles screaming in protest, but he didn't care. He started again, the faint ache of progress driving him forward. This wasn't just exercise—it was the first step toward something far greater.