Elven Domination: Reincarnated with a Cloning System

Arthur walked quickly. Well—more like a fast shuffle that barely looked human. His legs were stiff, his arms ached, and his entire body screamed to collapse somewhere horizontal and never get up again.

But his stomach had other plans.

The hallway leading to the dining chamber was mostly quiet now, the usual bustle of servants and clinking plates long gone. He pushed open the carved double doors and stepped inside.

The room was still lit—softly, with only a few enchanted wall-lights left glowing.

Most of the seats were empty.

There were maybe three other people still there—two other human slaves were finishing up quietly in a far corner, and someone else asleep against their plate near the wall.

And then, at the far end of the long table—

Fira.

She was alone, sitting in their usual seat. He felt bad seeing her alone; she must have been waiting for him for a long while. Arthur promised himself that from now on he would try to be on time, so he didn't make her wait so much.

While she didn't show it, she had told him that she would train when he wasn't with her previously, so he would be punctual from now on. Her shift had ended but she was still there, and it warmed his heart a bit.

After filling his plate with delicious food, he walked over to her and took a seat beside her.

Fira didn't speak at first.

Then she asked, casually—almost too casually:

"You're late."

Arthur didn't look up. "Yeah. Got caught up."

She raised an eyebrow. "With what?"

He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said simply, "Learning magic."

That made her pause.

Not dramatically. Just long enough for him to notice.

Her gaze lingered on him a little longer, then dropped to her plate again.

"…I see."

She didn't ask what kind of magic as she knew he must be trying to learn from the books she had given him.

'He must be feeling bad.'

She didn't ask if he succeeded.

Because she didn't need to.

To her, the answer was probably obvious.

Fira knew he had the worst talent; he told her himself, and she didn't doubt it because the one to confirm was Ivy Greenhearts.

So she didn't say anything else.

Just nodded faintly, but he could see the little hesitation on her face.

'She must be feeling bad for me.'

Arthur, even after knowing, didn't tell her about how quickly he was progressing in learning from the books she had given him. He had only given it a couple of hours, but he felt he had made huge progress toward learning magic.

And the new knowledge he had acquired from it was also very valuable.

After chatting and bickering between them, Arthur had now finished both dinner and the magical pudding Fira had made for him, and now they moved on to their usual talk in elven language as Arthur still needed practice.

They spoke in Elvish now.

Arthur, already halfway through his meal, said something offhanded.

Fira replied without looking at him.

And just like that, they started bickering.

It was casual. Petty. Pointless. Exactly how it always went.

Arthur prodded and teased, poking at her nerves with practiced ease.

Fira shot back with sharp remarks, but the more she tried to stay composed, the more flustered she got—especially when Arthur, with that infuriating smirk of his, circled back to that topic.

The one she hated.

The one where she'd once mistakenly believed he was in love with her.

He brought it up once—lightly.

Then again—less lightly.

And then again—relentlessly.

Fira blushed. Several times.

Each redder than the last.

She tried to change the subject. Failed. She tried to threaten him. That failed too.

Arthur didn't let up. Not until she was visibly flushed and glaring at her plate like it had betrayed her.

Eventually, with a stretch and a yawn, Arthur stood up.

"I'll be off, then," he said, too satisfied with himself.

Fira didn't answer.

He walked a few steps toward the exit.

Then she looked up.

He didn't see it.

But if he had turned around in that moment, he would've caught the expression she wore—tired, amused, and just a little warm.

A soft, unguarded smile.

After reaching his room, Arthur closed the door with a quiet thud.

Silence greeted him—no crackling pages, no mana humming in the air, no glowing circles waiting to judge him.

Just his room.

Small. Clean. Dimly lit by a dull crystal in the corner. There was a desk, a bed, and not much else.

He stared at the mattress for a solid five seconds.

It looked tempting.

Very tempting.

But he shook his head.

"Nope."

Not yet.

His limbs still ached from hours of magic control practice. His mana felt like wet string. But if there was one thing he'd learned from his past life and this one, it was this:

You trained even when you were tired.

Maybe especially when you were tired.

Arthur took off his outer tunic, tossed it to the side, and dropped to the floor.

"Push-ups first."

His arms complained immediately.

But he kept going.

One. Two. Three.

By ten, his shoulders burned.

By twenty, his arms shook.

He pushed until his chest nearly collapsed into the floor—then held it there, breathing through gritted teeth before pushing back up again.

After thirty, he sat up. Took a breath. Rolled his neck once.

Then moved to squats.

Back straight. Feet apart.

Down, up. Down, up.

He didn't count out loud. Just in his head. Kept rhythm with the soft beat of his breathing. Each rep was a reminder that he was still alive, still fighting, still climbing.

When his legs began to wobble, he switched.

Crunches.

Back on the floor, fingers behind his head, he pulled himself up into a tight burn across his core.

Thirty more.

His breath came fast now. Sweat pooled under his shirt. His vision swam a little.

But it was good.

This was good.

There was something satisfying about pushing his body to its limit after he'd just pushed his mana all day. No spell circles. No diagrams. Just movement. Strain. Grit.

Real progress.

Real pain.

And beneath all of it—the steady, quiet fire that said:

You're still weak. But not for long.