I’m Just a Background Character, But I Used to Be a Delinquent, So Why Are the Girls Falling for Me?!

Knights train in the morning. That’s when the training ground is busiest. I would use the late afternoon, when the sun was fading and everyone was back inside for dinner or rest. It would be my time to push this body without being watched.

I found a quiet, overgrown section of the estate wall, hidden behind a large weeping willow. This would be my spot.

I forced myself to start moving simple leg lifts, slow pushes against the wall, stretching. Each movement was painful and clumsy, a reminder of how deep the weakness ran. I felt ridiculous, like a sick animal trying to learn to walk again.

As my muscles burned from just a few easy squats, the dead Callen’s memories flared up, sharp and bitter.

It wasn’t just that Callen was born weak he was taught he was weak. I saw a quick flash a family reunion, years ago. A large group of boys all the cousins were practicing with light wooden swords on the lawn. Callen, maybe eight years old, had tried to join.

“Look at him, trying to hold a sword!” one cousin had sneered.

“Give it up, Callen,” Darren, even younger, had shouted. “You’re not meant for this. You shake too much. You’ll embarrass the Verdan name.”

They hadn’t just mocked him they had tripped him, taken his wooden sword, and buried it in the dirt. Callen had run away crying, and when he told his father, the Baron had simply stared at him with disappointment.

“You cannot even properly hold the practice blade, Callen,” his father’s cold voice echoed in the memory “A knight needs talent, and you possess none. Understand your limits. There are other ways to serve the family, but this path is not for you if you don’t have any courage. Do not waste my time or your own.”

The Baron had turned away, his expression saying that the matter was finished, leaving the boy standing alone with the crushing weight of failure.

That was when Callen had stopped trying. The shame, the constant fear of the cousins, the clear, bitter judgment from his own father it had created a failure who was terrified of even lifting a practice sword.

“Useless,” I spat out, resting my forehead against the rough stone of the wall, sweat already stinging my eyes from the minimal effort. The author truly hated this character. They didn’t just make him weak they broke his will.

But I am not that weakling Callen. The humiliation and the weakness belonged to the dead boy, not to me. This isn’t just about him dying as a side character. This was my life now, my second chance. And I am not going to die again.

I pushed myself off the wall. “No,” I grunted, forcing my legs into another painful squat. The memory of the Duke’s cold words tried to drag me down, but I focused on the burn in my thighs instead. That pain was real. That pain was mine.

I stayed there, fighting the nausea and the burning in my lungs, until the sky turned a deep, bruised purple and the air grew cool. By the time I staggered back toward the manor, every single muscle was screaming. But for the first time in this new life, I didn’t feel completely useless.

I felt like I had fought back, and I had won the first, small battle against the old Callen.

After two months.

The small, hidden patch by the willow tree became my secret work place. Every night, when this place was quiet, I went there.

The first week was pure pain. I could not do ten good push-ups. My arms always fell. Simple stretches hurt muscles I had not used in years. I felt sick more than once.

But my stubbornness my strong will was much stronger than Callen’s body. I pushed until my arms and legs felt heavy like stone. I kept telling myself Five months. That time limit was like a whip, forcing me through the pain.

After 2 months of improving my mental and physical health I felt much better. The constant weakness was lifting. I didn’t get dizzy easily anymore. My breathing was fine even after running up the stairs. My arms still looked thin, but they did not shake anymore after lifting something heavy.

I would stand in front of the cracked mirror in my room and look closely. I didn’t look strong yet, but I saw a change. The skin wasn’t pulled so tightly over the bone. There was a thin layer of muscle, a bit of firmness that hadn’t been there before. It was a small change, but it felt huge.

I flexed my arm. It didn’t look like a knight’s arm, but it was mine. It was an arm I had earned through pain. I felt a real, quiet sense of pride. This body was finally starting to listen to me.

It was enough. It was time for the next step.

I needed a sword.

That night, I secretly went to the training ground. I found a wooden sword there. It was old and made of thick, heavy wood. This kind of sword is meant to help beginners learn how to balance.

In the old Callen’s memory, just touching a sword brought fear a sudden panic about the wood’s weight. But for me, it was just a tool.

I lifted it.

The wooden sword was heavy. I took a slow breath and then, carefully, I pushed the blade out in front of me and pulled it back. The movement was slow and awkward, but I had swung it.

Then a piece of the old Callen’s memory flashed in my mind. He was trying to lift this exact wooden sword, maybe two years ago, when he was forced to try training. His body was so thin back then, so weak and underfed, that he couldn’t even get the tip of the wood off the ground. He just stood there, shaking, until the trainer told him to quit.

Now, I could lift it. It was heavy, yes, every bit of its weight a real strain, but I could hold it up. I could keep it steady above the dirt floor.

I am not that weak anymore.

I picked it up again. This time, I did not try to look strong. I just focused on keeping my wrist straight. I set my feet low, exactly like the knights I watched in the morning. I held it for thirty seconds this time before letting it fall.

For the next hour, I only did that lift the sword, hold it until my muscles failed, rest for five slow breaths, and lift it again.

When I finally put the blade away that night, I didn’t crawl back to my room totally useless. My arms were sore and bruised, full of deep, serious pain, but they had moved. They had listened to me.

Three more months left, I thought, falling onto my creaky bed, staring at the ceiling. I am not strong yet. But I am no longer afraid.

The weakling Callen was dead. Ren was taking his place. The Baron said I had no talent. Darren said I was trash.

Soon, I’d show them what a trashy, talentless kid could do when he was fighting just to stay alive.

The next morning, the dull ache in my arms was proof of the hard work I’d done. I walked toward the main hall for breakfast, my head held high. I wasn’t scared anymore; I was ready.

I didn’t reach the dining hall. As I passed the corner near the library, someone stepped out, stopping me in the narrow path.

It was Elias, Darren’s older brother. He wasn’t loud like Darren, but he was coldly cruel with words. He was always watching, always judging. He carried a big, heavy book and wore a fake, pleased smile.

“Look who woke up,” Elias said, his voice quiet, but sharp. “Still walking around, Callen? I heard your small show at the fountain made Darren so angry that Father had to talk to him.”

I stopped a few feet away. I didn’t move. “I’m sure Darren can deal with his own shame, Elias.”

Elias took a slow step closer. “Shame? No. He’s just mad he wasted time on trash. We all know you only hit him because you surprised him, right? A lucky chance. A scared mouse fighting back once.” He spoke lower, leaning in.

He looked down at my old, simple clothes the same ones Callen always wore. “It must be hard, knowing you have no future. No strength. No talent. And now, Uncle is not here. No one to even pretend to protect weaklings like you and Inzo.”

He waited for me to shake or cry, the way the old Callen always did.

I looked him straight in the eyes. I didn’t raise my voice.

“You’re right, Elias,” I said, staying calm. “I don’t have talent. And I don’t have time to waste fighting some idiots.”

Elias frowned, surprised I agreed so fast. “What?”

“I’ve been training,” I continued, speaking clearly. “I’m preparing for the end of year test. What about you? Have you improved your fighting skill in the past three years? Be careful, your own brother might defeat you.”

The fake smile vanished. That hit him hard. Elias was proud of his book smarts but always failed the fighting and military tests needed for the final title.

“I may be weak, Elias,” I said, taking a small step closer, making him nervous. “But I know where to look. I know who is actually having trouble. Maybe instead of worrying about the trash who fell in the fountain, you should worry about the one who will fail the final exams.”

Elias’s jaw became tight. “You don’t know anything, you peasant!”

“Maybe,” I shrugged. “But I know you’re making noise to hide your own fear. Now, if you’ll let me pass. Unlike you, I actually have something important to do this morning.”

I didn’t wait for him to talk. I simply walked around him and continued toward the dining hall. I didn’t look back, but I felt his silent, burning anger follow me down the hall. That fight, like the one with Darren,but didn’t hurt me physically, it only cost my energy.

I kept walking, not slowing my pace until I reached the dining hall. The air in the room was warm, filled with the clatter of plates and low chatter. I sat down at the far end of the long table where my younger brother, Inzo, was already sitting.

Inzo was picking slowly at a small piece of bread. He was small and quiet, easily missed by the loud cousins. He looked up at me with wide, worried eyes.

“Brother? Are you okay?” he whispered.

“I’m fine, Inzo,” I said, leaning closer. “Just thinking.”

He nervously looked down at the table, then quickly back at me. I pushed a plate of sliced meat toward his spot, ignoring the hard bread set before me.

“You need to eat more,” I told him.

He looked at the good meat, then up at my face. His eyes moved over my neck and the line of my jaw. He frowned slightly, tilting his head.

“You look…” he paused, searching for the right words, his voice unsure. “You look… different. You look strong brother.”

He slowly reached out a timid hand, not touching me, but hovering near the edge of my sleeve where my thin forearm was visible. He seemed to feel the change without touching it the small new firmness I’d earned from the training.

“Did you… did you finally start practicing?” he asked, his voice now very low, full of sudden, hopeful awe.

I gave him a small, genuine smile a real one. “I started. And I’m not stopping.”

Inzo’s face lit up instantly. It was a pure, trusting hope that was brighter than anything I’d seen on him before.

“You won’t tell anyone, okay?” I added, serious again. He nodded quickly, his eyes shining. “I promise. I’ll cover for you if they ask where you went.”

The absolute trust in his small face hit me hard. Protecting this boy was worth every single ache.

“Good,” I said, standing up. “Now eat. I have to go to the cellar.”

Inzo looked confused. “The cellar? Why?”

“To check on the wine,” I said with a tight little smile. “Just a small detail for the upcoming banquet. Don’t worry about it.”

I turned and walked away, leaving Inzo sitting at the table, his mouth full of meat.

To be continued….