Hope stood calmly, back straight, though his pulse betrayed him with a steady thrum against his ribs.

  The training ground stretched wide, a packed oval of dirt ringed by low stone walls.

  Elira perched on a low bench along the edge, skirts folded neatly, eyes bright with anticipation. She looked far too entertained for what was about to happen.

  And before Hope, clad in full war harness, stood Gregore Barion—his ‘father’.

  His armour was heavy plate, steel chased with gilt at the seams, a crimson surcoat falling straight from the waist. His face was bare—stern, dark hair streaked with grey, eyes hard as stone. A longsword rested at his hip, the pommel worn smooth.

  “You can start,” Gregore said. His tone was flat. “Attack me with everything you have.”

  Hope narrowed his eyes. No System prompt. No numbers hanging in the air to tell him exactly what he was up against. But he didn’t need them—Gregore Barion was a Tier 2.

  He knew well enough what that meant. A freshly ascended Tier 2 beast was nearly on par with a Tier 1 Alpha. For humans, the shift wasn’t so immediate, but once they settled into the Tier, their growth was exponential. And this man… this ‘father’ of his… had ascended long ago.

  Hope exhaled, shoulders loosening, though inside every nerve pulled tight.

  Air Gear unfurled around him, subtle at first, then swelling as the wind drew close, wrapping him like a second skin. His coat stirred, cloth lifting in the unseen current, and his hair shifted with the soft pull of the breeze.

  He lowered his stance, spear gripped tight in both hands.

  Then he lunged—dust tore free beneath his right foot as he drove forward, body blurring with Air Gear. The world tilted into motion, his breath sharp in his ears. He shot for Gregore’s flank, spear thrust snapping out like a lightning strike.

  CLANG!

  Steel rang. The longsword shifted almost lazily, parrying the blow off-course with ease. Gregore hadn’t even taken a step.

  Hope’s teeth clenched. He’s tough alright.

  He twisted, Air coiling at his heels, and flickered around to the opposite side. His spear swept low, then whipped high, a feint breaking into a thrust. The air whistled at the tip—then split.

  SHRRRK!

  A Wind Blade hissed free, cutting across the dirt toward Gregore’s shoulder.

  The man stepped back. The arc of air screamed past him, smashing into the stone wall with a dull thock, scattering dust and grit. His longsword caught the spear thrust immediately after, a single pivot of the wrist sending Hope stumbling a half-step.

  The ground bit into his boots. He steadied, heart hammering.

  Gregore’s face hadn’t changed. Still cold, unreadable.

  Hope ground his teeth. “Tch…”

  Air rushed to him, filling his chest, his limbs. He darted again, faster now, boots kicking up grit. Strike, withdraw, strike again—each thrust sharper, faster, spear tip biting at armour seams, Wind Blades slashing from the edges of his swings.

  Clang. Clang. Swish.

  The longsword deflected, redirected, dodged. Every angle, every attack—read and brushed aside.

  Sparks spat over and over as spear and sword met head-on, the vibration jarring Hope’s arms to the bone.

  He hissed through clenched teeth, sweat already trickling down his brow.

  Gregore… wasn’t just strong. He was calm. Absolute control in every motion. His feet never shuffled, never faltered. He moved just enough—half a step, a tilt of the shoulder, a turn of the wrist—to strip Hope’s momentum bare.

  Hope’s pulse thundered in his ears. The training ground blurred with his rushes—wind tearing at his cloak, dust spinning into whirlwinds where his boots struck. Elira’s faint gasp carried from the sideline, a knight shifted slightly at the entrance, but all of it vanished into the background.

  All Hope could see was that immovable figure in front of him.

  He lunged, spear driving forward with everything behind it, Air Magika rushing around him, the gale itself at his back.

  Gregore shifted his blade. A flick of the wrist.

  CLANG!

  The spear snapped aside, Hope’s momentum crashing into empty air. He barely caught himself, skidding across the dirt, boots gouging deep grooves before he steadied again, chest heaving and arms shaking.

  “That will be enough for today,” Gregore said, voice flat. “From tomorrow, you will train here daily under the master-at-arms. Your spearmanship needs refining.”

  Hope forced the words out. “Yes, Sire.”

  Gregore’s gaze lingered for a moment. Then, with steady steps, he turned and walked away, crimson surcoat brushing dust in his wake.

  Only when the gate closed behind him did Elira rush down from the side.

  “That was incredible!” she beamed. “Don’t take Father’s words as harsh. I’m sure he was impressed too.”

  Impressed? Really? Then the man had a hell of a stone face.

  Hope let out a slow breath. It felt like cold water had been thrown over him. Tier and stats aside—compared to that man, his technique, his awareness… it was laughable.

  “I’m not sure about that,” Hope said as he steadied himself. The fight replayed in his head—blows, dodges, the sharp ring of metal—and none of it gave him comfort. The gulf was too wide to bridge with a glance. All he could take from it was the plain, cold fact: he had a mountain of work ahead of him.

  For one, he was limited to only two of his five skills, since the others depended on Spacetime. That meant he needed more on Air—or better yet, a solid Physical skill, something his arsenal sorely lacked.

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  And two, technique. Selera had drilled him once on proper stances, guards, forms—sparring as practice. He’d waved it off back then, convinced survival taught faster than drills. But now? Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Elira leaned closer, eyes bright. “Trust me, I’ve never seen a Tier 1 fight like that. Not even the other two boys Grandpa is sending to the Game of Houses.”

  Other two? Right. Three per house. If they were weaker, he didn’t care. His goal wasn’t them. It was him—his ceiling, his walls, his limits.

  And beside the grind of skill levels for stats, two new paths had just opened before him.

  He lifted his gaze to the sun riding high above. Maybe this place wasn’t going to be the waste of time he thought it would be.

  “Alright, sis. I’ll head for a run. See you at supper.”

  “Huh? Wait, ah—!”

  Too late. Air Gear burst around him, wind lifting him as he vaulted the training ground’s wall, gone in a blur.

  Elira stamped her shoes hard into the sand, skirts swishing with the motion, then huffed with an exaggerated pout.

  This brother of hers was really insufferable sometimes.

  Day 31

  Three days already stuck with the Barions. Got myself a new diary—last one’s still back on the bloody ship. Not seeing that again any time soon. Shame, had some good notes in there.

  I won’t say it’s boring here. Strip out the noble manners and the bowing and the endless “young master” this, “young master” that, and life’s… not bad. Bed’s stupidly comfy, room’s huge, view’s decent, food’s better than anything I’ve ever had. Would be perfect if I didn’t have to think which fork goes for what.

  Nobles, huh. They really know how to live soft. Maybe that’s why they get so damn bored they waste half their lives scribbling nonsense into family manuals like it means something.

  Important stuff today? Sparring. Hour or two with the master-at-arms. Old knight type, scarred up, cool armor. Guy’s real sharp. I can’t tell if he’s stronger than Gregore, but then again my level’s too low to judge either of them properly. What mattered was the lesson.

  He didn’t just block me or swat my spear aside like Gregore. He talked. Told me where my stance was leaking, where my grip was stiff, how I telegraph my thrusts without even knowing it. Called them “habits.” Said the body remembers more than the mind or somethin’ like that.

  Example: I always lean my weight on my right heel before thrusting. Always. I never even felt it before he pointed it out. To me it’s just how I move. To him it’s a bloody signboard that says here comes the stab. Same with how I pull back the spear—I cock my elbow out first, gives the strike away before I even commit. I thought speed covered that. It doesn’t.

  And breathing—turns out I hold my breath too much when I push in hard. Ol’ man cracked me across the ribs with a practice blade just to show how fast I lock up. Said a real fight would’ve ended me right there. Good lesson, really. I like his style.

  Spent the rest of the day hammering out leather bits and running laps, trying to grind that last level for Longstride.

  That Elira still buzzes around me. Sometimes it’s fine—she can be helpful and all—but other times it’s just plain annoying. Doesn’t she have anything else to do? These noble kids…

  ??Crafting (Level 7?8)

  Day 35

  A week’s gone by already. Not sure if it felt slow or fast. Skip the dinners and suppers and maybe fast.

  Finally pushed Longstride to level 10. Think I must’ve run across the whole ground more than a hundred times for it. Worth it, though. That Physis boost is no joke, and the feat bonus makes it even sweeter.

  Now that I’m not chasing runs anymore, I’ve actually got some hours free. Maybe I should find an excuse to check out that kitchen… a really good excuse.

  More importantly, I got myself a useful skill, mostly copying the instructor during the spars. It’s called Dash. Basically it’s a sudden acceleration—short burst forward, fast enough to close a gap before anyone blinks. Uses stamina like mad if I overdo it, but if I time it right, it feels like I’m vanishing and reappearing a step away. Great for slipping past a guard’s reach or putting extra bite behind a thrust. The old master nearly lost his footing when I tried it the first time. His eyes went wide like I’d just pulled a trick out of the void.

  Still, I’m nowhere close to scratching his armour.

  I also worked out how Unactive Skills really function. Turns out it’s simple—the System just locks and swaps them when I think about it. Tried forcing an Unactive one—Wind Blade—and, yeah, I felt the mental strain instantly. Like dragging a mountain uphill with a string. Doable, but stupidly costly. Makes it clear just how much the System’s smoothing things out for Active Skills.

  After Dash showed up, the master-at-arms grilled me about it—asked if it was Discovered or Learned. When he realised I’d just copied him, his face… for the void, you’d think I’d sprouted a second head. Eventually told me I should check the library to read up on what I’ve unlocked.

  Library’s a nightmare. Every noble who ever touched a quill seemed to think the world needed to know their thoughts about stances, “soul focus,” or how to polish boots the “proper” way before sparring. Out of a hundred pages, maybe five had anything useful. Stuff about timing Dash to avoid overextension, and how some fighters chain it with feints. The rest? Pure noise.

  Elira’s still buzzing around. Sometimes she’s fun, tossing clever little remarks or dragging me to see things I wouldn’t notice on my own. Other times… she’s like a fly in the ear. Doesn’t she have studies to do? Or is pestering me her new hobby?

  Lyra, on the other hand… different story. Cold stare every time we cross paths. Doesn’t bother with words. Just looks at me like I’m a rat tracking mud across her carpets. If she’s trying to freeze me out, she’ll have to try harder. I’ve had worse glares.

  Also: Elira and Lyra. Couldn’t have picked more different names even if they tried.

  Level 94?95

  ??Crafting (Level 8?9)

  ??Longstride (Level 9?10)

  ??Longstride Initiate (G): +1 Longstride.

  ??Active Skill Unlocked: Dash (G) - [Discovered]

  Day 40

  Finally got into the kitchen. Took some effort—nobles don’t like their heirs near smoke and grease—but I pulled rank and got in.

  Compared to Rask’s, this kitchen was almost heaven!

  The cooks here gave me side-eyes at first, like I’d cut myself just peeling an apple. Didn’t last long. Once they saw I knew my way around fire and steel, their astonishment said the rest.

  Why is everyone so astonished with me lately? Am I really that odd?

  Also hit level ten in Crafting. The seamstress helped—a kind old lady with sharp eyes. Let me try a tunic. She spotted flaws I couldn’t even see but called it passable in the end. Not my style, but useful. Seems cloth-wear takes enchantments better for Magia, leather’s balanced between the two, and metal leans heavy to Physis. Good to know.

  The added Physis and Dash have sharpened my combat in no small way. I’m moving cleaner, getting around quicker, though breaking old habits is tougher than I thought. Reading my instructor? Forget it. Man’s like stone—unshakable. Still, I can feel the edge creeping in. Improvement’s there.

  But it’s about time I faced a proper challenge.

  Robert said I couldn’t leave the manor grounds, but maybe—just maybe—I can talk my way around it?

  I’ll give it a try tomorrow.

  Level 95?96

  ??Cooking (Level 7?8)

  ??Crafting (Level 9?10)

  ??Crafting Initiate (G): +1 Crafting.

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