The pre-dawn chill still blanketed the fields surrounding the ancient fortress of Eryndor as Kael slipped beyond its walls. His steps were steady, yet each carried the weight of the constant pain from his still-reconstructing body. His boots sank softly into the dew-laden earth, and the icy air bit at his skin as he crossed the silent courtyard toward the old training grounds.
Sir Osric was already waiting, leaning on his massive sword embedded in the ground. The flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows over his worn leather armor.
"You're late, boy," Osric grunted without turning to face him. "The sun hasn't dared to rise, and yet we've already lost time."
Kael nodded silently, feeling every fiber of his body protest. He was no longer the frail boy who could barely stand, but the reconstruction was far from complete. His training wasn't merely physical—it was a slow, painful journey where each molded muscle, each spark of activated aura, was like a key unlocking a new seal within him.
[Kael's Perspective]
As he warmed up, Kael felt the aura spiraling at the center of his abdomen—his core, now marked with runes that subtly manifested whenever he forced control. His breathing was deep and rhythmic, as Osric had taught him, but he added a hidden element to the exercise: he attempted to merge small amounts of mana into his aura, something no ordinary warrior would dare. The process was unstable. A single misstep, and pain would explode throughout his body.
But he persisted. He needed to unlock the next phase.
"Today we'll start with endurance and reflexes," Osric said, tossing a wooden staff at Kael's feet. "Think you can land a hit before I knock you down?"
Kael smirked slightly. It wasn't a fair challenge—Osric was a war veteran—but his pride compelled him to try. The staffs clashed. Osric attacked with surprising speed for his age, and Kael, even while focused, was forced to constantly retreat. Each defense, each dodge, was calculated to the limit.
"Remember: strength without control is mere savagery," Osric said between attacks. "And control without courage is weakness."
[Osric's Perspective]
The old knight observed Kael with critical eyes. The boy no longer dragged himself as before. There was posture, resilience. The way he kept his feet firm and avoided attacks with short movements showed intelligence. But there was something more...
"He's hiding something," Osric thought, noticing the faint golden tremor on the wooden blade. "That's not just aura..."
...
Meanwhile, in the main house's halls, Lyara silently wiped away tears as she counted ancient coins. On the table lay some family relics—rings, small jewels, seals with forgotten crests. Items that, centuries ago, would have been unthinkable to sell.
"Forgive me, Father..." she whispered, looking at the portrait of the former archduke. "But the name Eryndor cannot die with empty pride."
[Lyara's Perspective]
Pain was a subtle poison she swallowed with elegance. With each item sold, she remembered her family's past glory. But now, she hid the pawn receipts from her younger sister and the forced smiles of the city's merchants. She felt the hungry gazes of nobles and commoners alike. She knew what they whispered.
...
Kael's progress was remarkable in the following weeks. Osric alternated between simulated combats, weighted runs, and meditation training under icy waterfalls. In one session, Kael sat beneath the cascading water, trying to keep his core stabilized while feeling the water pierce his skin like needles.
His goal was simple in theory: to make the aura flow match his breathing rhythm and to harmoniously merge mana into the movement. The problem? Any error in the fusion caused internal energy explosions.
"Focus on the spiral," he repeated mentally. "Aura in the flow, mana at the root. Energy circulates. Pain is the price."
...
At night, after an especially painful meditation, Osric made him a proposal:
"You've surpassed the point of no return, boy. It's time to test that strength. I want you to leave at sunrise. Go to the Runval forest and eliminate three wild Luphares. If you survive, I'll call you lord again."
Kael didn't respond. He merely nodded.
...
The Runval forest was a living tapestry of deep greens and threatening shadows. Mist crawled among twisted roots. The scent of moss and blood permeated the air. Kael had already taken down two Luphares—blue-skinned wolves with ravenous eyes. Their aura made them agile but predictable.
Then, a roar echoed.
Atop a hill appeared a much larger creature—a Lupharis Elite, with crimson runes pulsing on its back. The ground trembled beneath its steps.
[Kael's Perspective]
"This isn't right. There shouldn't be one of these here."
Kael retreated, assessing the terrain. A frontal attack would be suicidal. He needed to test the creature's resilience. He moved to the side, forcing the Lupharis to chase him among the trunks. The creature advanced in a zigzag, each paw impact causing branches to explode into splinters.
He tried to stop it with a diagonal aura-infused slash. No success.
"Aura alone isn't enough..."
Kael retreated to a clearing and raised his sword with both hands. He felt his core vibrate. For the first time in battle, he invoked the complete fusion of aura and mana. The runes on his chest glowed, and the blade was enveloped in a silver glow.
"Twilight Gleam," he whispered.
The air split with the strike. The blade traced an arc of energy that sliced through the air like a comet. The Lupharis was hit squarely, thrown against the rocks. But it didn't die. It rose, bloodied, and charged with ferocity.
Kael rolled to the side, his shoulder bleeding. But now, he had understood the rhythm. He waited. Breathed. Channeled energy in brief pulses, attacking with precision.
After a final charge, Kael drove the blade into the creature's chest, collapsing alongside it.
Hours later, Osric arrived at the clearing and found the boy covered in blood and mud, lying atop the dead Lupharis Elite. The old man remained silent for a long time.
"By Aldor's blade..." he murmured. "What in the devil are you?"
...
In nearby villages, the name Kael resurfaced among the villagers' conversations. Some spoke with hope—"The heir has awakened!"—others with fear. Many said he had gone mad. One rumor claimed he had made a pact with an ancient spirit. Another, that he was cursed.
[Villagers' Perspective]
"They say his eyes shine like a demon's," an old woman whispered.
"And that his father died because of him..." another hissed, maliciously.
...
But something more sinister was forming. In Vancor, a man in a dark robe knelt before the new lord's throne.
"Send the Stalker. I want to know everything about this 'miraculous heir.' If he's what I suspect... he won't leave this world so easily."
...
And so, as Kael recovered from wounds and truths, the game of shadows continued.
The reconstruction of Eryndor had only just begun.