Six months. Six fucking months of breaking himself into pieces and gluing them back together wrong.
Avian stared at his reflection, cataloging the damage. The soft noble boy was dead — had died somewhere around month three when he'd pushed so hard he'd pissed blood for a week. What stared back was all sharp edges and barely contained violence. Lean muscle wrapped around a frame that had learned to eat pain for breakfast and ask for seconds.
Still weak as shit compared to what I was. But getting there.
His ribs showed through skin stretched tight — turned out growing muscle while maintaining the energy output of a madman meant eating became another full-time job he didn't have time for. Scars decorated his torso like medals no one would ever pin on him. This one from when he'd misjudged a high-aura technique and the backlash had torn muscle from bone. That one from pushing Fargrim too hard and having the dormant blade remind him it still had teeth.
"Young master, breakfast is—" Elira's voice died as she got a good look at him shirtless. Her face did something complicated — concern mixing with what might have been fear. "I... forgive me. I didn't realize..."
"Training grounds," he said, pulling on a shirt to hide the roadmap of bad decisions carved into his skin. "Same as yesterday. Thank you, Elira."
"Young master, you really should—"
"The trials are tomorrow." He kept his voice gentle despite the exhaustion. "I promise to rest properly afterward."
She left without another word. Smart woman. She'd learned somewhere around month two that arguing with his new obsession was like pissing into a hurricane — messy and pointless.
Avian went back to his assessment. High Master aura that didn't make him want to vomit blood anymore — progress. Third Core, maybe scratching at Fourth if he was willing to pay the price in agony. Still pathetic compared to the Eleventh he'd wielded before, but you worked with what you had.
The mana situation was... complicated. He'd been sneaking off to practice like some teenager hiding porn, because the Veritas clan had their heads so far up their sword-wielding asses they thought magic was for weaklings. Joke was on them — dual-path cultivation hurt twice as much but made you three times as effective. His channels had gone from rusty pipes to actual pathways. When he finally showed that particular card...
They'll shit themselves sideways.
A knock interrupted his morning ritual of counting inadequacies. Heavy, entitled, definitely not asking permission so much as announcing presence.
"Enter," he called, forcing courtesy into his voice despite wanting to tell them to fuck off.
Thane walked in like he owned the place — which, fair, he basically did. The heir apparent had grown too, but in that comfortable way of someone who'd never had to choose between eating and having energy to train more. Soft strength, the kind that looked good in portraits.
"Cousin." Thane's smile could have curdled fresh milk.
Cousin. Because when you show no aptitude by age five, even the Patriarch's blood gets demoted to branch family. Dear old dad couldn't have a failure carrying the direct line title.
"Cousin," Avian returned the greeting, the word familiar after seven years of being officially not-quite-family. "Up early again, I see."
"The early bird catches the worm, as they say." Avian moved to his weapon rack, ignoring how his muscles screamed at the basic movement. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Can't I check on family?" Thane's eyes tracked around the room — weights everywhere, striking posts beaten to splinters, bloodstains on the floor from when he'd pushed too hard and not bothered cleaning properly. "This... dedication of yours has people talking."
"People do enjoy their gossip." Especially about shit that doesn't concern them.
"They're saying you've lost your mind. That the forgotten third son finally snapped under the pressure of being... overlooked."
Worthless. He was going to say worthless. Prick.
"How fascinating," Avian said mildly. "I hadn't realized my training schedule was such riveting entertainment."
Thane picked up one of the heavier weights, making a show of how easily he handled it. "Just checking on family. Making sure you're... prepared for tomorrow."
"How thoughtful."
"Accidents happen during trials." Thane set the weight down hard enough to crack the floor. Oops. "Training injuries. Unfortunate miscalculations. Would be tragic if someone pushed themselves so hard they... broke something permanent."
The threat hung there like a fart in a closed room — impossible to ignore, deeply unpleasant.
Six months ago, Avian would have deflected. Played the nervous third son. Now? Now he was too tired and too angry to bother with that dance entirely.
"Yes," he agreed, keeping his voice level despite the murder in his thoughts. "It would be quite tragic. I do hope all participants take proper precautions tomorrow."
Thane actually blinked. Score one for the forgotten son growing a spine.
"You've changed."
"The trials do tend to inspire growth," Avian replied politely. "I'm merely trying to rise to the occasion."
"The elders think you've lost your mind. Training until you collapse, pushing past every reasonable limit." Thane moved toward the door. "Personally, I think you've just finally accepted what you are — desperate. See you tomorrow, cousin. Try not to die before then."
"Your concern is touching," Avian said with a bow that was perfectly correct and completely mocking. "I shall endeavor to survive until tomorrow's entertainment."
After tomorrow, a lot of things become possible.
The training grounds were packed — last-minute panic driving every heir candidate to squeeze in one more session before judgment. They all stopped when he entered, conversations dying like he'd walked in covered in shit.
Which, given how he'd been living, wasn't entirely inaccurate.
He ignored the stares and whispers, heading for his corner where the equipment was older and meaner. Where he could push without some helpful cousin suggesting he "pace himself" or "rest before the big day."
Rest. Fuck rest. I'll rest when I'm dead. Again.
"Look at him. Fucking madman."
"I heard he coughed up blood last week. Just kept going."
"Waste of effort. Can't train yourself into better blood."
Watch me, assholes.
The Veritas forms flowed like water now — muscle memory finally accepting the inferior patterns even as his real techniques waited underneath. Every movement was perfect, polished, and completely fucking useless in a real fight. But tomorrow he'd need to blend them, make his real skills look like natural evolution of the family style.
Like putting a dress on a war-ax and calling it pretty.
"You're going to kill yourself at this rate."
Seren. Because of course she was here, notebook and all, studying him like he was some fascinating new species of self-destructive idiot.
"Your concern is appreciated," he said without breaking form, sweat already soaking through his shirt. "Though I assure you, I'm being quite careful."
About as careful as a drunk man juggling knives, but she doesn't need to know that.
"Careful?" She settled onto her usual bench, having claimed viewing rights to his descent into madness months ago. "Is that what you call training until you collapse?"
"I call it dedication." I call it necessary. I call it still not fucking enough.
"Is that all?" She made a note, pencil scratching against paper. "Because from where I sit, it looks like you're trying to become someone else entirely."
Too fucking perceptive for her own good.
"Perhaps I'm simply trying to become the best version of myself," he offered, transitioning smoothly into the next form.
"Or perhaps you're trying to remember something." Another note. "The Lyselle archives have fascinating texts about muscle memory. How the body can hold patterns the mind doesn't consciously recall."
He finished the form, turning to face her with a polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Your family's archives sound quite extensive. Though one should be careful with certain theories — they can lead to dangerous conclusions."
"Dangerous for whom?"
"For anyone who digs too deep without proper preparation."
They stared at each other, understanding crackling between them like lightning looking for ground.
"Tomorrow," she said finally. "Whatever you're trying to prove, whatever you're trying to... reclaim. I'll be watching."
"I hope it proves educational," he replied with a slight bow.
She left, and he went back to training. Pushing harder now that the audience had thinned. Aura flared around him, dense enough to crack stone, controlled enough to look like natural talent rather than impossible skill.
Between forms, he let mana trickle through channels that sang with use. Third Core, almost Fourth, built on a foundation of agony and stubbornness. Nothing compared to what he'd been, but his. Earned in this life with this body's pain.
"Still going?"
Kai. The only person who'd watched his transformation with something like understanding rather than horror or mockery.
"Last day to improve," Avian replied without stopping, though his tone remained courteous despite the exhaustion. "Every moment counts."
"Or last day to rest."
"Rest is for—" People who've already lost. Shit, almost said it out loud. "—after the trials, I think."
"You've been saying that for six months." Kai shook his head. "Whatever you were trying to become, I think you found it. Or it found you."
Not even close. This is just the shadow of a shadow of what I was.
"Tomorrow will tell," Avian said diplomatically.
"About that." Kai glanced around, checking for listeners. "My ancestor's journal. The one about the Demon War. After tomorrow, after everything settles... would you want to read it? All of it?"
Avian's form stuttered for just a moment. "That's... quite generous. Why would you offer such a thing?"
"Because I think you're looking for something. And the official histories..." Kai shrugged. "Sometimes the truth hides in the margins. In the stories people weren't supposed to preserve."
Smart kid. Too smart. Going to get himself killed being that smart.
"I would be honored," Avian said with genuine gratitude breaking through his exhaustion. "Thank you, Kai. That means more than you know."
"For what it's worth? I hope you find what you're looking for. Even if it burns everything down."
You have no idea what you're wishing for, friend. No fucking idea.
He left Avian alone with his exhaustion and his ghosts. Six months condensed into tomorrow's violence. His body was a collection of barely healed damage held together by will and aura. His mind felt like it had been scraped raw and salted.
But underneath it all, Fargrim hummed with anticipation. The blade had drunk deep these past months — blood and mana and killing intent feeding its slow awakening. Not fully conscious yet, but stirring. Ready to remind the world what a real weapon looked like.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow we stop pretending to be weak.
He limped back to his chambers as the sun set, every step a negotiation with a body that had been pushed past breaking too many times. One more night. One more dawn. Then he could stop holding back, stop playing the desperate third son scrambling for relevance.
The Vaerin statue stood in the courtyard, all noble lies carved in stone. Tomorrow, he'd take the first real step toward tearing down everything that statue represented.
Soon, you bastard. Soon I'll know why you murdered me. Why you smiled while doing it.
But first, he had to win. Had to beat soft cousins who'd never learned that real strength came from breaking yourself until only the useful parts remained. Who thought training was something you did between meals and social obligations.
They called him mad. Obsessed. Desperate.
Guilty on all counts.
But madness had carved him from soft noble into something harder. Obsession had driven him past limits he didn't know existed. And desperation?
Desperation was just another word for motivation when you'd already died once.
Tomorrow would be a fucking revelation.