The fight was between a staff user and a short-sword fighter. They were not really up to the Order’s standards, but perhaps suitable for the guard. At the very least, it was an opportunity for Thomas to learn something.
The swordsman’s blade glowed as he swung it down in a powerful overhead strike. He had swung it too hard and wide—no real technique, more hacking than cutting.
Instead of meeting it or trying to block, the staff fighter rolled to the side and back to his feet again. He was facing the wrong direction, but the tip of his staff glowed brightly as he spun in a half circle and made a thrust toward the swordsman, who had overextended his swing.
The swordsman turned toward the incoming staff. He loosened his two-handed grip and made an underswing toward it. As his sword blocked the staff, just centimeters from his own chest, the staff pulsed, releasing a shockwave. The force hurled the sword toward the arena wall and sent the swordsman flying backward nearly two meters before he collapsed unconscious.
Berimir let out a sigh as he watched the two idiots fight.
What an untrained and unnecessarily showy mess.
At least the weather was nice. The sand-pit arena was the best of the three arenas in town when the weather allowed, thanks to its open roof. Unfortunately, it also always hosted the worst fights.
The underground pits and the Sword Hall held the real talent, but he couldn’t take Thomas there. The Sword Hall only allowed guild members, and the underground pits were too violent.
He glanced at his son, whose eyes were shining with excitement.
Of course he would be impressed.
“That was so cool, Dad. He must be like you, second cycle.”
Berimir chuckled.
“No. Sorry to say, but they’re at most early first cycle. The winner was probably a monk adept, and the unconscious one is some kind of soldier or fighter. Nothing higher.”
“What do you mean probably? Can’t you just use Analyze on them?” Thomas asked, sounding confused.
“Yes, but I don’t need to. I’m here to assess their skills and potential. I don’t want to be biased by what classes they have now—more how they move and act,” Berimir replied.
“So are they going to join the Knight Order?” Thomas asked, hanging on every word.
Berimir smiled and patted his son’s head.
“No. They’re not suited for that path. I’ll send the monk to the guard captain with a letter, but the swordsman isn’t even good enough for that.”
“Because he lost?”
“No. Because he doesn’t even know how to swing a sword. Tell me three things he did wrong.”
“He… used a skill too soon?” Thomas answered uncertainly.
Berimir shook his head.
“He swung too wide?” Thomas tried again, more confident.
Seeing no reaction, he continued.
“He tried to parry without stable footing, and… and…”
He thought back to his father’s lessons and his sword classes at the academy.
“He didn’t stop his movement before attempting a killing blow, and he didn’t check his opponent’s fighting style. And he gripped the sword too tightly.”
His excitement returned at the end, remembering how his father used to smack the sword out of his hands for that exact mistake.
“You’re right on all counts, and even added one extra,” Berimir said. “But as you saw, they’ve only just entered their first cycle. They’ve never trained in real combat. They’re either from worker families or the streets.”
“The swordsman will probably join a guild. And of all guilds, only the Adventurer Guild would take him.”
“Why can’t he join a family, a clan, or even a school?”
“No. Only a low family or a gang would accept him, and the schools wouldn’t even spare him a glance. Without a fortunate encounter, he won’t advance to second cycle, let alone extend his lifespan.”
Or live past sixteen…
But Berimir didn’t say that out loud.
The swordsman looked about fifteen and hadn’t gained a single level since his augmentation and path awakening.
“We’ll talk about this while walking home. Your mother and Lily are waiting, and I need to deliver the letter to reception.”
“Why not give it directly to Royen?”
So that was the staff user’s name.
“Because if I give it to him personally, he’ll feel obligated to join the guard. And they don’t need people who won’t give everything to the cause.”
They left the arena after delivering the letter, not needing to wait in line.
As they walked, people kept their distance. They were the only two wearing spotless, clean clothes. Though Berimir was tall and powerfully built like a knight, his posture revealed his noble status. He wore a combination of a suit and a gi made from fine blue arcane silk.
His son wore a matching outfit.
They approached a carriage guarded by armored knights.
Berimir stopped beside a beggar and dropped some coins into his bowl.
Once seated inside the carriage and the doors closed, Thomas returned to the earlier topic.
“So why wouldn’t he be able to advance to second cycle? Doesn’t he just need to level?”
Berimir glanced back toward the beggar, then returned his gaze to his son.
“You’re technically right that he needs enough energy. Eventually, he should be able to break into the next cycle. But every cycle requires more than just levels.”
“Have you learned the difference between first, second, and third?”
Thomas thought carefully.
“Strength… and how long they live?”
Berimir nodded, his expression serious.
“That’s not wrong, but it’s simplistic. The difference between first and second cycle is mana.”
Seeing Thomas about to speak, Berimir raised a hand.
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“Always listen until the end. Good manners. You never understand something fully with only half the facts.”
Thomas nodded quickly.
“When you’re in the first cycle, mana fills your body, but you can’t channel it. You can only move it around.”
He paused to ensure understanding.
“In the second cycle, you gain the ability to channel mana outside your body. That’s why there are no true mages in the first cycle, and why that monk didn’t cast a real spell.”
“But he did that big boom,” Thomas protested.
Berimir almost chuckled.
“No. He just forced mana to the tip of his staff with a crude skill. He had no control.”
Thomas frowned.
“What does that have to do with my question?”
“The reason second-cycle cultivators can do that is because of pathways in the body, shaped by one’s path. A path can change, but it must always move forward.”
Thomas whispered, confused, “What does that mean?”
“If you choose the path of a warrior, you must be a warrior. If you choose baker, you must bake. That’s how you level.”
“But advancing means becoming better at what you do—swinging a sword more cleanly, baking better bread, experimenting, learning.”
“It’s not about raw strength or levels. It’s about refinement. Your path shapes you, and you shape your path.”
Thomas looked a little confused but also thoughtful.
“So are you stuck after awakening? And what about third cycle?”
Berimir looked out the window again, at the beggar Lo Tao, and wondered why he was here.
“You can always change, but never drastically. Subclasses allow shifts.”
The carriage began moving.
“And the difference between second and third cycle is aura.”
At the same time, in a castle near the forest that bees called the Dead Place—formally known as Noctern Castle in the country of Cersolse—stood a beautiful man who looked as though he had been carved from marble.
His unnatural pallor gave him an alien, unsettling presence.
He was known by many names:
- The Selfish Bastard
? Traitorous Elf
? Corpselover Elf
? The Undead King
At the moment, he stood at a table, experimenting on a corpse he was preparing to reawaken.
His assistant, Charry, stood nearby when a group of people burst through the doors of the great hall.
“Do we have guests today?”
His dry, raspy voice carried the scent of fall and death.
“No, sire. They are invaders,” his assistant replied. “I came to report that a mercenary group—”
He interrupted her before she could finish. To an untrained eye, his expression didn’t change, but to Charry, who had served him for three hundred years, it was pure bafflement.
“So they defeated Corem and Sahimes’ groups, and all other guards?”
“No, sire. You sent all special troops to finish the project in the glades.”
She saw the moment he remembered, just before one of the intruders shouted:
“Get ready and surround him so he doesn’t—AHHH!”
Without looking, the Undead King raised a hand indifferently.
“Bone Spire.”
A long spear of bone shot from his hand, piercing the screaming man’s stomach and killing two behind him.
The survivor screamed on the floor.
That annoyed the king.
He looked up.
There were about thirty invaders, now twenty-seven, ready to charge.
“Kill them,” he said calmly.
The moment the words left his mouth, two of his personal guards dropped from the ceiling, while seven more entered through the doors around the hall.
The invaders adapted quickly. A spear wielder stopped one of the falling guards, while another undead collapsed headless.
The king was mildly impressed. The one he assumed was their leader had beheaded an intelligent undead so quickly that he might have been the only one to see it.
Then a door opened directly behind him.
He looked back at the woman who stepped through, clad in full ebony armor.
She carried her own head beneath her arm.
“Haha, you are having so fun without me, my lord.”
One of the invaders shouted in fear and shock. “Dullahan. She was not supposed to be here?”
“What are you doing back, Mihela? You should be in the south,” he said in irritation.
“My lord, I heard you were sending expeditions to the glades.”
She made a small bow toward him, then took her head in both hands and set it by her neck. A click could be heard as she locked it in place.
“But this seems fun too.”
Then she went into a running stance and charged toward the leader who had just killed another undead and was making his way toward the king.
She met him in the middle, running and making a move like she was hugging herself, drawing her gladius from behind her left shoulder blade.
As she swung her gladius and straightened her back, Rouen, the leader, blocked her strike but was pushed back. He fully stopped her swing with his greatsword.
Her left hand swung from her side, emitting dark smoke. Rouen stepped to the left and swung down at her head, but met only empty air.
He saw his sword pass through her, but then she disappeared like a mirage. Pain hit his chest, and he saw her to the left, just out of his eyesight.
“That was almost fun.”
She ripped out her gladius and beheaded him offhandedly before he could even fall, then ran toward his remaining soldiers.
Behind her, an assassin had slipped past them without anyone noticing, toward the king. He had stopped paying attention to the fighting and was back to enhancing the corpse.
But the moment she entered within a meter of him, she froze.
She felt like she had entered death. She had a hard time breathing.
The last thing she heard was, “Bone Arrow,” then darkness.
He had not really thought about what he was doing. He felt someone enter his aura, formed a bone arrow in his hand, and stabbed it through the person’s throat.
He looked down and used Inspection on the attacker, not like he could get any work done with the noise.
He was somewhat interested by this unintentional find. Maybe with work he could make something of it.
He looked up and saw they were almost finished, and one of the intruders was running toward him. He readied a curse and threw it.
But the runner changed direction in a blink. He lost sight of the runner for a split second and felt mildly impressed.
When he saw him again, he was running toward a window and threw an orb at it. It exploded on impact.
He was about to throw a spear at him, but the runner threw one more orb toward him. On reflex, he hurled the bone spear at the orb. It exploded and made the room shake.
His secretary shot a needle from her mouth that pricked his shoulder as the runner leapt outside.
The whole show was somewhat impressive. The king looked around and saw that everyone else among the intruders was dead.
“Should I have him taken care of?” his secretary asked.
He thought about it, but then said, “No. That was somewhat entertaining and impressive. I lost sight of that one for almost a second. Gather all the corpses. I need to replace the ones they destroyed.”
In a dark room, two months of travel by boat away on a continent ruled by the Empire of the Eternal Sun, the Thirty-Third Prince was watching a ceremony where two twin sisters were killing each other while bound by chains.
Beside him stood a merchant, telling him about finding an Orb of Devouring Fire.
“Where did you say you saw it?”
“The orb was in the market hub. A Ming Lou was selling it before it was removed, Empire’s Ember.”
The prince looked at the merchant as if he were a bug.
“Did someone else buy it?” The tone was clear. If this merchant was here wasting his time with this, then he would be killed.
“No. I would not dare waste the time of an Ember of the Empire for something like that,” he said with a shaking voice. He had thought this was his opportunity to make it big, but now he felt cold sweat on his back and struggled to breathe.
“It was removed like… they, or someone, was hiding it, Empire’s Ember.”
“Calm down and tell me where it is now.”
The prince waved his hand, and a man carrying a small bag of mana crystals stood beside the merchant.
He felt the aura from the man and swallowed hard.
“He—I mean the one who was selling it—who put it up—was a noble. A count from the Misty Islands to the north.”
He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
“It’s about fifty days by ship… Empire’s Ember.”
The prince looked toward the two who had been fighting as the ceremony was finishing and waved to the side.
He only heard a thud as the merchant’s head hit the ground.