Niko knew—better than anyone else—that what he was doing was the height of foolishness. Nobody had to tell him that.

  He was a healer, not a fighter. With just the basics of combat he learned from his father, he wasn’t anywhere near the level of participants like Phaedon or Grits or Sibeiya or Albus. The only reason he got as far as he did was his stubbornness. It was one of the many qualities about himself that he despised.

  The Healmage trudged along the stone arena as the crowd cheered. The announcers were saying things, but he couldn’t really pay them any attention. He had no plans, no secret tricks, no hidden abilities—he was just lucky to not have been paired against anyone overwhelmingly powerful until now.

  That’s right. Until now ...

  Niko stopped near the center and met eyes with his opponent—Lilieth, the new girl among Spearman’s students. What she was doing in the festival, he didn’t know. She wasn’t like the other three who were being assessed to see if they were strong enough to finish their training with Spearman. And yet, here she was, her intensity not losing out to the rest of them.

  “...”

  Niko found his voice caught in his throat. The girl in front of him was younger and smaller than he was, but he felt almost crushed by her presence. It was such a surreal jump from the girl he treated all those days ago. He’d seen her fight, yes, and he was shocked then by her skill and brutality, but facing those things head-on was something else entirely. Amidst all that, a single thought floated to the top of his mind: There’s no way I’m winning this.

  “Fighters, to your positions!”

  Taking his place in the arena’s pre-drawn circles, Niko readied his blade: a simple, dull bastard sword. He remembered his training just fine, but the weapon still felt so off in his hands. Its weight was wholly unpleasant.

  Lilieth took her stance, and in that moment, a shiver ran down Niko’s spine. It was an unfamiliar stance, likely a foreign sword art, but Lilieth fell into it so naturally, so seamlessly, almost as if positioning herself any other way was unnatural—like that combat stance was her body’s most default state.

  A ferocity surrounded her very being, so potent that even to Niko’s untrained eye, he could tell that there was nowhere for him to strike without losing his own life. She was an unscalable wall made of intense bloodlust.

  The girl’s eyes alone could have cut right through him. Her stare was razor-sharp, and it felt out of place, like he was seeing someone’s real gaze underneath a shoddy mask.

  His own eyes widened, and Niko began to question who he was fighting. Was that really Lilieth? Or was he standing in front of someone wearing her skin?

  Who was she, really?

  He gripped the handle of his blade tightly. If he didn’t, then he would have surely dropped his weapon. He might not have had a chance of winning, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try. After all, Tethys and Irene had no one else to turn to.

  They didn’t ask for his help. He knew that if they were aware of the costs, they’d have refused him. That was why he was going to settle things quickly, before they could do so.

  “...”

  Why am I going so far for them?

  A question arose in his mind as the announcers began the countdown—one that he’d asked himself many, many times before. Why was he even a healer to begin with?

  Was it because his father ran a clinic?

  Was it because he had been Blessed with Healing magic?

  Was it something else?

  “Begin!”

  The crowd roared instantly. He had expected Lilieth to come at him as soon as the fight started, but she stayed her ground, observing him, waiting for him to make the first move.

  The onus was on him to begin his own defeat.

  He shook his head.

  Stop thinking negatively, Niko. Your defeat isn’t certain. Deep breaths ...

  The Healmage’s unsteady steps heralded the fervor of the crowd, and he swung at Lilieth with all his might. It was, in his opinion, the most perfect sword swing he’d ever executed. His form was great, his footing was solid, the momentum and arc were spot-on. If fate had decided that he would, in his life, only perfect a swing once, then he was sure it was this very one.

  And, as if to mock his efforts, his blade caught onto nothing but air. In the blink of an eye, he had lost sight of his opponent.

  “Wha—?!”

  Before he could track where Lilieth had gone, he felt a kick hit his stomach. The force rippled throughout his body as he was thrown into the air.

  As he flew, he saw, for a brief second, a figure amidst the cheering crowd: a woman leaning against the railing, Rhea. She wouldn’t have known that he was participating, so it must have been a shock to her. There was a worry in her eyes—a genuine concern for his safety.

  A fleeting thought passed through him.

  Why are you looking at me like that? Even after everything I’ve ...?

  Niko landed on the ground, his head slamming against the stone.

  And darkness followed.

  Lord Nikolaos Argyri was a prodigy. If you asked him, it wasn’t any sort of hubristic claim, just destiny—or plain genealogical fact. The one who taught him that was his late grandfather.

  Nikolaos didn’t know much about old Doran Argyri. The young lord only learned it later, but Doran Argyri grew up in a small village in Alveia, to the north, before coming to Artemest, meeting the love of his life, and settling down. He was the one that opened the SilverRose Clinic, utilizing his advanced medicinal knowledge to help the people of the city. Then, Maron Argyri was born, and soon after, he was Blessed with Healing magic just like his father and eventually took over the business.

  Doran Argyri was friends with many people, and he was known as quite the talkative type. Yet, he never spoke much of himself nor what his life was like before moving to Krysanth. Nikolaos, however, was stubborn, and one day, he managed to get some things out of him.

  His grandfather said that the Argyris were an old family that traced their roots two-thousand years back to the ancient Kingdom-City of Crescaris Nocta. There, their ancestors served as healers for the Twelve Heroes before their Ascension as Lesser Gods. It was a dubious story, looking back. Crescaris Nocta was more of a fairy tale than anything else, but the young, impressionable Nikolaos took the story to heart. To him, the Argyris were a noble family, deserving of respect and admiration and love.

  Before he even turned ten, Nikolaos was already deep into his medicinal studies. He was even given Healmage training despite not being Blessed. Everyone questioned the decision, but Doran was insistent. “Nikolaos will be a Healmage”, he always said, and Nikolaos believed him with all his heart.

  So, he underwent Healmage studies, learning as much as he could about the human body and its functions. Healing wasn’t as difficult to learn as something like Lunar or Illusion magic, but it was notoriously difficult to apply. Among all the Blessings, Healing had the most number of spells, and knowing when to use what and how was crucial. In addition to that, Nikolaos had to learn other things like alchemy and surgery to crown his medicinal knowledge.

  And Nikolaos Argyri was good at it. He applied himself well, and it showed with how good the results were. Indeed, it felt like there was no obstacle he couldn’t overcome.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Doran Argyri died when Niko was only nine, and since then, Nikolaos’ life was on a downhill trajectory.

  Nikolaos Argyri, fourteen years old, sat in his chair, arms crossed, staring at the beaker in front of him. The fluid inside—an ugly dark green—should have already changed color from the reaction, but nothing was happening. He clicked his tongue, writing down the results on a piece of paper.

  “Another failure,” he whispered. “It shouldn’t be this hard ...!”

  It was a simple test. All he needed to do was produce a stable compound from the ingredients his father gave him without relying on formulas or instructions.

  He knew the theory—bellblossom root to accelerate natural healing processes, purified moondust to stimulate the silver veins, huno leaves to stabilize the distribution, rafflesia blood to act as a binding agent ...

  “Was it a problem with the order?” he muttered out loud. “No, it should have worked. Maybe I didn’t add enough heat—no, the rafflesia blood would’ve separated. Then, the huno leaves? I need to take note of the coloring after being added in ...”

  Nikolaos slammed the pen onto the table, staining his notes with ink, and leaned back into his chair. It should have been a simple test ... no, rather, it should have been simple for him. It was infuriating that he was having such trouble with it. He wasn’t like other medics. He was Nikolaos Argyri of the line of Healmages. Wasn’t he good at this before? It made no sense …

  It made even less sense that he hadn’t yet received his Blessing.

  The clinking of ceramics sounded in the room, and a girl approached to set down a cup of tea on his table. She had long brown hair and was around his age. It was Rhea, one of his father’s students—the daughter of a long-time employee of the clinic. They’d known each other since they were old enough to remember.

  “Um,” Rhea stammered. “Niko, that—”

  “Lord Argyri,” he corrected. He hated it when he was called with such a mundane name, without proper respect. The blood that flowed through his veins was ancient and regal for crying out loud. He had allowed Rhea to refer to him with such informality a few years back, but it was time to grow up. No more playing around; and Nikolaos would have rather died than not be taken seriously.

  “Uh, right. Lord Argyri, that concoction ... it’s dreamboon, isn’t it?”

  Nikolaos recoiled in appalment. “Is it not obvious?”

  Rhea was staring at the potion, the ingredients, and each tool scattered about the table. Somehow, she figured it out with just a brief glance.

  “The reaction isn’t starting,” she said.

  “It should. I just ... the reagents are bad, that’s all. I’m going to ask my father to replace them.”

  “Um, isn’t the point of the test to make a viable product with low-quality reagents? Lord Maron gave me this test before, too, though it was for a different concoction. Would you like me to help you, Nik—Lord Argyri?”

  Nikolaos clicked his tongue. “Do you think this is beyond my abilities? I don’t need your help.”

  Rhea flinched, her fingers tightening around the tray she was holding. “I-I didn’t mean it like that. I just thought that—”

  “You thought,” he interrupted, rising from his chair. “That’s the problem. You keep thinking when you shouldn’t. You’re just a helper. You don’t get to comment on my work.”

  Nikolaos was the son of Maron, grandson of Doran: both incredible healers and the best the city had ever seen. Nikolaos was falling behind, and he refused to be the stain that dragged the Argyri name. He hadn’t yet been Blessed, but one day, he would. He was sure of that. And when that day came, everyone would witness his greatness.

  He looked back at the failed concoction—hours wasted. What a joke. The clinic hired lesser workers to do menial tasks like this, so why was he being forced to learn them at all?

  “This is ridiculous. I’m going back to training,” he said, skirting around Rhea.

  His time was better spent getting stronger. It was said that the greatest Healmages were also front-line fighters, renowned for how difficult they were to kill. He intended to inherit the clinic, but he didn’t intend to stay there. He would go out and make a name for himself and bring the Argyri name back to its lost grandeur.

  Being a hero was a far more enticing option than making potions. That’s what servants were for.

  “Wait!” Rhea called out to him. “Would you at least like a sip of the tea? I worked really hard on—”

  “Clean up the table,” Nikolaos said as he grabbed his coat from a nearby rack. “Spotless. And bring me fresh huno leaves. Take them from the back stock, not the prepared pile. Someone like me shouldn’t even have to work with inferior materials to begin with.”

  Rhea was quiet. He couldn’t see what face she was making, but it was probably something dumb again.

  “Now,” he commanded. “By the time I get back, those huno leaves better be there.”

  He didn’t look back as he strode out the door and into the hallway. The clinic was as busy as always, workers running about frantically. Of course, if they passed him, they made sure to give a courteous bow, just as he taught them. SilverRose wasn’t just a big place; it was the largest clinic in the Eupatridion district. He couldn’t exactly be bothered to remember the names of each and every worker, so he ignored them.

  Nikolaos entered his father’s office—a modestly decorated space filled with the scent of books—but instead of Maron, he found Thales deep in paperwork, sitting in his father's seat. His eyes were heavy with bags, likely from having been working for so long. Thales was his father’s right hand, serving as his assistant since Maron took over the clinic.

  “Where’s my father?” Nikolaos asked as he entered.

  Thales looked up at him with displeased eyes. “Good day, Nikolaos. Your father is in the Charados district at the moment.”

  “Charados? That’s practically at the other end of the city. What’s he doing that far away?”

  Thales set aside one sheet of paper and took another one from the stack. The speed of his writing was astounding. “One of the nobles living there has asked that SilverRose treat his sick daughter. Maron personally went himself.”

  Nikolaos frowned. Why go that far? SilverRose had available workers, surely. It would have been a smarter use of the clinic's resources to send one of them on that errand rather than have Maron do it himself, but that was beside the point.

  “Call me when my father returns,” the young lord said, proceeding to exit the office. “I need to get back to my sword training—”

  “There will be no more sword training.”

  Nikolaos turned to Thales, who kept his focus on the papers. A silence stretched between them.

  “Explain.”

  The man sighed. “You’ve gotten distracted from your studies. Playtime is over. It’s clear that your sword training isn’t going anywhere anyway.”

  Nikolaos scoffed. “Distracted? How kind of you to assume that. I’m not being distracted.”

  “Then, I assume you’ve finished the dreamboon concoction?”

  The young lord flinched. “I’m working on it. Besides, why should I have to work with faulty ingredients anyway? The test is stupid—”

  “Because if you’re ever assigned to a commission outside the clinic, you might have to make do with what’s available in case of an emergency. The test is meant to ensure you’ll be able to make a potion with lesser ingredients that won’t kill the patient. I had hoped you’d learned that from your studies, but you clearly haven’t. No more distractions.”

  There was a firm pause between each of his final words. Thales set another piece of paper aside with a slam as he ended the sentence, then took another from the stack. Nikolaos hated this man. What right did he have to speak to him that way? Absurd. Thales only had his position because Maron deemed it so, and he was letting it get to his head. For starters, how did he not feel ashamed sitting on his father’s seat just because he wasn’t around? His father was far too lenient with Thales; that much was certain.

  Thales let out a tired huff when Nikolaos made no response. “If you’re having trouble with the test, go ask Rhea for help.”

  Nikolaos was stunned for a moment. “Rhea? Her? What does she have to do with any of this?”

  “She’s a talented apothecary, and she already has practical experience. In the past few months, we’ve had her work at the clinic every now and then. No doubt she’ll shape up to be one of SilverRose’s best doctors. You could learn a thing or two from her, especially since she seems to be the only one willing to defend you these days.”

  The young lord suppressed the urge to laugh. “She’s a commoner—and not even a Healmage—and I’m supposed to learn from her?”

  “You’re not a Healmage either nor are you far off from a commoner yourself. The Argyris are not a noble house.”

  “My grandfather—”

  “I don’t care what stories Sir Doran told you. The fact of the matter is that neither you nor your father hold any noble titles—even if you’ve somehow bullied the rest of the clinic to call you ‘Lord’. Go back to your test, Nikolaos. I’m really quite busy.”

  Thales continued to work, the sound of ruffling papers and the scribbling of his pen filling the silence, as if taunting Nikolaos to say something to disturb the calm atmosphere.

  Instead, Nikolaos turned and left, not forgetting to slam the door as hard as he could.

  Go back to your test, he says.

  A rigged test, meant to make him fail—and for what? It was a waste of time. His father be damned, and Thales be damned, and Rhea be damned—all of them be damned. Everyone be damned. They couldn’t see it. They were blind, all blind.

  He refused to be stopped here.

  Lilieth opened her eyes, still disoriented from the wave of memories that forced their way into her head. She was back at the arena, cheers enveloping her. On the ground in front of her was Niko, a faint trace of blood dripping from his mouth.

  She took a deep breath to reorient herself and noticed that there was a small splatter of blood on her arm—likely from when she kicked Niko away. She didn’t expect him to be so ... flimsy. Or perhaps she was just used to fighting against ridiculously hardy opponents.

  At any rate, some of the blood got on her, and that allowed her to absorb some of his memories. Her theory was holding up.

  Still, what a stark contrast. The Niko she saw the memories of was so unlike the Niko she knew. What could have happened to mellow him out as much as he did?

  Or was his current personality nothing but a lie?

  Lilieth, deep down inside her, wanted that to be the case—because, at least then, she wouldn’t be alone in living with a mask.

  Niko finally moved, reaching his hand out to grab the sword he had dropped. The audience went wild, excited that they wouldn’t be subject to a fight cut short. He slowly pushed himself back up, clutching his stomach as a trickle of blood dripped down the side of his head. Even now, it looked like it would only take a single half-hearted hit to bring him down.

  What was he fighting for? What could have driven him to these lengths? Was it revenge?

  No, Lilieth was missing something. She didn’t get all of his memories. And more critically, she didn’t get to absorb any of his spells. None of the memories she received included any from after he was Blessed.

  She was even filled with curiosity, wanting to see the rest of his life. What happened after that? What turned him into the person he was now?

  She felt a powerful desire to know.

  Fine, Lilieth thought. I just need to make him bleed a bit more. I’ll make this quick, Sir Niko.

  The young mage readied her blade and rushed in, hoping to end the fight ...

  ... As soon as she got everything she needed from him.