Most of the nobles had already returned to their estates, and the Draymoor kids had been escorted to the capital—with proper protection this time.

  “Roger said the attack most likely came from the northern tribes,” Notch muttered to Sly, gently brushing her cool head with his thumb.

  He’d finally been reunited with her. Svenn had given Sly to Crystal for safekeeping during his week of unconsciousness. Normally, keeping an unconscious body clean and dignified required hours of unpleasant procedures—but magic made everything strangely swift and elegant.

  Notch walked through the town square with Sly hidden beneath his collar. Her scales shifted in tiny, alert ripples against his skin. His gaze skimmed the crowd, jaw tight—a tension that hadn’t left him since the attack.

  Roger had told him to buy something that “fit a high grade.” Clothes and shoes suitable for his rank. Notch still wasn’t sure what that meant, and the faint pinch between his brows made that clear.

  After a few wrong turns, he finally found a small clothing shop tucked beyond the mansion. The air smelled of freshly pressed fabric and faint, earthy tea.

  An older man stood behind the counter.

  “My name is Korvenn,” he said. His voice trembled slightly, hands shaking from years of labor.

  He guided an indecisive Notch through the store, quietly watching the boy’s micro-reactions: the small purse of his lips when something was too flashy, the tilt of his head at a promising piece, the subtle exhale of someone overwhelmed by choices.

  Eventually, Notch found it.

  A black greatcoat with a standing collar sharp enough to draw blood, silver embroidery twisting across the chest like living frost. Heavy chains dripped from the epaulettes.

  Notch’s eyes widened a fraction—raw admiration before he quickly schooled his expression. When he rolled his shoulders, the coat fit too perfectly, almost unnervingly so.

  He paid in gold coins. His fingers hesitated for half a second before releasing them—instinctively aware of the coat’s extravagant price.

  “Training,” he muttered as he stepped outside, as if tasting the word. “That man and his brother are gonna train me and Aelira.”

  Sly shifted against his neck. Her tongue flicked his collar. Notch huffed a quiet laugh and patted her.

  He remembered Roger’s explanation, delivered with a mischievous grin—one brow lifted higher than the other.

  “It’s because you’re high grade. The day you arrived, I sent a plea to the capital—Vaeloria—to keep the high grades here for training.”

  Notch’s eyes had narrowed slightly as he tried to make sense of it. “But Malric is a high grade too. How can he train someone with similar potential?”

  His shoulders had stiffened the moment the question left his mouth.

  Roger attempted—and failed—to suppress a laugh. His lips twitched first, then he simply gave up.

  “Who said high grades are the highest?”

  He sighed. “Malric is a genius grade. The highest classification. High grades measure potential. Genius grades measure something… beyond potential. Malric’s on another level entirely.”

  A flicker of awe—and unease—passed through Roger’s eyes.

  “If he ever reaches his absolute peak, he could probably destroy the entire mega-continent of Terthos.”

  ---

  Notch snapped back to the present as he reached the mansion gate. His steps slowed, the subtle tightening around his eyes revealing how impossible the information still felt.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Svenn helped him carry his new clothes upstairs. Notch thanked him with a stiff nod—gratitude mixed with disbelief.

  When Svenn left, Notch stared at the coat again.

  He swallowed.

  He was certain—absolutely certain—that these clothes cost more than everything Viktor had ever owned.

  The weight of that realization pressed heavily on him.

  ---

  Movement in the courtyard caught his eye.

  Through the window, he saw two figures training—one fluid, one fierce.

  Aelira and Malric.

  He moved closer, curiosity overriding fatigue.

  Aelira’s silver aura blazed as she cast sharp, lethal spells. Malric flowed through them effortlessly, sword tracing elegant arcs that deflected mana without a single defensive spell.

  He didn’t need magic to defend. Just the blade.

  “Faster,” Malric called, tone calm. “You’re telegraphing every cast with your breath. Fix that, and I won’t see them coming.”

  Aelira’s jaw tightened. She adjusted. Cast again—three rapid lances.

  Malric pivoted. Two deflected. The third he simply stepped aside from, letting it pass inches from his shoulder.

  “Better. But stop separating sword and spell. They are one flow.”

  He demonstrated—strike and flame in perfect synchronicity.

  Aelira attempted the sequence. Her spell came late, disrupting her stance.

  “Again,” Malric said, patient but unyielding.

  Notch watched, fascinated. This wasn’t training—it was transformation. The breakdown of boundaries between magic and combat.

  A knock pulled him away.

  “Come in.”

  Roger entered, grin in place but eyes slightly tired.

  “Watching training? Good. You’ll join them tomorrow.”

  He leaned against the window.

  “Malric wanted to train you. Thought you’d be interesting.” His smirk sharpened. “But since I found you first, I claimed you. And training a high grade who beats another high grade in his first duel? That’ll raise my competency score when re-evaluations come.”

  “Re-evaluations?” Notch asked.

  “Every six months they reassess rankings. Combat performance, strategic input—everything.” Roger shrugged. “If I can prove I successfully trained you, my rank jumps. Might break top thirty.”

  So it was strategic. Opportunistic.

  Roger caught the flicker in Notch’s expression and chuckled. “Don’t look so disappointed. My selfishness makes me a very effective teacher.”

  He crossed to the door. “Dawn tomorrow. Be ready. Power always costs something.”

  He left.

  Notch exhaled slowly.

  Below, Malric continued drilling Aelira. She was already adapting—her movements sharper, spells cleaner.

  A competitive spark lit in Notch’s chest.

  Tomorrow. He wouldn’t fall behind.

  What would he become under Roger’s training? And when the next limiter lifted…

  Would he recognize himself?

  Sly nuzzled his jaw.

  “Tomorrow,” he whispered. “We find out.”

  The sun dipped below Harrowfen, bathing the training yard in amber and red.

  Malric’s sword sang on.

  ---

  Night deepened before Malric dismissed Aelira. After hours of practice, she collapsed to her knees, trembling, hair clinging to her forehead.

  Malric offered a hand. She hesitated—pride flickering in her eyes—then took it.

  “You learn fast,” he said. A fact, not praise. “Tomorrow we train under pressure. Expect hits.”

  Aelira nodded, breath shallow.

  Notch left the window.

  His stomach growled.

  ---

  The dining hall was smaller than expected: long polished table, candlelight reflecting in warm hues, walls draped with tapestries. The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the air.

  Roger sat at the head, hair slightly disheveled. Aelira arrived soon after, shoulders stiff.

  Servants brought plates—glazed fowl, fragrant vegetables, steaming bread. Wine for Roger. Water for the children.

  Notch ate slowly, savoring every bite. Viktor had never tasted anything like this.

  Aelira ate mechanically.

  Silence settled.

  Then:

  “Why are you here?” Aelira asked quietly.

  Roger blinked. “I live here.”

  “No,” she said, tone steady. “Why aren’t you and Malric on the front lines? With rankings like yours?”

  Roger’s grin faltered—cracked—then disappeared.

  His fingers tapped once against his cup before going still.

  “Harrowfen isn’t safe,” he said. “It’s too close to contested territory. Northern tribes have been testing us for months.”

  His jaw tightened.

  “Bandit’s Creak was a failure. I should have predicted the ambush. Should’ve saved them. The operators, Sir Henry…” His voice strained. “Good men who trusted me.”

  His hands clenched. His shoulders trembled—barely—but enough.

  “Just like I couldn’t save my parents.”

  Everything stilled.

  Aelira froze mid-breath. Notch’s fork hung suspended.

  Roger stared at the table, eyes bright with unshed tears.

  “Three years ago, raiders attacked at night. My parents were inspecting northern estates. I was here. Training. Thinking strength meant safety.”

  A tear slid down his cheek.

  “We’re ranked. We’re powerful. And we still couldn’t save them.”

  His voice cracked.

  “So now we stay. And protect what’s left.”

  He wiped his face, failing to revive his usual grin. It returned crooked, haunted.

  “Apologies. That was… unprofessional.”

  He straightened—barely.

  “You two should know each other. There are plans. Training. Deployments. Evaluations.” His gaze moved between them. “You’ll work together often.”

  He stood abruptly.

  “Rest. Tomorrow will be difficult.”

  He left, steps echoing until they faded.

  ---

  The hall felt emptier without him.

  Notch picked at his food. Aelira stared into her water.

  “I… didn’t know about his parents,” he said softly.

  “Neither did I.”

  Silence, almost gentle this time.

  “You were good today,” Notch said. “I watched. You improved fast.”

  Aelira blinked, caught off guard—her shoulders relaxing a fraction.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. “And… congratulations. On winning.”

  Notch frowned. “What?”

  “You beat me fairly.” She swallowed pride. “I hope to become as strong as you.”

  “You’re already strong,” he said. “You killed nine bandits. You just need to stop thinking in forms and start thinking in survival.”

  Aelira leaned forward slightly. “Is that how you fight? Like it’s survival?”

  Notch hesitated—then nodded.

  “Yes.”

  She studied him, thoughtful.

  “Teach me,” she said. “Not now. Later. Teach me the way you fight.”

  Notch considered her. The pride from before was gone.

  “Alright. If you teach me magical theory. I don’t understand half of what I’m doing.”

  “Deal.” She extended her hand.

  He shook it—her grip firm despite her shaking muscles.

  They ate in a more comfortable silence.

  “What do you think he meant,” she asked, “about plans for us?”

  Notch shook his head. “Nothing simple.”

  “No,” she agreed.

  Night pressed against the windows. Beyond it, danger simmered. The same danger that had killed Roger’s parents.

  “We should get stronger,” Notch murmured.

  Aelira met his eyes.

  “Agreed.”

  Somewhere in the mansion, Roger sat alone, staring at maps and regrets.

  In the courtyard, Malric’s training sword lay waiting.

  Tomorrow would begin something new.

  Something dangerous.