Chapter 4
The Forging
The rhythm of the castle became Kaelen's new reality. As Renly, his days were a brutal cycle of predawn drills, endless chores, and exhausted sleep. The squire's body, though young and resilient, was pushed to its limits. Every muscle ached, but Kaelen welcomed the pain—it was the feeling of progress.
He learned the hierarchy of this world by watching. The common soldiers and men-at-arms trained hard, their movements precise and strong. They were the "warriors," cultivating their vital life force through relentless exercise and breathing techniques. They were tough, but they were baseline.
Then there were the Knights.
He saw Ser Joric, the castle's master-at-arms, demonstrate for the squires. The man wasn't just skilled; he was more. When a training sword slipped and would have cracked a squire's skull, Ser Joric's hand snapped out, moving with a blur of speed that defied human limits, catching the wooden blade an inch from the boy's face. A faint, coppery glint flickered in his eyes for a second.
"Control, boy," Joric grunted, his voice a low rumble. "Strength without control is just a beast's rage. A Knight's Bloodline is a tool, not a crutch."
This was the key difference Kaelen pieced together. The warriors cultivated a general, diffuse vital energy that enhanced their overall physique. But those with Bloodlines, the Knights, could focus that energy, channeling it to awaken a specific, inherited ability. Ser Joric's clan, the "Copper-Fox," was known for bursts of preternatural speed.
One evening, while mucking out the stables, Kaelen overheard two older squires talking.
"My father says the Grand Knight of the North can project an aura of fear that makes seasoned warriors freeze," one whispered, his voice full of awe.
"That's nothing," the other countered. "I heard a Great Shaman from the Stone-Tree tribe passed through the capital. They say he could make the earth itself heal a blighted field, just by touching it and chanting for a day. But he had to be carried in a litter—weak as a kitten in a fight."
Kaelen stored the information. So, the pinnacle of the Knight's path—the "Grand Knight"—touched a level of power that could affect the environment, a clear step above. And the Shaman, while powerful in their niche, lacked the physical enhancement. It was a trade-off. The Federation's Aether-Weavers had no such weakness; their power was both external and did not diminish their bodies. This world's systems were more specialized, more... primal.
His goal became crystalline. He didn't need to become a Grand Knight or a Shaman. He just needed to get Renly's body to the threshold of an "official Knight"—the 1st Order equivalent. The constant drilling and the subtle cultivation of vital force in this world were already changing him. He could feel Renly's muscles hardening, his reflexes sharpening. But it wasn't enough. He needed the spark, the Bloodline ability itself, or at least the concentrated power that came with it.
His opportunity came a week later. A hunting party returned, and with them came a commotion. A young Knight from a visiting house, Ser Edric, had been gored by a enraged boar. He would live, but his arm was broken and deeply torn. The castle's healer, an old woman with fingers stained from herbs, set to work.
Kaelen, assigned to fetch hot water and clean linens, watched from the doorway. As the healer cleaned the wound, her hands began to glow with a soft, green light. She wasn't a Shaman; this was something simpler, a focused use of vital force for mending. It was a common skill among those who cultivated it for non-combat purposes.
But it was Ser Edric's reaction that captivated Kaelen. As the pain spiked, the Knight's eyes flashed, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. A faint, visible mist escaped his lips, and the skin around his wound momentarily took on a rime-like, frosty sheen before fading. His Bloodline, a minor cryogenic ability, had flared instinctively against the pain.
In that moment, Kaelen didn't just see a power. He felt it. Through Renly's senses, he perceived the surge of concentrated life force, the unique "Origin" of this Knight's bloodline. It was a complex, potent signature, far denser than the diffuse energy Renly was building through training.
This was what he had to absorb. Not just the general strength of a squire, but the specific, enhanced essence of a fully realized Knight.
The encounter solidified his resolve. He couldn't just train passively. He had to push Renly into a situation that would force a breakthrough, that would ignite whatever latent potential this body had, or put him in proximity to a Knight's power in a moment of crisis. It was a dangerous gamble. Pushing too hard could get Renly killed, triggering a debilitating "Death Recall" that would waste precious days.
But the clock was ticking in both worlds. As he left the healer's chamber, the image of that flickering frost-power burned in his mind. He had found his target. Now, he needed a plan to steal its fire.