Chapter 130
The combat assessment arena stretched wide under the high rafters of the Guild hall—a circle of hard-packed earth ringed by rune-carved stone, the air faintly humming from the wards woven into its boundary. Beyond the ring, tiered seating curved in a near-complete circle, dotted with guild members who had either finished their trials or were waiting for their turn. Low conversation mingled with the faint scrape of boots against stone.
Daniel stepped into the circle without hurry. His shoulders were relaxed, his steps unremarkable, and his entire presence carefully tuned to pass as ordinary.
His opponent, a guild instructor in light leather and reinforced bracers, appraised him with a faint smirk. "We'll keep it simple," the man said, resting his own practice blade across his shoulder. "Three minutes. Show me what you've got."
Daniel inclined his head, accepting the standard-issue training sword from the quartermaster. He weighed it in his hand, perfectly balanced, though heavier than his personal blades. The grip was wrapped in worn leather, the kind that spoke of years of replacements.
The whistle cut through the air.
Daniel moved not so quickly as to draw gasps, but with a measured, deliberate precision. His lead foot slid forward just enough to set a firm stance, blade raised in a guard that was correct but not flawless.
The instructor came in with a straightforward diagonal slash, the sort meant to test reflexes. Daniel's blade rose to meet it, steel clashing with a clean clack. Instead of pressing, he yielded half a step, letting the momentum bleed away naturally.
They circled.
The next exchange came sharper, three cuts in quick succession. Daniel parried each, the blade turning just far enough to redirect the force. No flourish, no overcorrection, nothing to hint at extra reserves of strength. He gave ground when pressed and advanced only when it would seem the obvious choice to any observer.
To the untrained eye, it was a competent showing. To the trained one, it was almost too tidy.
From the stands, Veylan leaned forward slightly, watching as Daniel's boots pivoted on the balls of his feet, never leaving him off balance. There was efficiency here, but also restraint—like a sword being sheathed mid-swing. He's holding back, Veylan thought, eyes narrowing. The question is, how far?
The instructor tried a feint, stepping right before whipping the blade low to the left. Daniel reacted in a textbook fashion, blocking low and riposting with a diagonal cut—only his riposte carried just enough speed to land a controlled tap against the man's bracer before he pulled away.
The crowd gave a murmur of approval.
What they did not see was how Daniel had shifted weight three moves earlier, setting that counter before the feint had even begun.
The instructor's smirk faded. His strikes grew more complex; off-angle thrusts and backhand recoveries were meant to surprise. Daniel met them all with the same calm rhythm, never breaking his tempo, never escalating. The duel became a pattern: advance, retreat, deflect, answer always enough to win the exchange, never enough to dominate it.
When the final whistle sounded, Daniel stepped back, blade tilted respectfully toward his opponent.
"Good form," the instructor said after a short breath. "Solid instincts. Could use more aggression, but you'll manage."
The overseer scribbled notes onto a clipboard, nodding to the clerk beside him. Daniel's provisional rank was decided, high enough for solo high-tier quests, low enough to avoid the brighter spotlight reserved for prodigies.
As he left the ring, Daniel could feel Veylan's gaze on him, sharp and unblinking, like the tip of a needle between his shoulder blades.
Exactly how he wanted it.
He returned the practice sword to the quartermaster and stepped toward the hall proper, where the crowd thinned into the hum of everyday Guild business.
Veylan descended from the viewing platform with the slow, deliberate pace of a man who wasted no movement. His lower face was hidden behind an enchanted mask, but his eyes—cool and calculating never left Daniel.
"Well fought," Veylan said as he approached, tone light, almost casual. "For someone registering today, you've got a steadiness most recruits don't."
Daniel glanced at him, offering a small, polite nod. "I do my best." The clipped tone carried nothing for Veylan to grab hold of.
"You'll go far in the Guild," Veylan continued, voice still even. "Any particular reason you've joined? A man like you could take other… paths."
Daniel's eyes shifted toward the exit where adventurers were filtering out toward the quest boards. "I like to keep my options open," he said. It could have meant everything—or nothing at all.
Veylan stepped into his path without looking like he had. "If you ever need—"
"Excuse me," Daniel cut in, sidestepping with fluid ease, slipping past without so much as a brush of cloth. "I should get my paperwork in order before the lines get long."
And then he was gone, absorbed into the current of Guild traffic.
Veylan lingered, eyes tracking the empty space Daniel had left. Beneath the mask, a smile curved. The boy hadn't just dodged his questions—he had set the tempo of their entire exchange.
Very well, the Spymaster thought, turning away. You've avoided me today. But next time, it will be on my terms.
The sun's midday light filtered through the Guild hall's high arched windows, painting the polished stone floor in fractured gold. The bustle of adventurers moved like a living tide below, their armor clinking, their voices a layered murmur. Above them, the elevated lounge reserved for noble patrons and high-ranking guild sponsors exuded a different air perfumed, opulent, and insulated from the grit of the training floors.
Daniel walked through that space as though it were any other corridor. Gone was the clean-cut noble attire he'd worn upon first arrival; the formless armor shimmered against his skin in subtle, invisible waves, reshaping his fine silks into the plain, slightly worn fabrics of an ordinary guild aspirant. The stitching looked uneven; the boots were scuffed, not badly, but enough to be overlooked by those who measured worth by the gleam of gold thread.
From the cushioned seats near the railing, Railan Aevryn's eyes tracked him like a hawk spotting prey. The son of the Aevryn clan was draped in garments dyed with rare pigments, the silver trim of his doublet catching every shard of sunlight. A slim rapier rested at his hip more as a statement than a necessity. Behind him, Selene Aevryn leaned against the railing, arms folded, her expression one of idle curiosity.
Railan's jaw tightened.
He had watched the combat assessment earlier. Watched how Daniel moved—efficient, precise, unshaken. There had been no wasted motion, no nervous ticks, and no posturing. And that infuriated him more than if Daniel had been an arrogant showman.
Most young nobles, especially those in their late teens, carried themselves with the easy confidence of lives untouched by scarcity. They were raised on gilded platters and sheltered by warded estates. To them, humility was an affectation, a performance to win applause, not a discipline forged in fire.
Daniel, however, had worn it like armor.
It unsettled Railan in a way he couldn't quite name. Someone with that much control should want to flaunt it should want to remind everyone in the room exactly where they stand. But Daniel had done the opposite, letting the crowd believe he was merely competent. Even Railan, trained directly under the Right Azure Archmage Aithlin Hasterient himself, had struggled to pinpoint the true extent of his skill.
That stung.
Aithlin had told him many times he was the most gifted mage the Aevryn line had produced in generations. His control over elemental runes at his age was unprecedented. Every enchantment lesson, every tactical theory, every spar had reinforced that belief until this morning, when Daniel had quietly bent the flow of the fight to his will without a flicker of magical display.
Selene's voice broke his thoughts. "Why are you glaring at him like that? You look like you're about to duel the man over a spilled drink."
Railan didn't take his eyes off Daniel. "You didn't notice?"
She shrugged. "He moved well enough. Nothing I haven't seen before."
Railan finally looked at her, his lips curling in faint disdain. "That's because you've never seen a real fight outside of training courts. You've spent too long dancing in rehearsed duels where no one is trying to kill you."
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't rise to the bait. Selene was a skilled melee fighter—fast, sharp, technically correct, but she refused to temper her arrogance with discipline. She trained for the applause, not for the battlefield.
Daniel, on the other hand, had trained for the kind of battles where applause didn't exist.
Railan turned back toward the floor just in time to see Daniel pause to exchange a brief word with a passing guild clerk, his voice too low to catch. Then he moved on, blending into the crowd like water into a stream. Not once did his gaze flick upward toward the noble deck.
The insult was subtle, but it landed. Railan felt his temper rise—not the wild, uncontrolled kind, but the cold, calculating kind that brewed behind still eyes.
Very well, he thought, fingers brushing the engraved pommel of his rapier. If you want to hide behind modesty, I'll strip it from you.
Selene, noticing the shift in his expression, smirked faintly. "Don't tell me you're planning to challenge him. You'd look ridiculous picking fights with someone dressed like that."
Railan didn't answer. His mind was already turning over possibilities. Public challenges, subtle baiting, perhaps an arranged team trial where skill could be measured without pretense. He had been raised to dominate the stage—and Daniel had just walked through it as if the stage didn't exist.
That was unacceptable.
The Royal Guild's main exhibition hall was a far cry from the training courts. Here, the fighting floor was polished stone inset with radiant sigils, each rune pulsing faintly in time with the protective wards. Tiered balconies swept upward on three sides, every seat already filled with a mix of Guild members, aristocrats, and the glittering ink-and-quill presence of reporters.
News from this hall often traveled fast—hunters being promoted to players, players reaching the coveted Ranker status. Every duel, every feat here was a potential headline in both realms.
Today's feature was billed as a "friendly skill exchange" between promising talents. In reality, Railan Aevryn had made sure his name—and Daniel's—were at the top of the list.
The Aevryn siblings had arrived in their full finery, drawing the usual swirl of attention. They'd come to the Royal Guild to prove their worth without the invisible safety net of hired hands, unlike their usual academy quests where retainers smoothed the way. Railan carried himself like a man expecting to dominate the narrative. Selene stood beside him, her gilded armor polished to a blinding sheen, her smirk already fixed for the crowd.
Daniel, on the other hand, stepped into the arena in the same plain attire he'd worn since his arrival—courtesy of the formless armor, which dulled every hint of his noble bearing into unremarkable cloth. To the untrained eye, he could have been any competent mid-tier recruit.
The murmurs in the balconies reflected the contrast.
"Is that really the Aevryn heir's opponent?"
"Doesn't even look like he owns a proper uniform."
"Railan will finish him in minutes."
Railan basked in it. The duel would be clean and regulated—no killing, no crippling—but in his mind, all he needed was to force Daniel into a corner where raw skill had to show.
The officiator, a senior Guild proctor, stepped forward. "Three passes. The match ends after three decisive strikes, or when one combatant yields. Begin when ready."
The whistle blew.
Railan moved first, rapier darting forward in a sharp thrust aimed at Daniel's chest. It was fast—enough to draw impressed gasps from the gallery—but Daniel simply pivoted, letting the blade pass close enough to graze the air before answering with a short, restrained tap of his wooden practice sword to Railan's gauntlet.
One strike.
Railan's eyes narrowed. That had been too clean, too easy.
The second pass came with more aggression, feints wrapped in flourishes, footwork designed to dazzle. Railan's rapier wove silver arcs in the air, each backed with the subtle hum of rune-etched enchantments. Daniel met them with a defense so measured it was maddening: each parry angled perfectly to redirect force, each retreat placed exactly two steps from the danger line. He never counterattacked with more than a light touch, but on the final exchange of the pass, his blade slid under Railan's guard and tapped his breastplate dead-center.
Two strikes.
The crowd murmured louder now, confused, some impressed, some doubtful. Selene's smirk had slipped.
Railan grit his teeth. If the third pass ended like the others, he'd be the one walking out defeated. That was unacceptable.
For the last round, he abandoned subtlety. Sparks trailed the edge of his rapier as he wove a rapid chain of attacks, each meant to overwhelm, each faster than the last. His footwork was perfect by academy standards, aggressive and tight.
Daniel absorbed it all without rising to match speed for speed. He let Railan burn his energy, let him overextend in pursuit of a gap that never came. Then, with the same quiet precision as before, he stepped inside the rapier's arc not with a flashy maneuver, but a simple half-turn and sidestep and laid the flat of his blade gently against Railan's exposed shoulder.
Three strikes.
Silence filled the arena for half a breath before the officiator's voice carried: "Match to Daniel."
It wasn't a victory of dominance. It was worse an exhibition of mastery so absolute it made Railan's flurry look like a child waving a stick.
Reporters were already scribbling, some leaning over to confirm Daniel's name with the proctor. Selene muttered something sharp under her breath.
Railan forced a polite nod for the audience, but inside, fury churned like a storm. Daniel had denied him not just a victory, but the story he wanted, the image of himself as the rising star.
Daniel only offered a respectful incline of the head, his expression unreadable, before leaving the arena without a backward glance. He'd given the crowd nothing to sensationalize except his control and that, Railan realized bitterly, was somehow even more infuriating.
The duel had ended, but the real battle began once the reporters put ink to parchment.
Quills scratched furiously in the observation decks as scribes from both realms scrambled to draft their first accounts. The Aevryn name carried undeniable weight, and so did the Royal Guild, but the contrast between Railan's glittering, pompous entrance and Daniel's quiet, plain-clothed precision was simply too sharp to ignore.
By the time Railan stepped off the arena floor, whispers had already taken root among the guild members and guests. By evening, they had spread across the marble corridors like wildfire. Daniel himself had already slipped out of sight, vanishing into the tide of adventurers once his paperwork was complete. In his possession was a newly issued hunter license, a simple silver-edged card etched with his provisional rank: C. Yet beneath the ranking, in a smaller hand, was an unusual note written by the Guild's Grandmaster himself:
"Estimated rank only. Skills may be higher. re evaluation are required "
Grandmaster Eledran had watched the match with narrowed eyes, recognizing something no one else had, the truth of the young lord Daniel Rothchester, hiding behind modest attire and deliberate restraint.
The papers arrived before sunset.
One broadsheet from the capital framed the match as "A Lesson in Restraint." The article praised Daniel's calm precision against Railan's aggressive display, describing how the newcomer had scored three decisive strikes without ever breaking his rhythm. In careful phrasing, the writer implied that while Railan's talent was undeniable, his eagerness betrayed him; his skill was impressive, but still unrefined.
Across the sea, another paper told a very different story. Their headline declared it "Nobility Humbled by a Commoner." With Daniel's plain attire and mysterious background, the writer leaned heavily into the idea of a humble-born adventurer toppling a gilded heir. For readers already distrustful of aristocracy, the story was irresistible—a narrative of raw talent triumphing over pampered privilege.
Not every account favored Daniel. Some publications sympathetic to the noble houses insisted his technique was "too perfect, too deliberate," and hinted at hidden training or shadowy backers. Their pieces painted Railan as a "valiant young heir, whose brilliance was undeniable even if outmatched this time." Yet even these carefully polished words could not erase the cold fact stamped on the scoreboard: three to zero.
That night, Railan sat in the noble guest quarters of the Guild, one of the fresh-inked broadsheets crumpled in his fist. His eyes skimmed each line, every polite phrase cutting like a blade through his pride. The exhibition had been meant to elevate him, to prove that the Aevryn heir could shine without retainers propping him up. Instead, it had given Daniel a platform—and worse, it had given the world a story.
Selene, reclining lazily on a cushioned chair, was no comfort. She tossed aside her copy of the paper with a sharp laugh. "They'll forget soon enough," she said dismissively. "He beat you with wooden swords, not real blades. Next time, use magic; let's see if he still looks so calm then."
But Railan knew better. The Guild was not like the academy. Here, every whisper became a rumor, and every rumor grew legs until it reached the ears of every hunter, player, and ranker across the realms. Already, adventurers in the lounge were muttering about "the recruit who beat the Aevryn heir." That stain would not fade quickly, not from his name nor from his clan's.
Daniel, meanwhile, cared little for the politics unfolding in his wake. After collecting his license, he slipped out of the Guild's marble halls and into the city beyond. His thoughts were not on reporters, nobles, or rumors, but on the hunt. He wanted stronger prey monsters that would press him, that would demand growth, and that would force his body and instincts to sharpen further. Magic, his greatest trump card, remained sheathed like a hidden dagger. It was a weapon he would only reveal when absolutely necessary. To him, the duel had been nothing more than another test of control.
Yet the effect of his restraint rippled outward beyond his intention. By nightfall, curious eyes followed him whenever he walked through the Guild. His name crept into conversations among adventurers and aristocrats alike. Who was this newcomer who fought with such discipline? Why did he hide behind plain clothes?
What Daniel had meant as nothing more than composure, others now painted as mystery. And in that mystery, a legend began to bud.
For Railan Aevryn, humiliation burned hot in his chest, stoked by every headline and every hushed whisper. The rivalry had been sealed, not by words exchanged, nor by blades crossed, but by the quills of reporters and the weight of public opinion.
The nighttime dawned clear; the golden light of the sun is slowly coming to an end through the stained-glass windows of the Royal Guild. The main hall was already alive with noise. Adventurers gathered around the enormous bulletin boards where notices, promotions, and freshly printed broadsheets had been tacked even before the fight calmed down.
What greeted them were the headlines from both realms. Bold ink captured the duel in sweeping letters:
"A Lesson in Restraint—Unknown Hunter Bests Aevryn Heir in Three Passes."
"Common Steel Topples Gilded Rapier."
"Promising Noble Meets His Match in Exhibition Bout."
Some articles were flattering, others cautious, but all carried the same conclusion: Daniel had walked away the victor, and Railan Aevryn had not.
The crowd clustered tight around the boards, voices rising in a wave of gossip.
"Did you see? Three strikes to none."
"I heard Railan's rapier barely even touched him."
"They're saying that plain recruit fought like a veteran calm as stone!"
"Nonsense, probably some academy trick. Still, the Aevryn name isn't shining today."
Railan himself strode through the Guild with his sister at his side, back held rigid, expression carefully schooled. Yet the whispers followed him like shadows. No amount of polished clothing or noble bearing could drown them out. Selene brushed off the remarks with a sneer, but Railan heard every word, each murmur stoking the quiet storm inside him. The duel had not ended on the arena floor. Its consequences were bleeding into every corner of the Guild.
Daniel, by contrast, gave the spectacle no more thought than one might give the weather. He moved through the marble halls with his usual unremarkable air, his plain clothes ensuring that most eyes glanced over him without recognition. He had collected his provisional rank card the night before, studied the small note scribbled by Grandmaster Eledran, and then tucked it away. To him, the duel was done. What mattered now was not applause or slander, but preparation for the real battles to come.
He was already thinking ahead. The day of the Empire of Grave was only nine days away. Those who needed to notice him had already taken note; those who didn't, he preferred to leave blind. For Daniel, restraint was not just a combat style; it was a shield.
Not everyone was content with his silence.
By midday, Melgil stormed back into the Northwind Dormitory, her boots clicking sharply against the stone floors. She pushed open the door to Daniel's quarters without knocking, arms folded tight, her brows drawn low.
"You!" she snapped, the word practically echoing. "I knew it was you. The whole Guild is buzzing, and you never thought to tell me?"
Daniel looked up from the whetstone he was sliding along the edge of his blade, his expression calm, almost amused. "Tell you what exactly? That I fought a duel with wooden swords?"
Melgil scowled. "Don't play dumb. Everyone's talking about the mysterious recruit who humiliated Railan Aevryn in front of half the reporters in the capital. I don't need a signature to know it was you."
Daniel set the blade aside, his lips curving in the faintest smile. "And if it was?"
Her arms tightened across her chest. "Then you're an idiot for keeping it from me. Do you have any idea how much trouble you're stirring? The Aevryn clan won't just let this slide. You've practically painted a target on your back."
Daniel leaned back in his chair, unbothered. "That was the point."
Melgil blinked, thrown off by his composure. "The point? To, what? Get yourself dragged into noble politics?"
"No," he said evenly, meeting her eyes. "The ones who needed to see me have already seen. Those who are blind can stay blind. But the ones I want…" His gaze sharpened, just for a heartbeat, like a knife glinting under cloth. "They'll reveal themselves soon enough, and that's what I've been waiting for."
Melgil's anger faltered into a reluctant frown. She knew him well enough to recognize when his plans ran deeper than his words. Still, she wasn't about to let him off without a jab.
"You could've at least told me," she muttered, turning her face away. "Instead, I get to hear it from gossiping adventurers and street criers like everyone else. Some lover you are."
Daniel chuckled softly. " ah lover?"
"anyway, If it helps, I didn't tell anyone. Even the upper nobles don't know who I really am. That's by design. They're oblivious, pampered, and careless. Better to let them believe I'm just another recruit."
Melgil shot him a sidelong glance, her irritation warring with a hint of amusement. "You and your secrets. One of these days, they're going to come back and bite you."
"Perhaps," Daniel said, reaching again for his whetstone. "But not yet. Not before the day of the Empire of Grave."
The room fell quiet after that, save for the steady rasp of stone on steel. Melgil stayed a while longer, arms still folded but her expression softening, knowing she would get no further answers from him today.
Outside, the Guild hummed with gossip and speculation, Daniel's name climbing from whisper to rumor to half-formed legend. Inside the dormitory, he prepared in silence, already looking past the noise toward the storm that was coming.