Outskirts of Gourmand City, a castle loomed like a jagged fang on the horizon, its silhouette devouring the moonlight. The chill of the night clung to the stone walls, the distant hoot of an owl echoing through the dark.
In the inner courtyard, on the training ground, Theal panted heavily under the cold breath of the night sky. His sweat steamed faintly in the torchlight, every inhale sharp against the crisp air.
From the shadow of the keep's door, a woman emerged. Her triangular-shaped face caught the firelight, framed by red-rimmed glasses that gleamed like molten copper. Her pointed chin, small nose, and bold brows were sharpened further by lips painted a deep, commanding red. Her platinum blonde, voluminous curls—shoulder length—were swept dramatically to one side, catching the faint breeze.
"Theal, it's time for your lesson."
Theal straightened his body. "As you command, Dame Elira."
Elira smiled in amusement, her lips curling with quiet mischief. "You don't have to be so formal. You aren't in the Capital anymore—you can just call me Elira."
Theal remained silent, offering only a curt nod.
"I heard you have quite a story," she continued, her voice slow and deliberate. "Mind sharing the details with me over a drink?"
Theal shook his head. "I don't drink."
Elia chuckled softly, her laughter ringing lightly across the empty courtyard. "A man of few words. I like that. Go and wait for me in my office—I have to fetch a few books from the library."
Theal nodded once.
Inside the library, the air was thick and heavy with neglect. Dust swirled in the moonlight streaming through a cracked window.
"Cough, cough, cough—this is… why does the Captain not hire a maid to clean this castle? Cough." Elira waved her hand in front of her face as she pulled a book free from the shelf.
Her eyes scanned the titles, lingering in thought. "I never imagined the son of a famous villainess could be so dull… let me find something that will light up his mood."
She selected three identical brown-covered books, their spines worn and creased with age, and carried them back to her office.
"Let's get on to business," she said, setting the books down with a dull thump. "These are the Books of Origin. They hold information about the spirits anchored to Pantheons in our physical plane."
Theal raised his hand. "Does it include evil spirits?"
Elira cleared her throat. "No. Evil spirits are not anchored to any plane they mainly reside in the Astral plane."
Theal nodded lightly.
"The spirit I am going to teach you about is the Eidolon Spirit, contracted to our God—the First Acme, His Divinity Santis Grelon—and anchored by the Pantheon blessing the Acme's followers and bestowing his servants."
Theal raised his hand again. "If the Pantheon is anchored by the Eidolon Spirit, why do we worship the Acme? The Shurur and Tarturus Empires worship their spirits, not Acme's."
Elira's chest rose and fell with a deep sigh. "The Eidolon Spirit is contracted under Acme Santis Grelon and serves the Pantheon as an anchor—unlike the Shurur and Tarturus Empires, whose spirits are not contracted to their Acme's."
Theal's brow creased. "So they are evil spirits?"
Elira hesitated, measuring her words carefully. "…By law, yes. Spirits that are not contracted are considered evil spirits."
"So the Shurur and Tarturus Empires are evil?"
Her gaze drifted for a moment. "From our perspective, they are. Their Acmes are called Fallen Acmes—they became Gods with the help of a evil spirits."
Theal nodded in understanding as Elira flipped to the next page.
"The Eidolon Spirit is the spirit of concrete concepts it is a consciousness fragment of our creator LUCA like all the other orthodox Spirits. Through the Pantheons, they can bestow Stillness to the Acme's servants."
"Is it possible to choose a Stillness?" Theal pressed.
Elira thought for a moment, then nodded. "Your consciousness already knows what you have the best affinity to."
Theal frowned. "What if I don't like it? Is there a way to change it?"
She shook her head. "Your consciousness knows you better than you."
"Why do the major noble houses have fixed Stillness?, House Gullet's bloodline uses Ice Stillness."
Elira chuckled softly. "That's a blessing the Eidolon Spirit reserves for the Acme's followers the seven major noble houses, and it is carried on through their bloodlines."
She closed the book and handed it to Theal. "Now, I will just do a demonstration for you to grasp general knowledge on Stillness the rest you will have to head to the library read."
Theal nodded.
Elira's hands moved to the hem of her top, and with no hesitation, she removed it. Her left arm deformed before his eyes, skin twisting and warping until it morphed into a sharp, curved, pointed appendage—its surface glistening like blackened steel. The blade-like form extended further, humming faintly in the cold air.
She touched its tip to the stone wall, and the surface hissed and sagged—melting as though eaten away.
"The concrete concept Stillness bestowed upon me is called Claw. When your consciousness absorbs the bestowed Stillness, it starts to produce Hue that can help you strengthen your abilities,body and mind. Hue has a property. There are twenty known types of natural Hue properties—mine is Corrosion."
"What is your status?" Theal asked.
"Status three."
Theal's face lit up. "You are in the Ancestral Echelon."
Elira chuckled. "Almost at the pinnacle of the physical plane— three more breakthroughs to catch up to the Captain, becoming a Status six of the Apocalyptic Echelon."
Theal's eyes narrowed. "How do you breakthrough?"
She froze in thought. "To break through, with the help of the spirit you need to expand your consciousness by filling it with excessive external Hue until it reaches the requirements of the next Status."
Theal tilted his head, confused.
Elira explained patiently. "When you are a status one of the Primal Echelon. Your consciousness capacity will be one hundred Nits of Hue. A Status two of the Primal Echelon has a consciousness capacity of five hundred Nits of Hue. To advance to status two, you need to take in all five hundred Nits of Hue into your consciousness—at once without shattering your consciousness with the help of the spirit of the Pantheon."
Theal nodded. "What happens if your consciousness shatters?"
Elira's tone darkened. "Then your consciousness will be fragmented turning still… and be used as a totem crux to create Code Black and Code Red totems but that only applies to those above the physical plane."
Theal drew in a heavy breath as Elira pulled her top back on. "I have a guard mission in the Capital tomorrow i won't be able to witness your duel, So good luck."
...
The training ground was a square of flat stone, its boundary painted white. The midday light caught in the polished concrete, making the surface glare like a mirror. Heat shimmered up from the surface, blinding to the eye, suffocating to the breath.
On the training ground Theal stood in a sharpened stance, observing his opponent's every breath. Opposite him, unbothered and calm, stood the First Lieutenant of the Blood Hounds—Sir Dante. He casually inspected his longsword as though this duel was a passing chore. His oval, narrow face bore a soft jawline dusted with a faint stubble. Drooping eyelids gave him a look of languid patience, while a slim downturned nose only added to his detached poise. Long, wavy hair of a pale tone flowed past his shoulders, strands loose around his forehead, framing his calm smile.
"I never thought I would see the day Gael sends a Squire to challenge me." His tone was warm.
Theal's nerves tightened the longer he watched Sir Dante's leisurely mannerisms. Every gesture felt deliberate, designed to unnerve him. "The captain set me up for failure," Theal mumbled inwardly, his thoughts sharp with unease. His external expression betrayed no emotion.
Beyond the boundary, the Knights of the BloodHounds leaned against the wall of the keep, murmuring with barely restrained excitement. "I knew he was too arrogant," one whispered. Another snorted. "Doesn't he know that in Gourmand, Sir Dante is only second to the Knight Commander, Sir Ayton Turner, when it comes to swordsmanship?"
"I know his type academy Graduates," a third said, smirking. "He dares to challenge a Knight Lieutenant."
"The Captain wants to test him," another chimed in. "I hope the Knight Lieutenant goes easy on him."
Alden scoffed. "Since when do you care about Squire's? I saw Theal against the Captain—he didn't look bad. All he has to do is get Sir Dante off the training ground, and he becomes a Blood Hound."
"Shut up," Halric snapped. "You think it's so easy to get Sir Dante off the training ground? Even if its a duel with mortal restraints, its not like Sir Dante needs his Stillness abilities or Hue to defeat a squire."
Their chatter ended when Sir Gael shot them a cold, silencing gaze. His attention snapped back to the stage, where swords began to sing.
The afternoon sun burned overhead, the stone floor blazing until it shimmered like molten glass. Siah slipped sideways, blade darting to deflect rather than block. Sparks spat as steel kissed steel. Theal ducked low, pivoting on nimble feet, but Sir Dante flowed with him, relentless and calm.
A hook of steel cut across—the feint high, the slam low. Theal barely absorbed the blow, wrists jarring from the shock, bones aching under Sir Dante's weight. Sir Dante pressed on, shoulders rolling with seasoned rhythm, each strike sharpened by countless bouts. His face remained detached, every movement efficient, controlled.
Theal's boots skimmed the stone, never rooted too long. A parry here, a sidestep there, his shoulders loose as he bent like a reed before the storm. "I should keep making him think I'm flailing. The less he expects, the more he reveals," he muttered between ragged breaths.
Sir Dante surged again—one, two, three blows in quick succession, swift and punishing. The tempo shifted. His blade snapped like lightning, precision replacing brute power. He dragged Theal's guard low, spun high, and forced him to scramble. The rhythm grew sharp, steel ringing like drumbeats in a storm.
For the first time, Sir Dante frowned. His perfect rhythm began to crack. Theal's strange, erratic patterns made no sense, yet every dodge and feint tilted momentum. The balance shifted—then flickered away as Sir Dante spun, blade slamming down in a brutal arc. Theal twisted, air splitting at his cheek as the strike missed by a breath.
Again Sir Dante came—refined, flawless, precise—but Theal stopped meeting force with force. He angled strikes aside, redirected them, every deflection spending Sir Dante's power against him. Each clash pulled the First Lieutenant closer to imbalance. Theal's mind narrowed to a single thought: One mistake. Just one.
Their swords locked at the crossguard. Sir Dante bore down, crushing Theal toward the ground. With a desperate twist, Theal slammed a free hand into Sir Dante's knee. Sir Dante stumbled—half a step, but enough. Theal pivoted, using the momentum to fling him back. His legs trembled.
Another blow came like thunder, and Theal's boots screeched against the stone. He angled his guard instead of blocking, slid the force aside, and found a gap. He lunged in—but Sir Dante countered instantly. The hilt smashed into his ribs, pain exploding hot, stealing his breath.
He staggered, the boundary line at the heels of his boots. Sir Dante's blade arced again, merciless. Theal ducked, sweat burning his eyes, vision dimming. Each strike rang through his bones.
Steel slid away instead of crashing into him. His chest heaved, relief flooding.
Sir Dante's rhythm returned—high, low, thrust, sweep. Every step drove Theal toward collapse. His ribs throbbed, his arms trembled. "Every third cut he drops his guard. I can't keep parrying."
Strike. Deflect. Strike. Endure. The third came—the dip was there. Theal lunged, blade flicking into the gap—only to be parried effortlessly. Sir Dante's calm never wavered. He shoved Theal back and drove a boot into his chest.
Theal's heels scraped stone, his body reeling. The knights watching snickered, confident the fight was already decided. Sir Dante's eyes looked cold, blade rising for the final stroke.
Blood dribbled from Theal's lips. "I have no way of besting him with at my current level."
The clash resumed, faster, sharper. Each blow cracked against his failing guard. His lungs burned, his body screamed. He twisted, spun, deflected just enough to survive.
Sir Dante's rhythm faltered, irritation creeping into his strikes. The crowd murmured—Theal was lasting too long. But the illusion shattered when Sir Dante hammered down, tore Theal's sword from his hand, and leveled steel at his throat.
Theal froze, chest heaving, unarmed. Sir Dante's blade pressed close, eyes cold, victory certain.
Theal snarled—and spat.
The glob smacked Sir Dante across his eyes. He recoiled, hand jerking to his face. Theal lunged, fist crashing into Sir Dante's jaw with all the fury of desperation. The crack echoed through the courtyard.
Sir Dante stumbled back—one, two steps—His boots scraped past the white-painted boundary. The crowd gasped. Silence fell.
Theal fell to his knees trembling, chest heaving, blood on his lips. Fury burning in Sir Dante's eyes. He stared at Theal with cold, promising hate.
Theal couldn't meet his gaze. He stared at the ground, shame crawling under his skin.
Theal won. Barely. Ugly. "No that's not me I cannot achieve my goals in such a manner."
Sir Gael stepped between Theal and the approaching Sir Dante, voice booming. "The winner is Sir Theal!"
Dante walked off slowly, fury simmering in his cold gaze. The knights exchanged uneasy looks.