The next morning, Remy woke in the giant bed, feeling the best sleep he had ever had in his life. He lay there, eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling above.
This… feels wrong. Here I am, sleeping comfortably, and I don't even know where my mother is. This feels wrong…
Eventually, he rose, got dressed, and left his chambers, making his way toward the living quarters.
"Good morning, Remy!" Kat greeted him, a large smile lighting up her face. She was already setting the table for breakfast: some bread, butter, and tea. A large glass jar of marmalade swirled inside, the golden contents shifting like tiny, wriggling worms.
"Good morning," Remy replied immediately.
"Tear said when you're done, meet him in the Training Hall…" Kat began, then turned to leave the room.
"Wait, Kat! I don't know where that is!" Remy called out, but she didn't respond.
"Kat… wait, Kat!" Still nothing.
Panicked, Remy leapt from his seat and gently grasped her by the arms.
"Hey, Kat, I really don't know where the Training Hall is," he repeated.
"Oh! Sorry… I tend to forget things," Kat said, flustered, brushing a strand of hair from her face, which had turned redder than any tomato.
"Sorry," Remy muttered, stepping back.
I might be hurting her did I hold her too tight?
He let her hand go quickly.
"Just eat up. I'll take you there," Kat said finally, her voice cheerful again.
After a quick breakfast, Remy found himself following Kat as she chattered endlessly.
"Did you know that if enough butterflies land on you and flap their wings hard enough, they could carry you, and you would fly too…" she said.
Remy chuckled, trying to suppress his laughter.
"Really? They do?" he asked, encouraging her.
She continued spinning fantastical ideas all the way to a grand door of dark oak, its two massive circular hinges gleaming on either side. Kat pushed one open, motioning him inside.
Remy stepped into a vast, high-ceilinged room—perhaps once a great hall of a manor, now adapted for practical use. The air smelled of wood, sweat, and oiled leather. Sunlight streamed through diamond-shaped panes of a leaded window, falling in stripes across the dusty floor and illuminating motes dancing lazily in the light.
Along one wall, a rack displayed an array of weapons: longswords with basket hilts, heavy two-handed broadswords, and sharp rapiers, their scabbards worn and polished from years of use. A stand of pikes and halberds gleamed faintly in one corner. At the center, two wooden dummies, padded and well-worn, were set up for practice.
The floor, a patchwork of flagstones, bore scuffs and gouges from countless hours of sparring. Heavy tapestries depicting heraldic symbols and battle scenes hung along the walls, their colors faded with time. A raised dais at one end of the hall served as an observation area, while a large, stone fireplace, though unlit, dominated another wall, its dark hearth a reminder of colder seasons.
In the center of the room, Tear and the two boys moved within a marked circle, engaged in a rigorous combat training session.
"Hey, Chad! Your control is weak," Tear called, his voice calm but firm.
Tear moved with effortless grace, his reaper dancing in the air like a conductor's baton. A sudden thrust came from Charles, heavy and fast, but Tear dodged it fluidly. With a swift strike, he knocked the sword from Charles' hands.
"Ouch!" Charles yelped as he stumbled to the ground. Tear had swept his foot just after hitting the sword, keeping his opponent off balance. He then pointed the reaper at Charles, signaling him to forfeit.
"One more time!" Charles protested, glaring.
"No—we need to find Remy's affinity first," Tear said, rising and turning to face the doorway. Though he looked away, he had already sensed Remy enter the room.
Remy froze, awe-struck. Wow… I didn't know he was this strong. Can I be that strong too?
"This is great," Tear said, turning to his students. "How about you show to Remy what Mystic is? I'm sure he thinks of it as some divine blessing that saints and their servants possess."
It was true—many believed that God bestowed saints with a magical force called Mystic, granting them supernatural abilities, such as the power to crush mountains or wield lightning.
"Well… maybe that's true," Tear continued, tapping his temple with a finger. "Ha! Yes, partially true—they do receive a blessing, but it's not from God. You'll find that out soon enough. Anyway, let me stop blabbering."
With that, Tear stepped away from the circle, leaving the students to explain further.
"Charles, why don't you show him your Mystic?" Tear urged.
"What… am I now some form of entertainment?" Charles protested, eyebrows furrowed.
"Come on, don't be like that, Charles," Tear teased. "How about this—we'll have a spar if you decide to show him?"
"Okay," Charles agreed almost instantly, determination flashing in his eyes.
Hoo… this boy really wants to beat me, doesn't he? Tear chuckled silently, pressing a finger to his lips to hide his smile.
Charles stepped forward, readying for the demonstration.
"Cry, Black o' Steel!" Charles shouted.
The mood shifted. Charles' eyes glowed brighter, as if he were seeing a world entirely different from the one Remy knew.
The sword in his hand began to melt, reshaping itself into a small golem that scuttled across the room, smashing into training equipment with clattering force.
Charles then moved toward a candle at the far edge of the hall. He lifted it into his hand, and the flame flared, growing larger as he manipulated it through the air. Finally, he directed it toward a bucket near the door. The fire twisted and turned into water, which drained neatly into the container.
"Hoo… I guess you've truly improved," Tear said proudly, his eyes gleaming with admiration.
"Did you see that, Remy? Charles was using Mystic—and his affinity is Alchemy. He has control over everything his Sar touches. Now, sit here; it's time to figure out your affinity too."