What a pity!
When Henry beheld the twin gifts—enough to stir envy in any man—an inward sigh escaped him. His gaze lingered on the entry marked Advanced Knight Talent, and without the slightest hesitation he cast the Net of Talents, invoking its power of replication and preservation.
The Net was a gift bordering on the miraculous: a weave capable of transmuting another's innate brilliance into his own. Yet, like all wonders bound by fate, it bore restrictions. Chief among them—the tyranny of time.
Back on Earth, Henry could employ this gift but once each month. After a single use, the Net would lie dormant. Though he might still glimpse the endowments of others, he could neither seize nor preserve them again until the cycle reset.
Thus, his choice was swift. Swordsmanship might wait for another day, another chance. But the knight's gift—this was his most urgent need. Barely half a month remained before the trial, each passing day cutting sharper than a drawn blade.
"Fortunate indeed," he murmured. "The Net of Talents endures."
At the instant he triggered it, a strange current burst through him. The sensation was achingly familiar: the body shuddering on the edge of metamorphosis. Relief surged within him. His deepest fear—that the Net had fractured in the crossing between worlds—was dispelled. It remained whole. More than whole—it burned fiercer than before.
This time the change seared like a furnace crammed into his flesh. Fire coursed through his veins, fever clouded his vision. Through the haze, his eyes strayed once more to Lady Sera—and the Intermediate Swordsmanship Talent she carried. With desperate will he attempted to seize it as well.
A low hum—
And silence.
The Net lay dormant. The second attempt had failed.
"As expected."
Regret pricked him, but no true disappointment. His aim had been an intermediate knight's gift. Instead, he had plucked one far greater.
The gulf between talent grades was an abyss. Even Titus Kirk, lauded as the year's prodigy, was likely no more than intermediate. Advanced knightly talents were rare—the inheritance of a dazzling few. Top-tier gifts rarer still, scattered like stars across a moonless sky.
In his former life, most of the talents he'd claimed were intermediate, a handful advanced. Only one—Pharmacie—had stood at the highest pinnacle. With that single gift, he had ascended to laureate, youngest in history.
Now, as the transformation raged within him, Lady Sera's eyes narrowed. Her crimson brows drew together in concern.
"Are you well?"
Henry forced a breath. "Thank you, Lady Sera. It is nothing—only a fever."
But when her gaze caught his, guilt stung him like a thief caught in the act. He averted his eyes at once.
"Perhaps so," she said softly. "Your head wound has yet to heal. I erred in asking this of you." Then her voice grew firm. "Your dedication is admirable—but heed this: reckless training will destroy more than it builds. Your arms—your joints—were already shifting from overstrain."
"What?!"
Henry's mask cracked, fear flashing through. He knew too well, from a world flooded with knowledge, how hidden injuries crippled lives. To imagine such damage severing his path chilled him more than the fiercest battle.
"There is no cause for dread," she said, calm as iron. "I have already set your joints right. From now, train with measure. Rest as much as you labor. Do this, and you will suffer no lasting harm."
Henry bowed deeply. "My thanks, Lady Sera."
The day's harvest exceeded all reckoning. He had secured the Advanced Knight Talent, glimpsed new heights of swordsmanship, and shed a lurking peril from his very bones. All of this—every boon—he owed to her. For her, perhaps, it had been a passing gesture. For him, it was fortune beyond measure.
When he returned to his place among his peers, he felt their eyes upon him—burning, envious, whispering. Yet their stares barely touched him. His mind was turned inward, tracing the storm within his body.
The transformation raged longer, harsher than any before. Where once the change had ended within minutes, now ten long minutes passed before the fever began to ebb.
Henry recalled the truth he had learned long ago: talents were not equal. Two of the same rank could differ as heaven from earth. A beginner's gift for music was common, easy to find. But a knight's gift—like those in this very academy, where fewer than ten across Asser City possessed it—was rare beyond price.
The higher the talent, the rarer its weave, the fiercer the trial of its rebirth.
At last the fire cooled. Breath steadied. The metamorphosis stilled.
"Well done, Henry."
He turned. It was Charles. His voice carried no envy, only warmth.
Henry's heart stirred. In his past life, he had stood apart, distant—not out of pride, but because his gifts built a gulf no one dared cross. The old Henry Windsor had known isolation too, though for opposite cause—dismissed for weakness, abandoned as unworthy.
And yet Charles's eyes held no scorn. Only recognition.
"Your swordplay is extraordinary," Charles said with eager smile. "You must teach me someday."
"Gladly," Henry replied. Triumph swelled in him, and with it, generosity.
Lady Sera continued her discourse, sharing fragments of her path. Yet she called no other student to her side. Many watched with disappointment, yearning for the chance Henry had seized.
At last, the bell tolled—clang, clang—and the lesson ended. With six instructors at her side, Lady Sera departed. Students watched her go with longing eyes. For most, even a glance from her was honor enough.
Henry, however, harbored no regret.
When class dismissed, he exchanged a few quiet words with Charles, then turned—not toward the dormitory, but to a secluded grove within the academy.
The former Henry had often trained there, and now it would serve him again.
For his talent had ascended, and he burned to test its edge. Barely half a month remained until the trial. Even with an Advanced Knight Talent, the doubt still lingered: could he rise enough in so short a time?
He dared not waste even a breath.