Chapter 16 — The Aetherial Crest, 1
The training courtyard was a furnace of effort and resolve, the midday sun scorching the dirt beneath Sylan Kyle Von Noctis's boots. His wooden sword carved through the air, each swing a precise rebellion against the frail body he'd inherited. Sweat soaked his linen shirt, his muscles burned from relentless drills, and his breath came in sharp, controlled bursts. Ten days remained to reach the stat threshold—strength, agility, and endurance at thirty—before he faced one of the male leads of Love & Chains: Eternal Hearts. The system panel hovered at the courtyard's edge, its glowing text a silent judge: [Strength: 14/100. Agility: 16/100. Endurance: 15/100.] Progress, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
Virelle Thren was late. She'd promised intel on the forbidden archives, where the Aetherial Crest lay hidden—a relic that could boost his stats and grant a skill to level the playing field. Sylan's crimson eyes flicked to the courtyard's arched entrance, expecting her slight frame to appear. Nothing. 'She'd better not have been caught,' he thought, his grip tightening on the sword. Virelle was his only ally, her loyalty hard-won through his refusal to treat her like the other nobles did. If she failed him now, his plans—stealth, distraction, contingency—would crumble.
He struck a straw dummy, the impact jarring his arms. The system updated: [Strength progress: Minimal increase detected. Continue.] Sylan grunted, adjusting his stance, his mind drifting as he swung again. Memories of the game flooded in—not his, but the original Sylan's, sharp and bitter. A duel, a crowd of nobles, and a figure cloaked in shadow: Elias Vaughn, the brooding swordsman, one of the game's male leads. In Love & Chains, Elias was a force—tall, lean, with storm-gray eyes and a blade that moved like an extension of his will. His stats dwarfed Sylan's: strength in the fifties, agility in the sixties, a skill called Shadowstrike that let him vanish and strike in an instant.
The memory crystallized: a grand hall, chandeliers glittering, nobles whispering behind their fans. Sylan, the old Sylan, stood in the center, his sword raised, his face twisted in a sneer. Elias faced him, calm, unyielding, his blade catching the light. The duel was over in moments. Elias's Shadowstrike blurred him into darkness, reappearing behind Sylan with a single, devastating cut. The crowd cheered as Sylan fell, blood pooling on the marble, his role as a minor antagonist fulfilled. A stepping stone for Elias's glory.
Sylan's swing faltered, the sword dipping. 'That's not my fate,' he thought, his jaw clenching. He wasn't the old Sylan, destined to die for the script. But Elias Vaughn was out there, his blade waiting, and Sylan's current stats—fourteen, sixteen, fifteen—were a death sentence. The Aetherial Crest was his only chance to close the gap, but it lay locked in the archives, guarded by wards and his parents' authority.
The system pulsed. [Warning: Time to objective deadline: Nine days. Aetherial Crest acquisition critical for survival.]
"Nine days," Sylan muttered, driving the sword into the dummy with enough force to splinter the wood. "I know." He needed Virelle's intel—guard schedules, lock types, ward patterns. Without it, he was walking blind into a trap. His plans were in place: sneak in under cover of a staged distraction, like a servant's mishap in the west wing; or, if that failed, bribe a guard with promises of favor, though his charisma stat of fifteen made that risky. The contingency—publicly challenging a lesser noble to prove his worth—remained a last resort. Amanda and Darius Von Noctis would never allow their son to rummage through forbidden relics, not without a fight.
He switched to lunges, his legs protesting but obeying, the rhythm grounding him. 'Elias Vaughn,' he thought, the name a thorn in his mind. The swordsman's brooding demeanor hid a ruthless edge, his loyalty to the heroine absolute. In the game, he'd cut down Sylan without hesitation, his blade a blur of death. Sylan couldn't match that skill yet, not with a wooden sword and a body still too weak. But the Crest could change that. A stat boost, a skill—maybe enough to survive.
Footsteps crunched behind him. Sylan spun, sword raised, his crimson eyes locking onto Virelle as she hurried through the archway. Her gray dress was smudged with dust, her bun messier than usual, but her eyes held a spark of determination. She clutched a folded scrap of parchment, her hands trembling slightly.
"My lord," she said, bowing low, her voice breathless. "I have it. The archives."
Sylan lowered the sword, his heart quickening. "Speak."
She glanced around, ensuring the courtyard was empty, then stepped closer, unfolding the parchment. "The archives are in the east wing, basement level. Two guards at the main door, rotating every four hours. A third patrols the corridor. The door's locked—iron, with a runic seal. Servants say it needs a key and a blood sigil from a Noctis. I couldn't get more without raising suspicion."
Sylan nodded, his mind racing. 'Blood sigil. That's a problem.' His parents would never give him access, and stealing their blood was out of the question. But he was a Noctis—his blood might work. The guards and seal were obstacles, but manageable with the right distraction. A fire, a brawl, even a faked illness in the servants' quarters could pull attention away.
"Good work," he said, his tone softer, noting the faint flush of pride on Virelle's face. "Keep listening. I need to know when the guards change tomorrow."
She bowed again, tucking the parchment into her dress. "Yes, my lord."
The system panel flickered. [Objective update: Aetherial Crest acquisition plan viable. Recommended approach: Stealth. Distraction success probability: 60%. Blood sigil compatibility unconfirmed. Proceed with caution.]
Sylan's lips curled into a grim smile. 'Sixty percent's better than nothing,' he thought. He turned back to the dummy, raising the sword. Elias Vaughn's shadow loomed in his mind, those storm-gray eyes cold and unyielding. Nine days to train, to plan, to claim the Crest. Nine days to become more than a footnote.
"Count," he told Virelle, his voice hard as he swung the sword. She obeyed, her voice steady: "One… two…"
The dummy shuddered under his strikes, wood splintering. 'I won't fall to you, Elias,' he thought, his crimson eyes burning. 'Not this time.'