"You're getting faster, lad. But speed without stability is just a quick way to fall on your own blade. Go. Clean the dirt off. Your mother is waiting for tea," Bram said, his voice like grinding gravel.
Alaric limped toward the side entrance, his breath coming in ragged hitches. Every step sent a jolt of protest from his swollen ankle to his lower back. By the time he reached the sun-drenched terrace, he felt less like a rising prodigy and more like a broken toy.
Elara was there, seated at table set with porcelain and honey cakes. The scent of jasmine and warm sugar acted as a physical balm, momentarily masking the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. When she saw him—limping, dirt-streaked, and clutching his side—her hand flew to her lips, but she didn't cry out.
She had learned long ago that a Silverlane wife must be as stoic as the stone walls they lived within.
Elara took a silk handkerchief dipped in rosewater and began to dapple the smudge of blood from his cheek. "Bram is a hard man. Your father thinks he is tempering steel, but I see a boy being pushed into a fire he didn't light."
"I have to be strong, Mother," Alaric said, his voice sounding older than his five years. "The world, it isn't kind to the weak.
Elara paused, her fingers lingering on his jaw. She looked into his eyes that held the weary depth of a thirty five year old soul, and for a second, Alaric feared she saw the "emptiness" that Gram had sensed.
Instead, she smiled, a sad, radiant expression that seemed to pull the darkness out of his mind.
"Come here, my little star," she said, her voice a gentle command that overrode the throbbing in his legs.
"I won't forget, Mother," he promised, leaning his head against her shoulder. "I'll be whatever you need me to be.
After
Alaric retreated to his chambers, locking the door with a trembling hand.
Back in his room, Alaric summoned the system, the violet screen pulsing with a low, satisfying hum.
[ Name: Alaric Silverlane ]
[ Rank: Novice (Early) ]
[ Strength: 9 -> 11 ]
[ Agility: 11 -> 12 ]
[ Endurance: 15 -> 18 ]
[ Willpower: 45 -> 47 ]
[ Skills Gained/Updated: ]
[ Active: Sword Art - Vanguard's Shadow (Novice) = A style focused on lethality and speed. Increases damage with bladed weapons by 5% ]
[ Passive: Physical Resistance (Novice) = Reduces physical pain and impact damage by 3% ]
[ Passive: Mental Fortitude (Intermediate) = Increases resistance to Aura, Fear, and Mind Control. Rank increased due to high-level exposure current effects limited to master rank ]
He didn't go to sleep. He sat at his desk, staring at a small, decorative iron statue of a raven a gift from his mother.
"Passive resistance isn't enough," he whispered. "I need to know my own limit."
He focused on his Erosion skill. Instead of just touching the object, he tried to 'feel' the molecular structure of the iron.
[ Active Skill: Erosion (Novice) = Activated ]
A faint, violet-black mist coiled around his fingertips. He touched the raven's wing. Usually, Erosion would simply rot the material, but he tried to channel his Intelligence to refine the output.
The wing didn't just decay, it vanished. There was no sound, no smoke just a perfect, jagged void where the metal used to be. The iron didn't fall to the floor as dust, it was simply destroyed from existence.
[ Destruction Essence Purity: 1.02% ]
[ Mana: 40/650 ]
The drain was immense. Alaric slumped forward, his forehead hitting the cool wood of the desk. He realized then that Erosion wasn't a skill it was a fundamental command to the universe to to destroy.
Alaric stared at the mangled raven statuette on his desk. The missing wing wasn't a clean break. it was a gap in reality.
He knew he couldn't leave it for the maids to find. Even a servant with no mana training would sense the unnatural "wrongness" radiating from the void where the iron used to be.
He wrapped the statuette in a thick silk cloth and tucked it under his arm. His body ached—every muscle fiber felt as though it had been threaded with hot needles from Bram's training, but his mind was wired, fueled by the cold adrenaline of his successful Erosion test.
He slipped out of his room, moving like a shadow. He didn't need a light, his high Intelligence allowed him to map the hallways of Silverlane Manor in his mind with perfect clarity. He intended to reach the courtyard forge and toss the evidence into the slag heap.
"The time is quiet late for a boy who had his ribs rattled all day."
Alaric froze. He didn't jump—his Mental Fortitude wouldn't allow it, but his heart skipped a beat. Standing by the tall window overlooking the gardens was Gram Hilson. The "Hammer of Hilson" wasn't wearing his heavy armor now, just a simple linen shirt and trousers, but he still looked like a mountain.
"Uncle Gram," Alaric whispered, his voice regaining its practiced, innocent pitch. "I couldn't sleep. The the bruises were hurting."
Gram turned, the moonlight catching the silver in his blonde hair. He didn't look angry, he looked weary. He walked over to Alaric and sat on a stone bench, gesturing for the boy to join him.
I know that pain," Gram said softly. "It's the rhythm of growth. But what's that in your hand, lad? You're clutching it like a stolen treasure.
Alaric hesitated. He looked at Gram—the man who had saved his father, the man who was currently risking his life to hide Alaric's training from the Church. He decided to trust him, but only partially. He unwrapped the cloth.
Gram leaned in. When he saw the raven, he didn't gasp. He went deathly still. He reached out a hardened finger, hovering just a millimeter away from the erased wing.
"This wasn't done by a hammer, Alaric,"
Gram whispered, his voice trembling with a hint of primal fear. "And it wasn't done by a regular spell. I've seen the aftermath of a Count-rank demon's decay attack. Even that leaves a residue. This... this is just nothingness."
He looked at Alaric, his eyes searching the boy face. "Is this why the Seer called you empty? Because you don't contain mana... you destroy it?"
Alaric met his gaze. "I told you, Uncle. The stone doesn't move. But sometimes, the stone just goes away."
Gram let out a long, shaky breath. He wrapped the raven back in the silk.
"Give it to me. I'll melt it down in the main forge myself. If a servant finds this, the church Inquisition will be back before dawn with a wrath ready for us all."
He stood up, towering over Alaric. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to hug the boy, but he stopped himself, settled instead for a heavy hand on the shoulder.
"You're a Silverlane, and you're my friend's son. I will take this to my grave," Gram said solemnly. But Alaric promise me one thing. Don't let the dark part of you forget the face of your mother. She is the only thing in this world that is truly Light. If you lose that, you won't be a weapon. You'll just be a catastrophe.
Alaric watched Gram walk away into the darkness of the hallway. He felt the weight of the man's words.
He realized then that he had crossed a threshold. Until tonight, his secrets had been his alone—a cold burden carried by a thirty-five-year-old soul in a five-year-old's body.
Now, he had a witness. Gram Hilson, the "Hammer of the hilson, was no longer just a loyal family friend, he was Accomplice to a power that could bring the entire Church of life screaming to their gates.
Returning to his room, Alaric didn't light a candle. He sat on the edge of his bed, watching the moonlight crawl across the floorboards. Gram's warning echoed in his mind: Don't forget the face of your mother.
It was a strange thing, to be a "catastrophe" in the making. In his past life, Alaric had been a man of average means, pushed around by the currents of a world that didn't care if he lived or died.
Here, he was the current. He was the storm. He looked at his hands, still trembling from the day's exertion, and felt the Destruction Essence humming beneath his skin like a dormant volcano.
I won't forget, Uncle Gram," Alaric whispered into the darkness of the room.
But I won't be a victim either. If I am to be a disaster, I will be a controlled one. I will be the fire that clears the path so the Silverlanes can finally grow in peace."
He lay back, pulling the silk sheets to his chin. The pain in his muscles began to dull into a rhythmic throb, a physical reminder that he was alive.
As sleep finally pulled at his consciousness, his last thought wasn't of the Church or the demons. but of the weight of a wooden sword and the iron-clad promise of a man who called him nephew.