Alric stirred slowly.
For a moment, he didn't see—he only felt. A strange clarity rested behind his eyes, as if he'd slept for a week in a single breath.
And before he saw the room, he knew—his father was sitting beside him.
He opened his eyes.
Thyron gazed down at him, brow furrowed in focus, but as their eyes met, it softened.
"You're awake, Alric," he said, voice quiet.
Alric nodded, slowly rising to sit upright. He had to blink away the light. He knew his father rarely showed strong emotion—habit shaped in the bloodied trenches of the western wars, where even a flicker of fear could mark you for death.
"Yes, Father."
"Do you feel pain? I can call someone."
Alric shook his head. Strangely, he felt… better than ever. His senses were sharper, his body lighter. Everything around him was clearer. Brighter. Almost too bright.
"I'm fine, Father. Better than I've ever been."
"The sun's just begun to rise," his father said.
Alric blinked. "So… I was out the whole night, then."
A silence passed.
Then Thyron spoke again—this time with the voice Alric knew only from serious talks. The kind that came before decisions that changed lives.
"Alric. I need to ask you something."
Alric turned to face him fully. "Yes, Father. Go ahead."
"You're doing well here—as a knight trainee?"
Alric blinked, confused. "Yes. Very well."
Thyron hesitated. Then:
"What I mean is… are you happy?"
Now Alric understood. The man had seen him collapsed—half-dead, carried in by a stranger. Doubt was clawing at the edge of his father's resolve.
Alric smiled softly. "I truly am, Father. You don't have to worry."
Thyron didn't speak.
"I know what you're thinking," Alric said. "But I'm fine. I don't regret this. And I won't."
His father lowered his eyes. "I've bought a shop here. Small place, near the merchant quarter. If you ever wanted to… leave all this—if you ever wanted peace—I'd welcome you. We could work there together. Live quietly."
Alric let out a small laugh.
"You know I've no talent for business. I'd sink you in debt within a week."
Thyron finally smiled at that.
Alric knew how much the man loved him. After his mother's death in the wars—when Alric had been barely six—Thyron had given his life to raising him. That love had never softened the man, but it had defined him.
"I'll be careful, Father," Alric promised. "This isn't like the West, where every fight meant life or death. If I survived that, I'll thrive here."
They spoke a while longer.
Then Alric left, allowing his father a bit more rest before the city truly awoke.
Alric returned to his own sleeping quarters, a narrow stone room nestled near the spiraling tower. He rested for a bit longer, then made his way to the public washroom.
Only a few people were there—it was still early. He moved quietly, stepped under the cold water, and scrubbed the lingering scent of blood and heat from his skin.
Strangely, every droplet felt like a blade. Every sound echoed too sharp.
He washed quickly, dressed in a fresh green uniform with the red Third Cohort cape, and stepped toward the exit.
"Feeling better, Alric?" a voice asked as he passed.
It was Tyler.
Alric gave a small smile. "Well enough."
"Everyone passes out," Tyler grinned. "But today's a special day. Be ready."
Before Alric could ask, another voice joined in.
"You'll enjoy yourself," said Freyd, a tall, muscular man with a calm face and unreadable eyes.
Alric frowned. "What happens today?"
Neither answered.
He didn't push the matter. Truth be told, his body felt alive, more than ever before—but his mind was reeling.
He could hear the dripping water behind the wall. The breath of every man in the room. He could feel not only his heartbeat—but the blood pulsing in the bodies around him.
He could tell someone was walking up the corridor before they turned the corner. He could see the dust in the air. Hear every scuff of leather on stone.
It was too much.
He muttered an excuse and left.
As he passed Freyd, he heard a whisper—so faint it should've been impossible to catch.
"Learn to turn it down. Or it will break your mind."
Alric didn't answer. He didn't know how to turn it down.
He just nodded and walked into the hallway.
Alric walked down the spiral stairs, leaving the resting quarters behind. The morning air was cool, but he barely noticed.
Benedict wasn't in the courtyard today.
He made his way across the grounds and approached Captain Bryan directly.
"Are you feeling fine, boy?" the captain asked, looking him over.
Alric nodded. "Yes."
"Good."
The captain began walking, and Alric followed alongside him as he spoke.
"What happened to you yesterday was your divine awakening. Your holy power was blocked for too long—tangled in years of survival, battle, and blood. But now that it's broken free, and you will adapt to it."
Alric listened carefully, trying to focus—but his ears caught every footstep, every swing of a blade, the clink of metal, the shuffle of boots on stone. He could feel every movement in the courtyard without even turning his head.
The world felt too loud. Too sharp.
Bryan continued.
"There are five blockages in the body through which divine power flows. One at the top of the forehead. One in the center of the neck. Another in the chest. One near the navel. And the final one between your legs."
Alric nodded faintly.
"You'll be trained as a mage knight," Bryan said. "But to become a blood mage, you must first become a blood knight. And a blood knight…" he paused, looking him in the eyes, "fights with his own blood."
Alric said nothing—but he felt his heartbeat pick up, like his blood had heard the words.
"Right now, your control extends only within your body," the captain explained. "But even that can be turned into strength.
You can force blood into your legs to move faster. Into your arms to strike harder. You can slow bleeding from a wound, or direct blood to shield vital areas."
Alric's eyes narrowed with focus.
But the deeper he listened, the more the world crowded in.
He could see every mote of dust in the air. He could hear the bowstring being drawn behind him. He could feel the breath of two boys coming down the stairs he'd left earlier. He could feel not just his blood—but theirs too.
It was gnawing at his mind.
"The first thing you must do is hone your senses," Bryan continued. "You now see faster than others, hear sharper, feel deeper. To you, a blade strike should appear in slow motion. You must train your instincts to act in that slowed world."
Alric clenched his jaw and tried to nod.
Bryan wasn't finished.
"Before now, all who dueled you were prohibited from using their divine senses. That ends today. From now on, everyone will fight you with their full strength. And understand this—" he said, turning to face Alric fully, "between two awakened warriors, most fights end in seconds.
Only when divine senses are perfectly matched does a duel last longer. Otherwise, the weaker mind breaks, without fail."
Alric took a slow breath. He tried to still the roaring in his ears.
Just then, he heard a footfall behind him—deliberate, heavy.
He'd heard it before the man even rounded the corner.
"Alric of the Third Cohort," a voice called out.
Alric turned slowly, already knowing the speaker.
It was Castor.