Three months had passed like the turning of a wheel.
The bell still tolled before dawn, drills still broke backs and arms, patrols still scoured the streets each night—but the raw edge of chaos was gone. What had once left squires gasping now only left them sweating. Blisters had hardened into calluses. Awkward stances had become muscle memory carved into bone.
Adrian moved through it all with calm efficiency, every strike, every march, every patrol blending into the rhythm of his existence. To him, it was not growth but a return—his body catching up to what his soul already knew. His young frame, though still growing, remembered what it meant to fight without rest, to endure beyond the limits of endurance itself.
The morning's drills ended with sparring in the East Grounds. Wooden swords clashed in rapid rhythm, the air thick with grunts, sweat, and the sharp crack of wood on wood. Brann jeered at his opponents, laughing even as fresh bruises bloomed across his arms like dark flowers. Finn struck with sharp precision, each blow measured and economical, his fisherman's patience translating into controlled aggression. Edric fought stubbornly, refusing to yield even when driven to his knees, his farmer's determination proving more valuable than natural talent.
Adrian bested three opponents in sequence, his movements efficient and unshaken, his wooden blade rising and falling with the inevitability of the tide. Each victory was clean but not overwhelming—skilled enough to be noticed, not so dominant as to raise uncomfortable questions. The final bell rang, signaling dismissal.
"Mess hall," barked a steward, his voice hoarse from three months of shouting the same commands. "Eat quick, then lecture."
The squires filed from the grounds, weary but steady. The desperate exhaustion of the first weeks had been replaced by the deeper, more sustainable fatigue of bodies adapting to constant demand. They walked with more confidence now, shoulders straighter, movements more economical.
The lecture chamber was cooler than the training yard, a welcome relief from the morning's heat. Shadows stretched long under the high-arched windows, and the air carried the faint smell of chalk and old parchment. Chalk sigils already marked the slate board at the front, complex geometric patterns waiting to be explained.
Instructor Halbrecht stood waiting, hands clasped behind his back, his gray cloak sharp against the dark wood of the dais. His hawk-like gaze swept the benches as the squires settled into their seats, lingering on each face with the assessing look of someone measuring potential.
"You know by now the sword drills," he began without preamble. "You know the ranks of knighthood. You know the classifications of monsters and demons. Today, you will learn the one thing that ties them all together—the foundation upon which our entire civilization rests."
He tapped the chalk sharply against the board, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.
"Runes."
The word hung in the air, drawing a ripple of murmurs. Adrian sat straighter. This was knowledge worth hearing—context he'd lacked in his previous life, understanding of how humans had turned demon resources into their own strength.
Halbrecht drew swift strokes across the board, forming etched shapes that seemed to glow faintly even in simple chalk dust.
"Runes are the foundation of our world," he said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "Without them, Arathor would crumble within a generation. Every lamp that burns after sunset, every hearth that cooks your meal, every aqueduct that carries clean water to your homes—all of it exists because of rune-stones harvested from the bodies of monsters and demons."
He turned, eyes sharp as flint. "Do not mistake this. Runes are not ink, nor paint, nor some mystical energy we conjure from thin air. They are carved from bone, horn, hide, or flesh. They are physical objects, trophies of blood. Every rune that powers your cities is a reminder that something had to die for it."
The room was silent now. Even Brann had stopped fidgeting, his usual grin fading as the weight of Halbrecht's words settled on him.
Halbrecht struck the chalk against the board again, writing in bold letters:
✦ Everyday Runes
"These are what you see daily, so common you've stopped noticing them:"
Light runes – carved into the lamps that line our streets, the sconces in your homes, the lanterns carried by the Watch
Heat runes – fuel the forges that make your weapons, the stoves that cook your food, the furnaces that warm noble halls in winter
Water runes – purify the rivers feeding our aqueducts, draw wells that never run dry, keep our fountains flowing
Power runes – stored in crystals, driving the capital's mechanisms—mills, lifts, the great gates themselves
"These you see daily," Halbrecht continued. "You think them common, mundane, barely worth noticing. They are not. Even the faintest light rune, the weakest heat stone, was once carved from a corpse. A monster died, screaming, so that you could read by lamplight."
He let that sink in before turning the board, chalk scraping again with deliberate slowness.
✦ Enhancement Runes
Speed runes – sewn into boots, making scouts faster than horses
Strength runes – bound into gauntlets, letting knights wield weapons that would normally break them
Endurance runes – woven into armor, allowing warriors to fight for hours without rest
Focus runes – etched into training weights and helmets, sharpening the mind under pressure
"Each designed to sharpen a knight's edge, to push human limits beyond their natural boundaries." Halbrecht's voice took on a warning tone. "But beware. Runes strengthen, yes, but they also tempt reliance. Lean too heavily on them, and you will crumble the moment they fail—and they do fail. Runes crack, fade, break. A knight's body must be strong without them, or you are nothing but a corpse waiting for your crutch to snap."
Edric scribbled notes furiously, his brow furrowed in concentration. Brann whispered something to Finn, earning himself a sharp look from the instructor. Finn cuffed him silent. Adrian listened without moving, every word being cataloged in his perfect recall, each piece of information filed away for potential use.
Halbrecht's chalk moved once more, the scratching sound loud in the attentive silence.
✦ Weapon & Armor Runes
Edge runes – keep blades sharp even after a hundred battles
Impact runes – add explosive force to a strike, shattering shields and armor
Guard runes – strengthen shields until they can turn even demon claws
Resist runes – protect against fire, cold, lightning, or the corrupting touch of demon magic
"These make the difference between a soldier and a corpse," Halbrecht said bluntly. "Two men of equal skill fight. One has runed armor, the other does not. The runed warrior walks away. It's that simple." He paused, letting them absorb that reality. "Blacksmiths who can properly etch runes into weapons are as important as the knights who wield them. More important, some would argue. A master runesmith can turn an average knight into a legend. Never forget that. Never disrespect the crafters who make your survival possible."
His hand stilled. The room grew heavy, the air itself seeming to thicken.
"And then," Halbrecht said, his voice dropping to something almost reverent with dread, "there are the runes of demons."
The chalk screeched across the board, thick black lines marking crude, jagged sigils that seemed to hurt the eye to look at directly.
"Demons inscribe runes into their weapons—their Anima Blades—and into their own flesh. Unlike us, they do not merely harvest runes from their kills. They become the rune. Their markings grow with every life taken, every soul devoured, twisting them into stronger, more terrible forms."
He drew another sigil, this one more complex, layered with meanings the squires couldn't quite grasp.
"That is why they are so dangerous. Each victory makes them more powerful. Each corpse feeds their strength. A demon who has killed a hundred men is fundamentally stronger than one who has killed ten. Their power grows exponentially, feeding on slaughter, until lesser demons become generals, and generals become—" he paused "—something worse."
A murmur spread through the benches. Several squires shivered despite the room's warmth.
Halbrecht's gaze hardened, sweeping across them all. "This is why Arathor cannot rest. This is why the war never ends. We kill monsters and demons to harvest their runes, to power our cities, to forge our weapons. They kill us, and in turn grow stronger, more dangerous, more terrible. It is a cycle of slaughter, an endless wheel of blood and death, and only constant vigilance prevents our extinction."
He dropped the chalk. It clattered against the board like a judge's gavel pronouncing sentence.
"You are squires now, but already you have marched the city's streets, already you have tasted what it means to stand watch. Soon—sooner than you think—you will march beyond the walls. You will face monsters not for training, not for drills, but to harvest their runes. Every corpse you fell will make your kingdom stronger, fuel our lamps, sharpen our blades, protect our people. And every failure, every death, every demon that escapes will make our enemies stronger."
The silence that followed was deep and heavy, pressing down on every chest like a physical weight.
Edric swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper as he leaned toward Adrian. "So every night we patrol... we're really keeping runes from falling into the wrong hands. Stopping demons from growing stronger."
Finn nodded faintly beside them, his expression thoughtful. "Every monster we kill feeds our strength. Every one that escapes feeds theirs."
Brann's usual grin had faded entirely, replaced by something harder, grimmer. "Then I'll carve enough runes to make ten knights of myself. Better our blades burn bright than theirs."
Adrian said nothing. His gaze lingered on the crude chalk shapes of demonic runes, his mind recalling a thousand etched scars carved into the flesh of generals and demon kings—including his own. He knew better than Halbrecht's neat lecture could convey. He knew the truth in his bones, in his soul: that runes were not just harvested, but earned in slaughter without end. That the cycle Halbrecht described was not some distant abstraction but a living, breathing reality that had consumed his entire first life.
The demons inscribed runes into their flesh because power was the only currency that mattered in their world. Every kill, every victory, every act of dominance added another mark, another layer of strength. He had worn those marks once, had felt them burn and twist and grow with each battle won.
And here, in his second life, he was learning how humans had turned that same brutal truth into their own weapon.
The bell tolled dismissal, breaking the spell of silence. Benches scraped as squires stood, their movements slower than usual, weighed down by new understanding. Whispers carried through the chamber like ghosts, students processing what they'd learned.
Adrian walked at the rear of the group, his expression calm but his eyes sharp, watchful. The others saw runes as tools, as spoils of war, as the foundation of their civilization. He saw them for what they truly were: the bones of an endless war, trophies carved from corpses, power paid for in blood.
And he knew the cycle Halbrecht described would not break until one side was ground to dust beneath the boots of the other.
The question was only which side would be left standing when the wheel finally stopped turning.