The targeted-draw token sat like a trump card in the dark—Finn kept it unused for now. He first studied the newly awakened wheel after his breakthrough.
The tiles on the holo-pane shimmered with a deeper luster. A helm burned with black flame, labeled The Thirteen Warlords' Iron Form, radiating an oppressive dread. A weathered parchment scroll read The Paladin's Might. Any one of those teal-grade Aura disciplines could snap the skulls of the desperate men who haunted the Savage Reach.
He still had three ordinary draws.
"Begin."
The wheel spun; light flowed like water.
[Reward: The Stone Root Stance (Common)]
A steady power rose from his feet. Finn felt his stance multiply in solidity; his soles seemed to grow invisible roots into the stone, anchoring him to the earth. It was an instinctive combat posture, a base from which he could explode with utterly reliable force.
He didn't pause and spun again.
The pointer settled on the scroll—The Paladin's Might.
[Reward: The Paladin's Might (Uncommon)]
Finn chose to extract it at once.
If the earlier boost had been a stream, this was a flood poured into the channels he had just cleared. His Inner Force was stoked as if molten iron had been poured into conduits—hot, dense, and heavy. Bones gave tiny, satisfying crackles; muscle fibers swelled where they could be seen.
Mortal Rank 2.
The increase in power was plain, but he knew it still wouldn't fell Marcus Thorne—the deputy lord in his memories, a man whose single fist could kill a boar—who ranked at least Mortal Rank 3.
He put his last hope into the final draw.
"Draw!"
This time the pointer skipped past blades and potions, past minor boons, and halted on a teal portrait he'd glimpsed before.
[Congratulations! Allied Combatant Obtained: Cassian Vex (Teal)]
A translucent character card unfurled before him.
Name: Cassian VexRank: Mortal Rank 4Ability: ???Loyalty: Absolute
Mortal Rank 4!
Finn's heart jolted. This exceeded every calculation. In Blackwind Keep, a fighter like that was top-tier.
"Generate the unit."
Light and shadow pooled on the floor in front of him, ink dropping into water to sketch a shape. A tall, lean man in practical slate-gray garb stepped from nothing and dropped to one knee before Finn.
His black hair was bound back, his face severe, eyes sharp as an eagle's. A plain long sword hung at his hip—no ornament, only wear from long use. He gave no bluster, but like a sheathed masterpiece blade, lethal calm coiled in his silence.
"Master." Cassian Vex bowed his head; his voice was steady and clear.
Finn felt an invisible, absolute bond—the system's decree of unshakeable loyalty. He needn't speak for Cassian to grasp the gist of his intent.
"Rise." Finn's voice had steadied as well.
The balance had shifted.
He was no longer alone. A Mortal Rank 4 stood as his wing. Now the question wasn't whether he should flee—it was how Marcus Thorne would die.
Finn pushed the door open and took Cassian with him.
The morning wind from the mountains was cold and damp, bracing the face. The yard was empty; only the sigh of dead grass whispered in the corners.
"Young lord!" a rough voice called nearby.
Finn turned. A hulking man, built like a bear, came limping toward him—Halvar Bearhand, one of his father's most loyal retainers. Behind Halvar walked a slimmer man with a skittish gaze: Faelan the Waverer.
"Young lord—your body… has healed?" Halvar's relief flashed, then folded into worried haste. "This place isn't safe! Marcus has seized the keep's defences. Leave now—ride to the Whisperwind Clan. Silas Crowe is an old friend of the lord; he'll shelter you!"
Finn's eyes slid past Halvar to Faelan. The latter's gaze flicked away; he stepped back a fraction, an almost imperceptible move.
The Whisperwind Clan? Finn gave a cold inward laugh. If memories were right, Marcus Thorne's wife came from the Whisperwind Clan.
"Leave?" Finn shook his head, voice calm. "My things are still here. Why should I leave?"
"Young lord!" Halvar was frantic, sweat gleaming on his brow. "As long as there's land, there's hope—"
His words choked off as heavy, disorderly footsteps thundered from the far end of the yard.
Marcus Thorne appeared with over twenty armed cutthroats blocking their path. He was broad and clad in thick leather, a jagged scar cutting from brow to mouth, his grin contorting the wound into something savage.
"Leave? You Adler spawn, you go nowhere today." Marcus's voice grated like stone on stone.
His gaze swept Finn with surprise, then locked on Cassian; the deputy's brow creased.
Beside Marcus, a man in teal fighting leathers stood arms folded, twin blades at his side, arrogance on his face.
The sight blanched Halvar's face white.
"Silas… Clanmaster? You—"
Silas Crowe, leader of the Whisperwind Clan, lifted an eyelid lazily, a mocking curl at his lip. "Halvar, you are a faithful dog. Too bad—the Elder Adler's gone under at Blackwater Marsh. Your loyalty is worth nothing now."
"You… you betrayed the lord!" Halvar shook with fury, hand clenching his axe haft.
"Betrayal?" Silas sneered, as if at a fool. "A good bird chooses its tree. Marcus pays far better than your rotting lord."
He moved like a teal cyclone, closing on Halvar in an instant. His twin blades flashed and crossed for the neck.
Silas was also Mortal Rank 4; a single move was lethal.
Halvar roared and awkwardly raised his axe.
"Clang!"
Steel rang. Sparks flew. The force of Silas's strike shoved Halvar back three steps; the huge man's palm split, blood pouring. Halvar had brute strength but lacked Silas's refinement—he wasn't a match.
Silas pressed the advantage; his blades struck like twin vipers, each blow aiming for a kill.
As a short blade arced toward Halvar's chest, Finn's voice cut, flat and cold.
"Cassian."
Cassian Vex behind him moved without drawing—his sword slid from the scabbard with a soft metallic cough, shooting free a handspan, and then launched like a silver streak through the air.
Soundless, it ripped the space between them.
The blade met Silas's incoming strike with a ringing ting.
A brutal force shuddered up Silas's arm; he was flung back seven or eight paces before finding a staggered foothold. The cocky smirk had drained from his face, replaced by stunned disbelief.
Cassian's sword traced a sleek arc and returned to his hand, sheathing itself as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
Silence fell over the yard like a dropped cloak.
Marcus's grin froze. His men gaped, unbelieving.
Finn looked at the ashen faces of Silas and Marcus, a cold curve pulling at his lips. He stepped forward one pace; his voice was small, but every ear caught it.
"Kill him."
At the command, Marcus Thorne's eyes flared with murderous light. He didn't look at Cassian; instead he lunged like a raging bull for the weakest point—Finn himself.
Catch the head, take the body.