As I reached the training grounds, something felt off.
Nobody was around.
Usually, by this hour, at least twenty or thirty kids from different branches of the family would be here—training, sparring, or pretending to. The clang of wooden swords, the grunts, the shouts of instructors—it was always chaos. Organized, noble-born chaos.
But today? Silence.
Not a single soul. Not even a guard. The place felt… abandoned.
A faint breeze rustled the banners bearing the Ironcreed sigil—a black stallion rearing inside a white shield. For some reason, the sight gave me goosebumps.
Something's off.
An uneasy chill crawled up my spine. Silence in a noble estate usually meant one thing: trouble.
I turned to leave—three steps in, and a rough hand clamped down on my shoulder.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Shit.
That voice. Deep. Calm. Displeased.
I forced a smile before turning my head. "There was no one around, so I thought someone might've booked the training ground, Dad."
He didn't buy it.
Standing behind me was High Elder Oliver Ironcreed—my father. The man could make trained knights piss themselves with a single glare despite being a blacksmith. Not tall in a monstrous way, but solid—like the world itself was afraid to bump into him.
Anyone seeing us together would swear we were brothers. He looked like he was in his late twenties, even though he'd lived over two centuries.
"Booked the training ground?" he repeated slowly, voice flat enough to iron steel with.
"Uh… yeah? For privacy? Some nobles like personal sessions…"
His eyes narrowed. "Privacy. Right. Because the High Elder's only son—who's supposed to be preparing for his Awakening Ceremony—needs privacy from training?"
Okay, walked right into that one.
Before I could answer, he stepped past me, scanning the empty grounds. "You noticed, didn't you? The missing guards. The quiet."
"Yeah. I was just about to—uh—report it?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Report it to who, exactly?"
"…You?"
He sighed. "By the gods, boy. You're lucky you inherited your mother's face, or I'd have you running laps till dawn."
I exhaled quietly in relief. His expression softened—slightly. The kind of softness that still felt like it could cut you in half.
"There's a reason no one's here today, Augustus."
That got my attention.
"Tomorrow, you'll participate in the Awakening Ceremony," he said, turning his back to me. "Which is why I've prepared something for you. That's why we need privacy."
Prepared something.
Those words never led anywhere good. Every time my father "prepared something," I ended up questioning my life choices.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, white fruit marked with golden patterns. It shimmered faintly, pulsing with inner light.
I blinked. "Is that a Mystic Fruit?"
Those things were the stuff of legend. Finding one was like finding a golden phoenix feather—technically possible, but realistically a fairy tale.
"Since when did you get your hands on that?"
"Since you refused to follow in my footsteps and become a blacksmith."
"Come on, Dad, you know I don't have that kind of focus for the craft."
He gave me a look. The kind that said: I already Know.
"...Thanks," I muttered, "but you didn't have to. I'm confident I'll get a good class on my own."
"Silence." His tone cut cleanly through the air. "This fruit is resonance-type. It will stimulate your bloodline and physique, forcing them to harmonize—making it easier for you to obtain a class compatible with your Bloodline."
I frowned. "Resonance-type? Isn't that… dangerous?"
"Only if you're weak."
"Right. Of course. Silly me."
He handed it over. "Don't worry. With your training and bloodline, you can withstand it. Just don't lose consciousness."
"Great motivational speech, Dad."
"Eat."
I sighed and bit into it.
It tasted like lightning and molten sugar. My veins lit up instantly. My vision blurred, body trembling as liquid fire ran through them—boiling, reshaping, burning away everything unworthy.
Somewhere deep inside, I felt a click.
Like something becoming whole.
The next thing I knew, I was kneeling on the ground, gasping for air. The grass beneath me had turned silver, every blade glowing faintly.
My father stood above me, arms folded, calm as ever. "Well?"
I looked down.
I could feel it—I was twice as strong as before.
"I… did it."
He nodded once. Approval. His version of a standing ovation.
"Good. You've purified your bloodline properly. The ceremony tomorrow will give you a class that will work perfectly with your bloodline."
I steadied my breath. "So… what now?"
He smirked.
Ah. There it was. The trap.
"Now we'll make you familiar with your new strength—for which I'll train you."
Training under Father wasn't training. It was survival. The last time he "trained" me, I ended up crawling back to my room with bruises in places I didn't know had names.
"Dad, are you sure you shouldn't be—uh—helping me by giving advice on how to awaken my Bloodline?" I tried. "You know, with your extensive experience?"
He smirked faintly. "Trying to flatter your way out of discipline? You've grown clever. Good. You'll need that."
"Need it for what?"
"For tomorrow," he said simply, taking out a wooden sword and tossing another at me. "Your Awakening Ceremony isn't just about getting a class early and leveling up ahead of everyone. You think being born into nobility exempts you from the Ironcreed family's law?"
"Which is?" I muttered, catching the sword.
"'Strength before pride. Duty before comfort. Blood before fear.'"
"Sounds exhausting," I said under my breath.
He didn't even blink. "Then—consider this your warm-up."
And before I could brace, the air cracked—he moved, impossibly fast, the wooden sword whistling toward me.
Reflex kicked in. I barely raised my blade in time, the impact sending a jolt through my arms.
"Good," he said, expression unreadable. "You've improved."
"Improved enough to stop?" I asked hopefully.
"No."
And then the real beating began.
...
Two hours later…
I was flat on the ground, staring up at the drifting clouds, every muscle screaming.
My father stood over me, arms folded. "Still alive. Acceptable."
"Glad to know my survival meets your expectations," I wheezed.
He ignored the sarcasm. "Tomorrow's ceremony will define your path. Whatever you awaken—make it count. You only get one chance. Remember that."
I nodded weakly, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw a flicker of pride in his eyes. Or maybe I imagined it through the haze of pain.
He crouched down, resting a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Now, you listen carefully."
His tone shifted—calmer, older, the kind that only surfaces when he means every word.
"When the time comes to choose your class and skills, don't chase ranks or titles. Choose based on your path—what you want to become. The greatest mistake most nobles make is chasing high ranks instead of true compatibility."
He glanced toward the silverwood tree. "A skill's value doesn't come from its rarity, but from how you use it. Even a basic skill becomes legendary in the right hands. Understand?"
I nodded, still trembling slightly.
"Good. Then rest. Tomorrow, the world will recognize you as an adult—and the path you choose will decide what kind of man you'll become."
He stood and began to walk away, his voice fading like a hammer echoing in a forge.
"Remember, Augustus… forge your own strength. Don't borrow another's shape."
I looked down at my glowing hands, the faint energy still thrumming through my veins.
Forge my own strength, huh?
Yeah. I can work with that.