The grand hall fell into a stunned silence as Lord Gareth finished his dramatic recounting of the ambush. Maria's hand flew to her mouth, her obsidian eyes wide with shock. Lord Baren's face, usually an impassive mask, hardened, his knuckles white where he gripped the armrest of his chair.
"Assassins? On the Old King's Road, so close to our lands?" Baren's voice was a low growl, laced with cold fury. "This is an outrage, an insult to House Lithia! By the Old Gods, Gareth, I am relieved beyond words that you and Lady Narine are unharmed."
He rose, his presence commanding the room. "Rest assured, this will not go uninvestigated. I will find out who dared commit such an act. Lucas!"
Sir Lucas, who had been observing silently from the periphery, stepped forward, his expression grim. "My Lord?"
"The Black Knight Squadron," Baren ordered, his voice like chipped flint. "Deploy them immediately. Scour that section of the Old King's Road. The Vangoria guards will have left tracks, perhaps even bodies if this masked hero was as effective as Lord Gareth describes. Find the incapacitated leader, if he hasn't been retrieved. Bring him back for… questioning. I want answers."
A murmur went through the Lithian servants present. The Black Knight Squadron was House Lithia's elite unit, rarely deployed for anything less than critical matters. They were a small, highly trained force, handpicked by Baren himself from the most loyal and skilled warriors in his service, their identities often kept secret, their armor lacquered a distinctive, non-reflective black. Formed in the aftermath of a brutal border dispute years ago where conventional forces had struggled against guerrilla tactics, the Black Knights specialized in reconnaissance, covert operations, and swift, decisive action. They were Baren's shadows, his unseen enforcers, and their involvement signaled the gravity of the situation.
Lucas bowed. "It will be done, my lord." He then turned his gaze, sharp and appraising, towards Liam. "Young lord, if you are sufficiently recovered from your… late night, perhaps you'd care to begin your daily training? Lord Vangoria, Lady Narine, you might find it a diverting spectacle after your ordeal."
Liam, caught slightly off guard by the abrupt shift, nodded. "Of course, Sir Lucas. I am ready." He needed to appear normal, to adhere to his routine.
Lord Gareth's eyes lit up with interest. "Ah, an excellent suggestion! I confess, I am most curious to see the training regimen of House Lithia. I myself am a keen swordsman. Perhaps, young Liam, you could show an old soldier a thing or two?" He chuckled, though there was a clear spark of competitive interest in his eyes. He was, after all, Gareth Vangoria, already a 3-Star Adept Knight at the age of nineteen, a significant achievement that fostered a quiet pride. He was intrigued to gauge the level of this younger lord.
Narine, too, seemed to find the idea agreeable, perhaps as a distraction from the terrifying memories of the previous night. "It would be most interesting to observe, Lord Liam."
The training yard was soon bustling. While Lucas put Liam through his initial warm-up laps, Sarah, ever attentive, appeared with a tray of chilled fruit juices and cool cloths for Lord Gareth and Lady Narine, who had taken seats on a shaded bench.
Liam, aware of the audience, focused inwardly. He glanced at his Status Window, a private reassurance. Two Stars – Swordsman Apprentice. He was indeed far ahead of where he'd been at this age in his past life. His mana, as he'd suspected, had fully replenished overnight, a testament to his growing vitality or perhaps another subtle boon of the Dragonheart Vigor.
He began his run. The laps felt easier than ever, his body light and responsive. Dragonheart Vigor hummed, a familiar thrum beneath his skin. He pushed himself, not to exhaustion, but to a steady, powerful rhythm.
Then came the sword drills. As he moved through the vertical and diagonal slashes against the practice dummy, he tried to maintain the level of skill he'd shown previously, nothing more. Yet, to Sir Lucas, who watched with an almost unnerving focus, Liam's improvement was still startling. Each strike was cleaner, faster, more economical than the last. The boy absorbed instruction like a dry sponge, his body seeming to learn and adapt at an unnatural rate. Lucas found himself comparing Liam's current form to that of knights with years more experience. It was… unsettling.
Lord Gareth watched with a discerning eye. He noted Liam's stamina, his controlled breathing, the surprising precision in his strikes for one so young. "He has good form, Sir Lucas," Gareth commented. "A solid foundation."
"He has… dedication, Lord Vangoria," Lucas replied, his tone carefully neutral.
After a series of parry drills, Gareth, growing slightly restless, stood up. "An impressive display, young Liam. But drills are one thing. How about a friendly spar? To truly test your mettle?"
Liam's internal alarm bells rang. He wants to gauge my true strength. If I perform too well, it will raise more suspicion than my rapid improvement already has.
"It would be an honor, Lord Vangoria," Liam said, bowing slightly. "Though I fear I am no match for an Adept Knight."
"Nonsense, my boy! It's merely for practice," Gareth said, already selecting a blunted practice sword.
The spar began. Liam's plan was simple: defend, tire himself out convincingly, and then gracefully concede. He focused on parries and evasions, deliberately making his movements a little less fluid, a fraction slower than his true capability.
Gareth, however, was a confident and aggressive fighter. He pressed his attacks, his strikes powerful and aimed to test Liam's defenses thoroughly. "Come now, young lord!" Gareth taunted good-naturedly after Liam narrowly avoided a strong downward slash. "Show me some of that Lithian fire! Are you merely going to dance around all day?"
Sir Lucas watched them intently, his arms crossed. He knew Liam's current capabilities better than anyone. He saw the subtle holding back, the feigned clumsiness. The boy is trying to hide something, Lucas thought, his suspicion deepening.
Liam, feeling Lucas's gaze and Gareth's mounting frustration, knew he couldn't keep up the charade for too long without it becoming obvious. Gareth was good, but Liam, with his past life's experience and enhanced attributes, could likely defeat him, though it would be a hard fight if he didn't use the full extent of his Draconic Vigor.
Gareth, perhaps sensing he wasn't getting a true measure of Liam, suddenly increased his pace, launching a flurry of blows that forced Liam onto the defensive. One strike slipped past Liam's guard, the blunted edge thudding against his ribs. It didn't hurt much, thanks to his increased Endurance, but it was the opening Gareth sought.
"Aha! Got you there, lad!" Gareth grinned.
It was in that moment, with Gareth pressing his advantage, that Liam, perhaps instinctively, perhaps out of a flash of irritation at being "caught," allowed a fraction more of his true speed and power to leak through. He sidestepped Gareth's follow-up strike with a startling burst of agility, his counter-parry deflecting Gareth's blade with unexpected force. Then, in a movement so swift it was almost a blur, he flowed into a low stance and swept his leg out, aiming to unbalance Gareth.
The maneuver was executed with a precision and speed that was utterly incongruous with the clumsy defense he'd shown moments before.
Gareth, surprised by the sudden shift, stumbled, catching himself just before he fell. He stared at Liam, his grin vanishing, replaced by a look of stunned disbelief. "By the… where did that come from?"
Liam immediately realized his mistake. That burst of speed, that fluidity… it was too much. He quickly backed away, feigning breathlessness. "My apologies, Lord Vangoria. A lucky move, I assure you. I… I believe I am spent." He leaned on his sword, panting dramatically.
Gareth, however, was still processing what he'd seen. That sudden surge… it was eerily familiar. The way Liam had moved in that instant – low, fast, with an almost predatory grace. That was… that was like the masked man, Gareth thought, a flicker of confusion and an impossible idea dawning in his mind. He shook his head slightly. No, it couldn't be. This boy is… just a boy. The masked warrior was a seasoned fighter. "Impossible…" he murmured under his breath.
Liam, catching the murmur, offered a slightly shaky smile. "Thank you for the spar, Lord Vangoria. You clearly let your guard down to give me an opening. I am grateful for the lesson." He bowed again, hoping to deflect.
Narine, who had been watching intently, also felt a strange sense of déja vu. The masked man had been taller, broader perhaps, or so it had seemed in the terrifying chaos of the night. But Liam's posture now, even in his training attire which mostly hid the contours of his shoulders, his height, the way he held himself after that sudden burst of energy… it sparked a flicker of recognition. The movements… she thought. But then she remembered the wounds the hero had sustained. Liam was moving far too freely. Unless… The thought was fleeting but unsettling. Unless he had access to incredibly potent healing magic. The kind spoken of only in hushed whispers, primarily found within the Holy Kingdom, or possessed by a rare few scattered across the continent. She dismissed it. It was too improbable.
Sir Lucas said nothing, but his gaze on Liam was more thoughtful, more penetrating than ever.
Sir Lucas, his face an unreadable mask, finally dismissed Liam. "That will be all for today, young lord. Rest. You've… earned it." The implication hung heavy in the air.
Liam retreated to his chambers, his mind a whirlwind. The close call in the spar, Gareth's dawning suspicion, Narine's unsettling gaze – it was a precarious balancing act. He stripped off his sweat-soaked training tunic and headed for the steaming bath Sarah would have undoubtedly prepared.
As the warm water soothed his tired muscles, his thoughts turned to the A-Rank Weapon Selection Voucher. He'd almost forgotten in the flurry of events. Closing his eyes, he focused on the System. "Use A-Rank Weapon Selection Voucher."
The familiar translucent panel shimmered, then displayed a scrolling list of weapon images, each with a brief description. He mentally filtered for swords, and one image immediately caught his eye. It pulsed with a faint, crimson light.
[Crimson Fang]
Type: Longsword
Rarity: Epic (A-Rank)
Attack Power: 45
Durability: 150/150
Effects:
• Blood drinker: Each successful strike that draws blood from an enemy temporarily increases the wielder's Strength and Agility by +1 (stacks up to 5 times, fades after 10 seconds of no new stacks).
• Jagged Edge: Inflicts bleeding on critical hits, dealing minor damage over time.
Description: Forged in the heart of a dying star and quenched in the blood of a shadow dragon, this blade thrums with a ravenous hunger. Its crimson fuller seems to weep blood in the right light, and its edge whispers promises of swift, brutal victory. Legends say it chooses its wielder, bonding with those who possess a fierce, untamed spirit.
Liam gasped, his eyes wide. "An Epic sword…" The attack power alone was nearly ten times that of his common arming sword. The effects were incredible. This wasn't just a weapon; it was a legend in the making. He willed it into existence. The sword materialized in his hand, cool and perfectly balanced, the crimson fuller seeming to absorb the light in the room. It felt alive, an extension of his own will. With a thought, he consigned it to his inventory, the image of the magnificent blade now occupying a prime slot.
A soft knock on the door startled him. "Enter," he called, quickly donning a fresh robe.
The door opened, and Sarah stepped inside, her expression a mixture of worry, resolve, and something else he couldn't quite decipher. She closed the door firmly behind her.
"My lord," she began, her voice low and steady, "we need to talk."
Liam frowned. "About what, Sarah?"
"About last night," she said, her gaze unwavering. "About a masked man who fought like a demon to save the Vangoria family. About wounds that should have taken weeks to heal, vanishing overnight."
Liam froze. He activated Vision. Beside Sarah's status panel, the 'Empathic Healing (Locked)' was indeed gone, replaced by 'Empathic Healing (Active, Rank A)'. She knew. And she'd healed him.
"You saw me?" he asked, his voice quiet.
"I saw enough," she confirmed. "And I… I think I was the one who treated your injuries, my lord. Though I don't fully understand how." She looked at her own hands, a flicker of fear and wonder in her eyes. "You were reckless! You could have been killed!"
Liam sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. He owed her the truth, at least part of it. "I had to, Sarah. There was no other way to ensure their safety without revealing things I cannot yet speak of." He hesitated, the weight of his secrets pressing down on him. "There are… complexities. Dangers. I don't want to draw you into them."
Sarah's expression softened with understanding. She knew he was holding back, not out of distrust, but out of a desire to protect her. "I understand, my lord. Or at least, I'm trying to." She then remembered her duties. "You should go to the hall. Lunch is being served."
Liam stepped forward and, on impulse, pulled her into a brief, gentle hug. "Thank you, Sarah. For everything." He pulled back, looking her earnestly in the eyes. "Your healing ability… it's a rare and precious gift. Keep it secret, for now. Learn to control it. It could be vital."
Sarah nodded, a blush rising on her cheeks, touched by his trust and concern.
Liam arrived at the dining hall to find the families already seated. He took his usual place beside his mother, directly opposite Gareth. Narine was to Gareth's left, and Lord Baren at the head of the table.
Baren, his earlier fury somewhat abated, looked at Liam with a calculating expression. "Liam, your spar with Lord Gareth was… enlightening. Your improvement continues to be remarkable. Sir Lucas is most impressed with your dedication."
Liam felt Gareth's gaze on him, still tinged with that earlier suspicion. Maria, sensing Liam's discomfort, smoothly changed the subject. "Indeed, Baren. But enough about training for now. Liam, dear, have you and Lady Narine had a chance to become acquainted? Perhaps after lunch, you could show her around the estate? Clear your schedule, spend some time with your betrothed."
Liam met Narine's gaze. She offered a polite, almost shy smile. "I would like that very much, Lady Maria, Lord Liam."
Lunch was a mixture of polite conversation and subtle observations. Afterward, as Lord Baren and Lord Gareth retired to Baren's study to discuss the more formal aspects of the alliance and the investigation into the ambush, Liam found himself tasked with escorting Lady Narine.
He led her to the estate's sprawling gardens, a place of vibrant blooms and tranquil pathways he hadn't truly appreciated in years. They spoke of many things – of their respective homelands, of books they'd read, of the strange and often daunting expectations placed upon those of noble birth. Liam found himself laughing, truly laughing, for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Narine was not just beautiful; she was intelligent, witty, and possessed a quiet strength and maturity that belied her fifteen years. Her demeanor was indeed that of a lady far older.
As they sat on a stone bench overlooking a rose garden, Narine turned to him, her expression thoughtful. "Lord Liam," she began, her voice soft, "do you know of any skilled healers in the region? Or does Lithian Hold have a designated physician or someone particularly gifted in the healing arts?"
Liam's senses went on alert. He kept his expression neutral. "We have a competent physician who tends to the household, Lady Narine, but none I would call exceptionally gifted in the way you describe. Why do you ask? Are you feeling unwell?"
"Oh no, not at all," she replied quickly, perhaps too quickly. "Just a passing curiosity. After last night… one thinks of such things." She paused, then tilted her head, a charmingly inquisitive look on her face. "My lord, you train so rigorously. Do you ever suffer from sore muscles? Particularly in the shoulders? I know an old family technique for relieving such tension. It's quite effective." She smiled innocently. "Would you mind if I… demonstrated? Perhaps I could see your shoulder muscles?"
Liam inwardly sighed. The interrogation continued, albeit subtly. She was trying to confirm her suspicions about the masked man's injuries. He played along, feigning mild surprise and then polite acquiescence. "That is very kind of you, Lady Narine. My shoulders are indeed a little stiff from this morning's spar."
He carefully rolled up the sleeve of his tunic, exposing his shoulder. Thanks to Sarah's potent healing, there wasn't a mark on him, not even a lingering bruise from where the Viper leader's dagger had grazed him, nor from Gareth's blunted sword.
Narine's gaze lingered on his unblemished skin for a moment longer than necessary. He saw a flicker of something in her eyes – disappointment? Confusion? Relief? She was clearly convinced. A man wounded as grievously as their savior could not possibly be so perfectly healed without a trace, not in a single night.
"Remarkable," she murmured, almost to herself. Then, recovering her composure, she reached out and began to gently massage his shoulder. Her touch was light, hesitant, and it was immediately clear to Liam that she had absolutely no idea what she was doing. Her "old family technique" was clearly a fabrication.
He endured it for a polite minute, then gently disengaged. "Thank you, Lady Narine. That was… thoughtful. But perhaps we should be returning? My mother will be wondering where we've disappeared to."
Narine agreed, though a pensive look remained on her face.
That evening, Lithian Hold blazed with light and music. Maria, a consummate hostess, had indeed prepared a grand ball to formally welcome the Vangorias and celebrate the impending betrothal. Nobles from neighboring houses had been invited, and the great hall was filled with the rustle of silk, the glint of jewels, and the murmur of polite, and not-so-polite, conversation. Liam, dressed in formal attire, found himself navigating a sea of unfamiliar faces and veiled inquiries, all while keeping a watchful eye on the undercurrents of suspicion and intrigue that seemed to follow him like a shadow.