The ride back from the canyon was a world away from the journey there. The grim, professional tension had evaporated, replaced by the weary, quiet camaraderie of soldiers who had faced death together and won. The guards no longer rode in a tight, protective formation around me; they rode as a unit, a pack, and I was a part of it. I could hear their low, relieved chatter, the occasional joke passed between veterans, and feel the weight of their occasional, respectful glances.
I, however, was mostly silent, my mind replaying the chaos of the battle on a loop. The snarling faces of the Grocs, the clang of steel, the slick, coppery scent of blood. It was a brutal, visceral memory, a far cry from the sanitized violence of the books and video games of my old world. I had taken lives. Not human, but lives nonetheless. There was a grim finality to it that settled deep in my bones.
But beneath the grimness, there was something else. A quiet, thrumming sense of awe. I focused on the moment the alpha Groc had broken the line, the instant Rolan had gone down. I remembered the surge of adrenaline, the roar in my ears, the world narrowing to a single point of desperate action.
And I realized, with a sense of profound shock, that I hadn't thought about it.
Not a single conscious thought had been spared for the Two-Heart Cadence. I hadn't instructed my body to sync its breathing, hadn't focused on the principle of Rhythmic Infusion. My body had simply moved, my power flowing with it as naturally and instinctively as my own blood. The weeks of grueling, repetitive training in the yard, the endless katas, the bruises and the exhaustion—they had forged the Path not just into my mind, but into my very soul. It was a part of me now. It was instinct.
Garrick had been right. I had stopped using the power. I had started to be it.
We rode through the twilight, the fortress of Ashworth a welcome silhouette against the bruised purple sky. As we approached the stables, Rolan, the young guard I had saved, pulled his horse alongside mine. He was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on his horse's mane.
"My lord," he began, his voice rough with emotion. "I… back there. I owe you my life. There are no words…"
"Then don't use any," I said, my tone gentle. The old Lancelot would have been awkward, the boy from Earth would have been flippant. I found a balance between them. "We're a pack, Rolan. We look out for our own. That's the Ashworth way, isn't it?" I gave him a small, tired smile. "Just be ready to return the favor someday."
He looked up at me, his eyes shining with a fierce, unwavering loyalty that was more potent than any oath. "Any time, my lord. Anything."
We reported to the Count's study immediately, still covered in the grime and blood of the battle. My father was there, along with the ever-present Lord Valerius. The sheer pressure of my father's aura made the air in the room feel heavy, a silent testament to the vast gulf in power that still separated us.
Garrick gave his report, his voice the same flat, professional tone he always used. He detailed the mission, the number of beasts, and the outcome. He didn't embellish, he didn't use flowery language, but his words were devastatingly effective.
"The alpha broke the line," he stated, his gaze fixed on a point just over the Count's shoulder. "Guard Rolan was down. Lord Lancelot intercepted the beast. Killed it with a single, unarmed strike to the throat."
Silence. I could feel Valerius's eyes on me, his polite smile unwavering, but a new, calculating light dancing in their depths.
My father looked from Garrick to me. He noted my torn tunic, the drying blood on my knuckles, the exhaustion that clung to me. He looked at me not as a son, but as a soldier who had just returned from a successful campaign.
"Well done," he said. The two words were delivered with no more emotion than if he were commenting on the weather. But from him, it was a hero's praise. "Get cleaned up. All of you. Dismissed."
Later that night, I found myself back in the quiet sanctuary of my rooms. Seraphina had worked her quiet magic, laying out a hot meal and tending to the deep gash on my forearm with a practiced, gentle touch. She was chattering about the reports from the guards, the whispers of the "Third Son's Valor" that were already spreading through the fortress, but my mind was elsewhere.
"You're quiet tonight, my lord," she said softly, tying off the bandage.
"Just thinking," I murmured.
After she left, I walked to the window, looking out over the moonlit training yard. I held up my hands, turning them over in the soft light. They were Lancelot's hands, still slender but now covered in a lattice of fine white scars and thick calluses. They were a warrior's hands. My hands.
The boy who had woken up in a dark cave, terrified and alone, felt like a distant memory. The man who had been a marketing drone felt like a character from a book. The training in the Voidstone Chamber had given me a weapon. The duel with my brother had given me a place. But today… today had given me a purpose.
I had saved a life that was meant to be a footnote. I had changed the story, not through grand strategy or future knowledge, but with my own two hands.
The Draconic Human Path was no longer a theory, no longer a technique to be practiced. It was the rhythm of my breath. It was the beat of my hearts. It was the instinct that guided my hand in the heat of battle.
I was a warrior. And as I stood there, feeling the calm, steady hum of power circulating through me, I knew, with an unshakeable certainty, that I was finally ready for the real war to begin.