Dawn in the training yard was becoming a familiar stage for the dramas of House Ashworth. This time, the atmosphere was different. The mocking curiosity that had defined my duel with Elias was gone, replaced by a heavy, anticipatory silence. Nearly the entire household guard was present, lining the perimeter of the dueling circle not as casual spectators, but as students attending a masterclass.
My father stood on the balcony again, a silent, unreadable sentinel. My mother and Seraphina watched from a safe distance, their shared anxiety a palpable presence. Even Elias was there, his arms crossed, a complicated expression of resentment and grudging respect on his face. This wasn't just a spar. It was a formal assessment.
In the center of the circle, Damian waited. He was dressed in the same simple training leathers as I was, a plain, unadorned training spear held loosely in one hand. He was the picture of calm, his Aether not a visible, shimmering aura like Elias's, but a quiet, immense pressure that felt like the air around him had been replaced with deep water. It was the effortless, profound presence of a true Master.
I walked to face him, centering myself, feeling the steady thump-THUMP of the Two-Heart Cadence. I could feel my own power, a quick, sharp, controlled river of energy. But compared to the deep, vast ocean I sensed from my brother, it was little more than a trickle. The gap between an Adept and a Master was not a step; it was a chasm.
"I have heard the stories," Damian said, his voice a smooth, calm baritone. "A new Path. A peculiar rhythm. A strike that shatters steel." He spun the spear once, a casual motion of impossible speed. "Don't hold back. Show me."
It was not a challenge born of ego. It was a command from a superior, an invitation to demonstrate my worth. I knew I couldn't win. I knew I couldn't even truly compete. But I could show him the quality of the weapon I was forging.
I didn't wait. I exploded into motion, channeling the cadence into my footwork, my body a blur of evasive motion as I circled him, looking for an opening that I knew didn't exist. He stood perfectly still, his gaze tracking me, the tip of his spear never wavering.
Finally, I committed. I feinted left, then burst forward, pouring every ounce of my will and power into a single, perfect execution of Rhythmic Infusion. It was the same technique that had shattered Pike's sword and humiliated Elias. My fist, wrapped in a shimmering blue light, aimed straight for his exposed chest. It was the best, most powerful, most precise attack I was capable of delivering.
Damian did not dodge. He did not parry. He did not even seem to tense.
Just as my fist was about to connect, the air in front of him solidified. It wasn't a flashy shield of light. It was a subtle, terrifying distortion, a wall of pure, condensed pressure—his enhanced aura, wielded with a surgeon's precision.
My strike hit the wall. And it died.
The sensation was like punching a mountain. The resonant pulse of my infusion, the power that had disintegrated a boulder, simply vanished, absorbed completely by his vastly superior Aether. There was no impact, no shockwave, just a quiet, absolute negation. My power had been utterly and completely nullified.
Before I could even process the shock, Damian moved. It was a simple, almost lazy flick of his wrist. He didn't even use the spear. He projected a small, compressed wave of his aura. It wasn't an attack; it was a dismissal.
The wave of force hit me like a physical blow. The Two-Heart Cadence, my perfect, stable rhythm, shattered into a thousand discordant pieces. My ears rang, my vision swam, and I was sent stumbling backward, gasping for a breath I couldn't find. The power difference was so absolute it was comical. He had defeated my ultimate technique and broken my concentration without even taking a step.
As I struggled to regain my footing, my mind reeling, a memory from the novel, a piece of deep, world-defining lore, slammed into me with the force of Damian's blow. It was about the Walls. The great barriers between the stages of power. The First Wall, the Soul Forge, was the chasm that separated a Grandmaster from what lay beyond. It was a trial of the soul itself, a test of will that almost no one could pass.
The book had stated it clearly: Count Theron Ashworth, my father, a mighty Grandmaster and one of the strongest men in the kingdom, had tried to break through that wall his entire life. And he had failed.
But Damian, years from now in the original timeline, during a desperate, hopeless battle against a Void Cult Cardinal, was fated to succeed. In a moment of absolute crisis, he would shatter his limits, fuse his soul with his power, and become an Archon. He would achieve the one thing his father never could.
I looked at my brother, at the calm, unshakable power he wielded so effortlessly, and I finally understood. It wasn't just that his Aether was greater in quantity. It was purer. It was more harmonized with his very being, even now. His talent wasn't just for fighting; it was a fundamental, once-in-a-generation genius for Aether itself. I wasn't just looking at a Master. I was looking at the shadow of the Archon he would one day become.
The realization didn't fill me with jealousy. It filled me with a profound, humbling clarity. These were the players on the board. These were the kinds of power the Zenith held at bay, the kinds of power the Void Cult Apostles wielded. The mountain I had to climb was so much higher than I had ever imagined.
Damian lowered his hand, the pressure vanishing. The lesson was over. "The rhythm is clever," he said, his voice no longer that of a challenger, but a mentor. His appraising gaze was now one of deep seriousness. "Your Path has potential. But your foundation is nonexistent. You have a revolutionary technique with the Aether capacity of a child."
He took a step closer. "Stop focusing on the fancy strikes. They are a crutch. Your true strength is the engine in your chest, but your fuel tank is the size of a teacup. Spend the next year doing nothing but Rhythmic Circulation. Meditate. Breathe. Deepen your reserves. Build your foundation. A cathedral built on sand will collapse."
He turned and walked away, leaving me standing alone in the center of the ring, the silence of the yard broken only by my own ragged breathing.
The spar was over. I had been defeated more completely and effortlessly than I could have imagined. But as I walked off the training ground, past the shocked and silent guards, I didn't feel humiliated. I felt humbled. I felt inspired.
Seraphina rushed to my side, her face pale with worry. "My lord, are you alright?"
I looked at her, then back at my brother's retreating form, and a genuine, determined smile touched my lips. "I'm fine, Sera."
Better than fine. I finally had a clear picture of the true scale of this world. I wasn't just trying to get stronger than Elias anymore. I was in a race to climb the same mountain as Damian, to stand beside him at its peak.
Because I knew, with the chilling certainty of a man who had read the final chapter, that the world would need both of us if it was going to have any chance of survival at all.