"So... it followed me," Kael whispered, his voice barely audible over the whistling wind.
He stared at the translucent interface flickering in his vision. In his former life, coding "bypass modules" and exploits for Zenith Online had been his primary source of income. When the game was announced, he'd built a basic optimization template, intending to refine it once he had the live server data. That was the reason he'd bought the neural link in the first place.
The function of this "cheat" was simple: it allowed a user to bypass the natural limits of physical techniques, mending broken styles and force-multiplying mastery. Its primary fuel was Aether Points. He had designed it to include a resource cost so that even his "clients" would feel a sense of progression.
Unlike traditional RPGs, Zenith had no "levels." There was only Tier Mastery. One didn't kill ten rats to level up; one spent months—years—drilling a single sword stroke until the body moved by instinct. This system was meant to shatter that timeline.
Looking at the glowing text, a cold, calculating plan began to form in Kael's mind.
He looked at the silver amulet in his hand. After a moment's thought, he found a hollow beneath a gnarled oak root and buried it. He was desperate for coin, but carrying a dead Master-at-Arms' relic inside the Keep was a death sentence. He would wait for the heat to die down, then dig it up and fence it in the city.
Returning to Blackstone Keep, he found the kitchen boy. Kael didn't need to say much; a single, icy stare was enough. The boy, shaking like a leaf, swore by the Old Gods that he saw nothing but a burial.
As Kael crossed the inner ward, he caught the hushed whispers of the senior servants.
"Did you hear? The Baron is recruiting. He's looking for fresh meat to bolster the Keep Guards."
"Why now? We've got fifty men-at-arms already."
"The Black Rain, you fool. Ever since that cursed storm six months ago, the woods haven't been right. Something is prowling the outskirts of Ironforge City. They say the Town Hall is desperate."
Kael slowed his pace. He remembered the marketing tagline for Zenith Online:
'When the Black Rain falls, the Abyss shall wake, and the Age of Ruin begins.'
The words had been written in blood-red script on the game's splash screen.
The Abyss... the Guard... Kael's jaw tightened. His eyes grew hard with resolve.
The next morning, Kael stood before the recruitment desk in the training yard.
"A servant? You're sure, boy?" the Overseer asked, looking up from his parchment.
"I am."
"An indentured servant who joins the Guard signs a twenty-year blood-bond," the Overseer reminded him, his voice flat. "The mortality rate is high. Most don't see the end of their first decade, let alone twenty years."
"I understand," Kael nodded. In this dying world, without power, his life expectancy was measured in months anyway. He needed access to the training grounds. He needed the techniques of the nobility.
Besides, if the "Cheat" worked, a piece of parchment wouldn't hold him for long. In the face of absolute strength, a contract was nothing more than kindling.
"Sign here. Then give us your thumbprint."
Kael didn't hesitate. He scrawled his name and pressed his blood-inked thumb onto the heavy vellum.
"Wait over there for the testing."
Kael moved toward the group of recruits. Suddenly, a heavy hand slammed onto his shoulder.
"Kael! You've got a death wish too, then?"
A hulking man stood behind him. He was nearly six-foot-five, his muscles bulging beneath a sweat-stained tunic. This was Bronn, a fellow laborer who had spent his life hauling water casks for the Keep.
"Bronn. You're joining up?"
"Aye. Master Garric himself told me I had the frame for it. Said if I trained under him, I might actually make Veteran Tier one day." Bronn puffed out his chest, clearly pleased with himself.
Kael offered a thin smile but remained silent. Several other recruits huddled around Bronn, already trying to curry favor with the strongest man in the lot. Bronn basked in it, promising he'd look out for them once he was "someone important."
The test began shortly after. It was simple, brutal, and effective: lift a hundred-pound Atlas Stone and press it above the chest.
The men of this world possessed a rugged constitution far beyond the inhabitants of Earth, but a hundred-pound Atlas Stone was still a punishing trial for the starving and the weak. Of the thirty-odd men gathered in the yard, only a handful of the most sickly crumbled under the weight. When it was Kael's turn, his face flushed a violent shade of purple. His muscles, wasted by the lingering fever and months of meager rations, screamed in protest as he hoisted the cold stone. He forced his elbows to lock with a shuddering gasp just as the Overseer gave a curt nod. In the end, nearly thirty recruits survived the cut, their names inked into the Baron's rolls as the newest property of Blackstone Keep.
By the end, nearly thirty recruits remained.
"Go back to your quarters," the Overseer barked. "Report to the Training Grounds at dawn. Master Garric will begin your instruction."
Kael felt a rare spark of excitement. That night, huddled in his threadbare blanket in the woodshed, he barely slept.
Meanwhile, in the dark woods outside the walls, a subtle shift was occurring. Blue-black vapors, invisible to the naked eye, were swirling through the air, being sucked into the freshly turned earth of the ravine.
Deep beneath the soil, the severed head of Sir Janson began to twitch.
The morning sun offered a pale, mocking warmth. A biting wind whipped through the gaps in the recruits' thin tunics as they stood in formation on the packed dirt of the Training Grounds.
A man dressed in tight-fitting black leather armor approached. His face was square, his eyes as sharp as daggers, and a salt-and-pepper beard framed a mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile. This was Master Garric.
He stood with his hands behind his back, surveying the "refuse" before him.
"I am your Master-at-Arms," he announced, his voice a rhythmic growl. "For the next year, your lives belong to me. From dawn until noon, you drill. The rest of the day is yours, provided it is spent on your training. If I catch any of you slacking, you'll wish the Black Rain had taken you. Do I make myself clear?"
"YES, MASTER!" the group roared.
"Good. Today, we speak of the Path. I will say this once."
Garric paced before them. "There are three ways a man gains power in the Varentis Empire: The Path of Iron, The Path of Flow, and The Path of the Aura."
"The Path of Iron—what some call 'Hardened Flesh'—is the path of the common soldier. It is about tempering the skin and bone through pain. It is the hardest road and requires the least talent."
"The Path of Flow—the 'Internal Way'—is the mastery of Vitality. It is divided into four stages: Awakened, Veteran, Elite, and Ascended. You learn to strike with the force of your entire being, to turn your enemy's momentum against them."
"Finally, there is the Aura. This is the rarest of all. Why? Because an Aura manual costs ten thousand silver stags. You could buy an entire battalion of Iron-Path warriors for the price of one Aura Knight's training."
He stopped, his gaze lingering on the hopeful faces. "Aura Knights extract energy from alchemical potions and rare meats, refining it into a 'Soul-Force' that lives in the marrow. Every breath they take makes them faster, stronger, and more enduring than any common man."
"Master?" a recruit asked. "Which path will you teach us?"
Garric's expression was neutral. "The Path of Flow. The Baron does not have the coin to turn thirty peasants into Aura Knights. And you do not have the coin to support the Path of Iron's diet."
A few faces fell. Garric snorted. "Do not look down on the Flow. In close quarters, a Veteran of the Flow can rip the heart out of an Aura-user before they can even flare their power. The Flow is about survival. And it starts with the Earth Breath Stance."
Garric stepped forward, his legs wide, his hips sinking into a deep, grounded crouch.
"This is the foundation. Without the Stance, you are a tower built on sand. You will hold this position until your legs feel like they are filled with molten lead. Only then will you begin to understand what it means to be a Guard of Blackstone Keep."
He adjusted his posture, his hands forming a circle as if embracing a great tree.
"Eyes forward. Breathe from the gut. Feel the weight of the world pressing down on you—and push back."