Half a month later, Carian Inner Keep.
Don looked up from a thick stack of books, his gaze drifting past the entrance of the magic tower toward the scene outside. Today, the mist had dissipated slightly. Green grass and pale blue blossoms swayed gently in the breeze. Several structures that looked like greenhouses lay in ruins, neglected for so long they seemed on the verge of collapse.
Massive clusters of glintstone crystals were scattered throughout the area. In the distance, a Glintstone Dragon lay curled on the ground, snoring softly. Behind it rose another high tower.
"Like master, like pet," Don muttered with a yawn. He closed his volume on Glintstone Application Theory, propped his legs up on the table, and tilted his chair back for a brief nap.
This was the innermost sanctuary of the Carian Royal grounds—the Three Sisters. Though he had been appointed a Knight of the Guard several days ago, Don had yet to see Ranni a single time.
The doll-maiden had sealed her tower, and no one knew what she was doing inside. Recalling the scene at the moon-viewing pool, an image flashed through his mind: Ranni sitting high in her chair, head bowed, emitting a rhythmic, tiny snore.
The Erdtree remained brilliant, and the full moon rose on schedule. Aside from occasionally crossing paths with the hurried Half-Wolf, Don had little interaction with anyone. However, he found his days fulfilling.
In the morning, he practiced his swordsmanship, integrating the unique skills of the Lands Between into his style. In the afternoon, he studied his books, systematically learning magic through theory. After dinner, he wandered the manor grounds, and he made it a point to be asleep by nine every night.
"The Cuckoos stop attacking, and I turn into a model student." Don sat with a quill between his teeth, staring at the ceiling. Having stepped away from the slaughterhouse temporarily, he finally had ample time to think.
First: Golden Runes are functional.
He pulled a shimmering golden orb from his pocket. This wasn't something scavenged from a corpse; it was his official salary. As the lingering echoes of Grace found within the denizens of the Lands Between, and because ordinary people couldn't utilize Runes directly, these orbs were used as currency. Their value was determined by the intensity of the light—honest trade, impossible to counterfeit.
Don applied a bit of pressure. With a crisp crack, the orb shattered, dissolving into faint golden light that merged into his body.
Useful, but negligible.
He sighed. Another shortcut cut off. The Carian Royals were wealthy; if Golden Runes provided a significant boost, he'd be ready to wash the Academy in blood by tomorrow. But the cost-to-benefit ratio was too low; it wasn't worth focusing on.
Perhaps because the Runes aren't fused with life force, they lack potency. Can I assume then, that what truly matters is the soul itself, rather than the Grace?
Lacking further clues, Don didn't dwell on it. He reached for the staff on the table, twirled it twice above his head, and unleashed a half-meter-wide crescent of blue energy. It sailed through the archway, sliced through a patch of weeds, and vanished.
Academy Sorcery: Glintstone Arc.
This was a new spell Don had mastered, shifting his repertoire from point-damage to area-of-effect. However, he felt no great joy. He tossed the staff aside.
Second: After killing that Academy lecturer, his magical aptitude had undeniably improved.
"But the casting delay is too long, and the power is insufficient. According to the books, the same spell used by different people yields vastly different results."
Learning a spell and mastering it were two different stages. Even with the lives of two knights under his belt, Don was not satisfied. To put it bluntly, his recent victories relied heavily on "dishonorable" ambushes.
You think I'm a knight? Actually, I'm a sorcerer. You think I'm a sorcerer? Actually, I prefer killing with a blade.
Information asymmetry, coupled with fixed prejudices, meant those Cuckoo Knights had no idea their opponent could play so dirty. Stabbing knees and stomping toes were as natural to him as breathing.
"According to application theory, magical potency is linked to the user's aptitude and decays over distance. That's why I'm forced to blast them point-blank."
Don sprang to his feet, pacing the magic tower. After a moment, he reached a single conclusion.
I still need to cut people.
Meditation and research could raise Intelligence, but it was too slow. Nothing compared to the convenience of "plundering souls" through the blade. At this thought, he clenched his fist, feeling a restless urge.
"Don! You're making a mess again!"
A grumpy voice drifted in from outside. A cloud of blue particles shimmered through the door, quickly forming a silhouette.
The woman wore brown robes and a wide-brimmed preceptor's hat, clutching an exquisite staff. This was Preceptor Miriam, a sorceress who had served the Carian Royals for generations. She had been commanded by Ranni to guide Don.
Don watched her "particle-shift" movement with envy, his mind already churning with ideas for lethal variations. Unfortunately, his "stats" weren't high enough; even if he understood the theory, he couldn't replicate the technique yet.
"Preceptor Miriam, you've returned."
"Yes. I took a stroll through the Crystal Tunnels." Miriam removed her mask, revealing the face of a middle-aged woman whose grace had aged well. She grabbed a cup, gulped down some water, and glanced at the books on the table.
"Glintstone Application Theory? Selections from the Karolos Conspectus? Haima's Conjectures on Battlefield Sorcery?"
"I have told you many times: the path of magic cannot be rushed. Time is meaningless to us. You should start from the basic theories—the origin of glintstones, energy manipulation... why, back when I was a student..."
Don rolled his eyes. The Preceptor was starting her lecture again. He had seen her prowess, and when they first met, he had listened with an open heart—only to find himself listening from dawn until dusk. She was a kind person, but she talked too much, vanished too often, and had no idea how to actually teach a student.
But Don valued the master-student bond, so he didn't interrupt. He listened from the afternoon until nightfall.
Miriam finally stopped, draining her cup. "Now, do you understand?"
"I do. But I have one request." Don gripped the curved blade on his back, his voice low. "Please, Preceptor... engage me in one more practical duel."
The Preceptor shot him a sidelong glance. She remembered the last time she'd acted as his sparring partner; she had barely finished her stance and raised her staff when this boy charged like a rabid dog. He'd dodged her emergency Greatsword Phalanx and punched her square in the face.
Though she wouldn't fall for the same trick twice, her cheek still ached at the memory. She wasn't doing it again.
"No, no, no. I know you have some... 'unique' ideas regarding the application of magic. But we are scholars first. No matter how terrifying a lethal spell is, it is merely a derivative of theory. All this fighting and killing is so... unrefined."
Seeing her refusal, Don didn't press. He loosened his grip on his hilt. "But I wish to take a different path."
"What path?"
"To synthesize magic, martial arts, and incantations into a single, unique lethal art. To create a new Ashina Style."
Lethal art...
Miriam opened her mouth, realizing that despite her hours of lecturing, this boy hadn't absorbed a single word. But she wasn't angry. To her, any field of study was worthy of respect—be it theory, experiment, or this "Ashina Style."
"Fine. While I don't quite agree with your 'lethal art,' I promised Her Highness Ranni I would light your path." Miriam donned her mask, strode out of the magic tower, and turned abruptly in the clearing before the door.
The breeze billowed through her brown robes. She beckoned to Don, who was still standing at the threshold.
"Come. Let me see what new tricks you've developed!"
Don hadn't expected Miriam to change her mind. He was genuinely touched. He didn't reach for his staff. Instead, he pulled a long, rectangular box from behind his high-backed chair.
Seeing this, Miriam—still striking her pose—asked, "That old dog Iji finished it for you?"
"Yes. It was delivered this afternoon. I didn't expect Master Iji's craftsmanship to be so peerless." Don opened the box, revealing a long blade nestled inside.
The blade was three feet, two inches long, with a slight, elegant curve. It was forged of a shimmering silver-white metal. A golden cross-guard broke the monotony of the color, and at the end of the hilt sat an exquisite beast-claw pommel, clutching a glintstone the size of a marble.
"A fine blade. No wonder it took him a full half-month to complete," Miriam admired, stroking her chin. "I recall this style of blade comes from the borders. Usually, they are given names."
Don said nothing. He used his thumb to pop the blade from its guard, then drew it in a blur of horizontal and vertical slashes.
Clang—Whoosh—
A cross of light lingered in the night air. He closed his eyes, savoring the familiar weight and balance.
It had returned. All of it. Now, he could truly unleash the sword techniques he had spent a lifetime tempering. The night wind caught his black hair as his eyes snapped open.
"The blade's name—"
"—is Starfrost."