**Chapter 24: The Shadow's Reach **
Mother’s expression shifted instantly. The gentle pride in her eyes hardened into the cool, unyielding coldness of a duchess who had seen far too many young prodigies march off to early graves.
"No," she said flatly.
I blinked, taking a half-step back. "Mother—"
"You are not going to the front lines. Not now," she interrupted, her tone leaving zero room for debate. "The northern border is a meat grinder of high-tier war beasts and seasoned commanders. Throwing you into that chaos simply because you bonded with a Mythical blade would be foolishness, not bravery."
I opened my mouth to protest, but she held up a single slender finger to silence me.
"You have mastered the theory, son, and your dual-element affinity is undeniable," Mother continued, her gaze softening just enough to convey her deep concern. "But controlled sparring in a clean courtyard is entirely different from the bloody, unpredictable reality of live combat. You need battle instinct forged in blood and dark tunnels."
She turned toward the Head Instructor. "Sir Brandon."
Brandon snapped into a sharp posture, pounding a fist against his chest. "Your Grace!"
"Beginning tomorrow, you will supervise my son as he clears every E-rank and D-rank dungeon within our territory," Mother instructed. "No elite royal guards. No high-tier interventions unless his life is directly on the line. He will lead the vanguard, adapt to live monster tactics, and polish his core in the dark."
"Understood, Duchess," Brandon replied, a toothy grin spreading across his scarred face. "I'll ensure the Young Master learns how dirty real combat gets."
Mother turned back to me, placing both hands on my shoulders. The solemn weight in her eyes grew heavy.
"Your father will be returning next month, just before the scheduled duel," she whispered, her voice laced with a grim underlying tension. "He is currently conducting a sweeping purge across the border fiefs. The depth of corruption he unraveled... Victor was not acting alone. Someone was pulling his strings, directing those crimes from the shadows."
A chill ran down my spine. Mentioning Victor brought a silent dusk over the courtyard.
"Your father has already lost one son," Mother added softly, her grip tightening on my shoulders. "He cannot—and will not—bear losing another. Do not disappoint him when he returns. Train until your lungs bleed, clear those dungeons, and make sure that when your duel arrives, you leave no doubt about who rules this territory's future."
The silence that followed settled like lead over the gravel arena. I knew she was right; my ego had briefly outpaced my practical experience. Having a Mythical-rank soul weapon in my hand made me feel invincible, but a weapon was only as lethal as the killer wielding it. Up until now, my life had been spent trading clean strikes on smooth stone under controlled supervision. In a true dungeon, monsters didn't wait for you to catch your breath, nor did they abide by chivalric etiquette—they hunted in packs, struck from the shadows, and fed on hesitation.
Deep within my mind, Ada’s quiet chime hummed in agreement, already beginning to calculate optimized resource management and stamina thresholds for continuous underground expeditions. The path forward was clear. To break the seal on my spatial affinity and unlock Erebos’s full potential, I needed to push my core to the absolute brink of exhaustion in environments where death was a real consequence.
I looked down at the hilt of Erebos resting at my hip. The dark blade hummed faintly beneath its leather sheath, as if anticipating the dark depths of the dungeons ahead.
I raised my eyes, locking them with Mother's steady gaze.
"Understood, Mother," I said, my voice resolute. "Sir Brandon... prepare the dungeon permits. We start at dawn."
Hundreds of miles away, beyond the Duchy’s borders in a dim, subterranean chamber lit only by flickering violet mana crystals, a heavily cloaked figure watched a scrying orb shatter into fine dust.
"The Duke is moving faster than anticipated," a harsh, raspy voice echoed from the gloom. "His border purge has already severed three of our trade networks. Victor was a fool to let himself be exposed so easily."
"A fool, yes, but a useful sacrifice," replied a smooth, velvet voice sitting at the head of a obsidian table. The speaker twirled an intricate, snake-engraved signet ring around his finger. "It matters little. The Duke is distracted hunting ghosts on the frontier, leaving the young heir vulnerable. My sources tell me the boy just bonded with a Mythical-grade soul weapon."
"A Mythical blade in the hands of an E-rank brat?" The raspy voice sneered. "We should strike now before he grows into his power."
"Patience," the man at the table purred, a dark, sinister smile curving under the hood of his cloak. "A fruit is sweetest just before it falls. Let the boy enter those dungeons. Let him bleed, exhaust himself, and believe he is becoming strong. When the upcoming duel arrives, we will ensure his grand stage becomes his grave... and that Mythical sword will belong to us."