The training yard of House Aodh sprawled beneath a sky bruised with dusk, its dirt packed hard and stained with old blood and sweat. Torchlight danced along the low stone walls, casting jagged shadows that flickered like restless spirits. Fin stood at the yard’s center, boots planted firm, the tanto sheathed across his back a familiar weight against his spine. His blazing blue eyes sparked with a restless edge, sharp as lightning splitting the horizon. Ten paces away, Gregory Northwell adjusted his dark cloak, the fabric whispering against his lean frame. His sharp features twisted into a sneer, cold and practiced, as if he’d rehearsed it in a mirror.
A thin crowd ringed the yard, six guards in navy tunics, stances rigid; five of Gregor’s men, cloaked and silent atop their mounts; Cahira, her braid a dark slash against her back; Donovan, broad and unyielding as an oak; and Kilian, leaning against a post with a grin that promised trouble. From the shadows near the estate’s eastern arch, Alaric watched, his graying hair catching the torchlight, his presence a ripple in the night.
Gregory’s voice cut through the stillness, loud and edged with mockery. “Four Uncommon skills and a Rare one at fourteen, beat that, frontier runt.” He flexed his fingers, icy mist curling from them like breath on a winter morning. “You’re a fluke, Tier One or not. What’ve you got, some Common tricks scraped from the dirt?” His laugh was a brittle thing, meant to sting, and his retinue shifted, their horses snorting in the cold.
Fin’s grin didn’t waver. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the mana hum beneath his skin, a steady current from Convergent Resonance. Gregory’s taunts slid off him like rain on slate, he’d faced worse from Kilian over breakfast. He tilted his head, sizing the older boy up like a lion circling a baby gazelle, and said nothing. Let the fake prince yap. Words didn’t win fights.
Kilian pushed off the post, his dented armor clanking as he strode over. Torchlight gleamed off the scars on his steel plates, badges of a dozen dungeon dives. He clapped Fin’s shoulder, hard enough to jostle him, and leaned in close. “No Thunderfang for this one, little brother,” he murmured, voice low and firm, his breath warm against Fin’s ear.
Fin’s grin faltered, a scowl tugging at his lips. “What? Why not?” Thunderfang was his only active skill, a blade of lightning born in the thrill of the direwolf fight, why would Kilian want him to bench it? He searched Kilian’s face, but his brother just shrugged, dark eyes twinkling with mischief, and stepped back to the sidelines. “Fine,” Fin muttered, “keep your secrets.” His mind churned, Kilian knew something, but what? No time to puzzle it out. Gregory was already moving.
The Northwell heir raised a hand, mana surging like a river breaking its banks. The air chilled, sharp and sudden, as ice crackled across the yard. Jagged spears erupted from the dirt, lancing toward Fin in a shimmering cage meant to pin him down. Frost crept outward, glazing the stones, and Cahira’s breath plumed white as she tensed. Gregor’s men leaned forward in their saddles, eager for blood.
Fin twisted, boots skidding on the frost-slick ground, and dodged with a grace that surprised even him. The spears shattered behind him, shards tinkling like broken glass, and he blinked. “This is it?” he said, half to himself. The ice felt slow, weak, nothing like the direwolf’s lunging fury. He ducked another spike, sidestepping a third, his body moving faster than his mind could track. What was this?
He glanced at the sidelines. Kilian’s grin stretched wide, all teeth and tease, while Donovan’s was quieter, proud, etched into the lines of his face. Cahira’s sharp eyes narrowed, but a faint smirk tugged at her lips. Kilian shrugged again, arms crossed, as if to say, Figure it out, runt. Fin’s confusion deepened, why were they so smug?
Gregory snarled, thrusting both hands forward. A wave of ice roared toward Fin, a jagged sheet meant to crush rather than contain. Fin leapt, clearing it with a single bound, landing light as a cat. The realization hit him like a thunderclap, his body wasn’t just reacting, it was thriving. Every dodge, every step, came sharper, stronger, effortless. Convergent Resonance had been filtering mana through his core for days, weeks, refining not just his energy but his flesh and bone. He was faster, tougher, better, than he’d ever been.
A chime rang in his mind, crisp and triumphant.
[Convergent Resonance (Unique) has enhanced physical attributes by 20%]Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
Fin’s grin flared back, wild and fierce. Gregory’s ice was a child’s tantrum compared to this. He sighed, almost bored, and decided to end it. Darting forward, he wove through a final barrage, ice spears splintering harmlessly in his wake, and closed the gap in a blur. Gregory’s eyes widened, too late. Fin didn’t bother unsheathing his tanto; he balled a fist, swung, and cracked the older boy across the temple with a swift, precise blow. Gregory crumpled, a puppet with cut strings, and hit the dirt face-first, out cold.
The yard went still, the crack of the hit echoing off the stones. Then chaos erupted.
Gregor roared, leaping from his warhorse with a thud that shook the ground. “You little wretch! I’ll gut you for this!” His voice was a bellow, raw and unhinged, and mana flared around him, dark, oppressive, a storm of fury that rattled the yard’s loose pebbles. His retinue drew steel, blades glinting in the torchlight, and the Aodh guards tensed, hands on hilts. Cahira stepped forward, her blade half-drawn, while Donovan’s calm fractured into a scowl.
Before Gregor could take another step, the air thickened. A pressure slammed down, heavy as a mountain’s weight, crushing the breath from Fin’s lungs. He staggered, knees buckling, and even Gregor froze mid-stride, his face paling. The source emerged from the shadows, Alaric, his graying hair unruffled, his slender frame radiating a quiet menace. His mana cloak unfurled, a suffocating tide that pinned everyone in place. The torches flickered, dimming under the strain, and the horses whinnied, rearing in panic.
“Tier Five!” struggled Gregor.
Fin’s mind reeled. Alaric, old Alaric, was a Tier Five cultivator, his power a wall of intent that dwarfed Gregor’s bluster. Fin’s chest ached, his enhanced body straining just to stand, but a grin tugged at his lips. Who knew the old man had that in him? His father had only recently made it to Tier Four.
Donovan chuckled, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade through silk. He stepped forward, clapping Alaric’s shoulder with a casual ease that belied the weight pressing down on them all. “Surely you were joking, Gregor, right?” he said, voice light but edged with steel. “No need for bloodshed over a friendly spar. Boys will be boys, after all.” His gray eyes locked onto Gregor’s, unyielding, a quiet promise beneath the calm.
Alaric’s pressure eased, just enough to let the yard breathe again, though it lingered like a warning. Gregor’s jaw tightened, his rage warring with the cold reality of Alaric’s strength. He glared at Fin, then at Donovan, his hands clenching into fists. “A jest,” he spat, the word bitter as bile. “Nothing more.” He barked an order, “get the boy!” and his men scrambled, hauling Gregory’s limp form onto a horse. The Northwell retinue mounted up, their retreat hasty and graceless, hooves pounding the snow as they vanished into the night. Gregor’s final stare an ember smoldering with promised wrath.
The yard settled, the tension bleeding out like a wound staunched. The guards relaxed, sheathing blades, while Cahira sheathed hers with a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. Kilian sauntered over, slinging an arm around Fin’s shoulders, his laugh rough and warm. “Told you you’d manage without that little fancy lightning blade,” he said ruffling Fin’s hair until he swatted the hand away.
“Yeah, yeah,” Fin shot back, grin unshaken. “Barely broke a sweat. That kid’s a year ahead and yet I got more of a workout from the training dummies.” He stretched, feeling the mana hum through his veins, stronger now, refined by the fight. His eyes flicked to the direwolf corpse slumped near the gate, its blood a dark smear from his hunt. “So,” he said, loud enough for the others to hear, “who knows how to cook direwolf? I’m starving after that letdown.”
Kilian snorted, a bark of laughter that echoed off the walls. “You’re a menace, runt.” He jerked a thumb toward the estate. “Come on, I’ll show you how it’s done, assuming you don’t burn the kitchen down.”
Cahira’s smirk softened into a rare smile, though her sharp eyes lingered on Fin with a mix of pride and caution. “Well fought, Fin,” she said, voice low but warm. “But don’t get cocky. Northwell won’t forget this.”
Donovan nodded, his grin fading to a thoughtful line. “Aye. Gregor’s pride’s a fragile thing, shattered now, and dangerous for it.” He glanced at Alaric, who’d returned to the shadows, his presence once more a quiet ripple. “Good to have you around, old friend.”
Alaric dipped his head, a faint smile crinkling his eyes. “Always, my lord,” he said, voice soft as a breeze, but the weight of his power lingered in the air.
Fin followed Kilian toward the estate, the tantō jostling against his back with every step. His mind buzzed, not just with the fight’s rush, but with questions. Why had Kilian held him back from Thunderfang? What did he see that Fin didn’t? And Alaric, Tier Five, hiding in plain sight as a butler. The old man’s strength was a puzzle, one Fin itched to unravel.
Fin paused as thunder rumbled across the Eastern Reaches, the sky flaring with the thrum of the upcoming storm. A tug stirred his core, mana pulsing in time with the distant crash. Kailos’s voice ghosted through his mind once again, “The System is watching more closely now,” and a shiver prickled his skin, not from cold, but from something vast looming beyond sight. He shook it off, grin flaring as he caught Kilian’s stride. Gregory had a laundry list of skills, weak or not. Time to fill his own roster, Thunderfang was just the start. Northwell would return, and he’d be ready. For now, though, direwolf awaited, and victory demanded a feast.