The portal scroll burnt away as he arrived at his destination. In a matter of seconds, he had been transported from Fangbreak’s outer courtyard to the confines of a teleportation circle in an entirely different kingdom.

  Magic truly was a wonder.

  David had been ordered to use the scroll to travel to Sagresh so that he could represent the dragon knights in negotiations and open a new chapter of their order. Unfortunately, he’d been unable to bring his squires along, they had to be reassigned to someone whose duties would not prevent them from educating the squires. It was his good fortune to have obtained his new armor and weapon before his deployment, it’d be a pain to have them transported otherwise.

  He cut a striking figure now. Armored in a lighter plate and chain colored in a striking black and red coloration and adorned with pieces of a feathered beast he’d hunted some time back, as well as the feathers of his bound raven, which were used to make a crest for his helm. His cuirass was covered by a tabard made of black wyvern scales, and embroidered with his family crest, a shield and hammer, now accompanied by a raven, the d?g rune, and the order’s signature.

  His shield had been remade, to go with the new theme, and had his family crest embossed onto it. His new glaive, the glaive once wielded by the demoness, now reforged, also fit the new theme. He was certain that, with this all taken into account, he looked far more intimidating than before, something that would certainly help him avoid having to deal with brigands. Though he wasn’t very enthusiastic about his new title, given by those he’d rescued after the battle against the demoness.

  Apparently, the most notable thing about him was the massive raven on his shoulder whilst he’d rescued them, so they’d started calling him the Raven Knight. He supposed that it was not the worst he could be called.

  He spotted the Jarl’s steward heading his way, surrounded as always by his cohort of spies and guardsmen. “David Armodson, I assume?” The steward asked.

  “You are correct.” David said as he unclasped his helmet. It was rude to converse with one’s helmet on.

  “A kinsman, eh? Which city are you from?” The steward gestured for them to walk as they talked. The circle of guards and spies opened to accept them.

  “Village. Eidrahm, which now lay as ashes and rubble.”

  “Wait... Armodson? Like Armod the smith or another Armod?” Asked the Steward. David could hear the spies already muttering to each other; apparently his father had been famous. That did explain the occasional visiting couriers, he supposed.

  “Armod the smith was my father, yes. I assume you know my name because you were purposefully notified beforehand?” It stood without mention that should that be a false assumption, the dragon knights would have to start searching for spies and blabbermouths amongst their ranks.

  “I was notified, yes, through a sending stone, too, rather than the usual couriers.” Said the steward. “Tell me- How are your siblings? I know you had several.”

  “I do not know. I have not seen them since the day the dragon attacked.” Said David. “To be honest, I was not aware I still had siblings.”

  “Have you not searched?” the steward asked as they made their way into a courtyard and garden. The Jarl was known to be a skilled alchemist and had a famous love of plants, so it figured that such a courtyard would be found in his castle.

  “The order’s informants searched the nation; though brief, the search found no trace of any remnants of my family. The caravan they would presumably have been a part of was found, however, or the remnants of it, at least, seeing as it’d been attacked by bandits.”

  “Is that right... Sigrun.” The steward beckoned a spy to his side. “Check the records for the surnames Armodson and Armodsdottr, and do use the rune of finding, I’ve no interest in waiting three days for a result, thank you very much. Besides, David, I assume you’ll only be here for the duration of the ball and a meeting with the Jarl?”

  “That is correct, the fortress in Valgard needs to be searched and prepared for the arrival of the builders, and the rest of the staff, which I have yet to hire. I’ve hired several architects and rune-mages to perform renovations and restore the wards, but I’ve yet to hire anyone beyond that.”

  “The Jarl had me make a dossier of persons whom you might hire, all skilled and willing, I believe you’ll find it in the chest of funds in your new office.” Said the steward, pushing aside the massive pair of doors to the Jarl’s throne room.

  “You had your people inspect the fortress? I shan’t assume they also left a report on the state of the fortress, as analyzed by an architect?” David asked.

  “Yes, and Yes. The Jarl wants to help your chapter get active as soon as possible. In fact, he even had me look for some suitable recruits for your new chapter, from his pool of huscarls, and I’ll be introducing you to them during the ball. On that note, the Jarl will see you now.” Said the steward, and they made their approach.

  David had been in several throne rooms before, but he was glad to say, now that he’d gotten a proper look at this one, that he’d finally found one that wasn’t completely ostentatious. Most throne rooms he’d seen were opulent, with gold and silver everywhere and massively oversized paintings or windows of tinted glass mosaics or lines of statues and busts. An attempt at overcompensating, he figured.

  This one was different. The structure proper was a simple Wood and Marble affair, both materials commonly found in the region. The floors were lined with polished wood and the pillars of marble holding up the roof were carved with scenes from great battles and hunts, but there was not a speck of gold or silver to be seen. Banners and tapestries of lavender cloth hung down from the pillars, a massive beast’s skeleton was suspended in mid-air, hanging from the roof.

  The few other decorations were trophies and weapons placed on display for all to see, every single one belonged to the current Jarl. It was common knowledge that the sole decoration to remain upon the changing of a Jarl, apart from the banners of the land, was the skeleton that hung from above. The massive beast’s skeleton was considered proof of the greatest triumph of their people, the slaying of a spectral leviathan, a beast from the astral sea, a beast that consumed the souls of the dead. The Jarl’s throne sat beneath the beast’s open Jaws, a reminder of the position’s dangers, so that the Jarl might never get too comfortable.

  The current Jarl was already waiting for them. David approached and stepped into a kneeling position. “Jarl Adalbrand, I bring greetings from the high council and the commander of Fangbreak Bastion.” The Jarl’s power was palpable, charging the air with energy, a high-level mage?

  “Stand, kinsman, there is no need to kneel, I am not some Gildarian noble that needs his ego stroked with every action.” Said the Jarl. “It is good to see one of our lost kinsmen finally returned to us. Might I have your name?”

  “I am David Armodson, of Eidrahm, dragon knight.” He said as he stood from his kneeling.

  “Armod the smith’s son? It is good to know that you still live, I was saddened to hear of your village’s demise. How have you fared, since that time? You’d have been young when the village fell.”

  “I am well, Jarl Adalbrand, I mourned for long but have since recovered, with the help of my new brothers and sisters in the order.”

  “That is good to hear, David Armodson. Please, call me Adalbrand, I once counted your father among my friends, and it would not do to have the child of a friend call me by my title.”

  “A friend of my father’s is a friend of mine, Adalbrand, call me David.”

  “Very well, David. On to business. I am willing to provide significant aid to your new chapter of the order, beginning with this: David Armodson, for services rendered by yourself, and soon to be rendered by your chapter, to the land of Sagresh, I name you a thane of the land.” Said the Jarl, and his steward stepped forth carrying a chest. “I grant you, as a token of your station, this hammer, forged by your father, and as a gift, twenty-five beast cores, all within that chest.”

  “I accept, Jarl Adalbrand, the gift, and the duty. I am honored to be a thane of Sagresh.”

  “Very well! But enough of the formalities, the ball will soon begin.” Said the Jarl as he stood from his throne. “Bifurr, show him to the banquet hall, I’ll join the festivities shortly.”

  The steward gestured for him to follow, and so he did. They soon arrived at a mostly deserted banquet hall. “The others will be here soon enough. Before they get here, however, it stands without mention that there will be assassination attempts on yourself and the Jarl, if recent events are any indication. Should any such attempt begin to evolve into more than just poisoning, one of my agents will approach you and say this: ‘Pale Orchids Rustle in the Northern Wind.’.”

  “Understood.” Said David, already looking for an empty table to take a seat at. Soon enough people started trickling into the room, an eclectic mix of individuals, already mingling and maneuvering. He saw people already staring at him, their faces ranging from curiosity to anger, in the case of one Gildarian nobleman. None approached him, none except for a hooded monk.

  “Excuse me, son, is this chair taken?” The monk asked.

  “No. You may sit.” Said David.

  “Thank you, I’m afraid these old bones aren’t what they were when I first set out from the western continent.” Said the monk, shaking off his hood. The monk was old, more so than the eye could tell, there was a weight on his words, the weight of eons, of the passage of time itself. He was wrinkled like old parchment paper, and his hair was almost as white as the northern snow, his face bore the scars of countless wounds, some long since faded. Dull red scales climbed his cheek from on his neck, patterned like those of a serpent.

  “You’re not human.” David observed.

  “Perhaps.” The old monk responded. “Once you reach a certain point in your cultivation, you cease to be as human as you might wish.”

  “Cultivation?” David asked.

  “You’re not aware? Yet you have a core?” The monk asked. “Of course, there are no sects here, admittedly my fault, the arts have likely been lost...”

  “A core?” David pondered. “You mean my mana core?”

  “What you have is not a mana core, it is a nascent Qi core, you can still use magic through it, of course, but it's not the same. If I’m right, you inefficiently convert Qi to mana, which would explain why you are only in the first stage of body refinement at your age. I can prove it.”

  “How so?” asked David. He would freely admit that the possibility intrigued him, or some forgotten part of him that was somehow familiar with the concept. In response, a pulse of energy emanated from the old monk, rhythmically, and David’s core imitated it. The pulse swept through him, like a tidal wave rushing through his veins.

  “Do you feel it? That is Qi, your core responds to a pulse of my Qi because yours is starved for Qi and attempts to assimilate my own. You can feel your own core, right, son?”

  “I can, yes. I’d only ever noticed it reacting upon my usage of magic, or when in combat, though I am aware that I can make it cycle, or ‘churn’, at will and it will speed up with every cycle, I’d simply never bothered to experiment with it.”

  “Cycling your core is good; it will cause your core to grow in power and size. Right now, you have a miniscule core, barely formed, you’re barely any stronger than an average person at their physical peak.” The monk reached into his bag and began pulling out tomes. “I’ve always wanted to do this, the mysterious mentor routine, that is. All of these books detail cultivation, and techniques, for initiates and adepts. I cannot stay around to instruct you, but you can keep the books.” With that, the old monk departed, disappearing into the crowd of strangers.

  He shoved the books into his spatial bag and sat back, waiting for the crowd to die down. The Jarl had arrived at some point and caused a ruckus, it appeared that every group of partygoers wanted something from him. People had immediately stood from their seats to crowd the Jarl, undoubtedly wanting to complain and beg and demand things from their ruler.

  Another figure sat at his table. The steward sat before him, holding a scroll and ledger. “Your siblings are alive.” The steward stated, placing the scroll before David. “You will find the locations of their residences in this scroll. Now then, follow me to your new huscarl, and your new recruits. There are thirty-five of them, plus your huscarl, allow me to lead you to them.” They stood and he followed the steward out into the courtyard where the huscarls waited in formation.

  One stepped forward, a heavily armored Ursid female. She was tall, a good head-and-a-half taller than him, and he stood at a good eighty-eight inches tall. A morning star mace hung from her hip and a round shield was slung over her back, her armor rattled as she stepped into a salute. “Astrid Beckett, at your service, my thane!” She greeted.

  David stepped forth. This wouldn’t do. “At ease. This is not the Gildarian militia, I have no desire to be saluted or treated like some spoiled noble, and, like most dragon knights, am not much for formality. So please, call me David.” He could tell that none of the other huscarls would be anywhere near that rigid, perhaps it was just a quirk of this one’s upbringing?

  The rest soon introduced themselves, a motley arrangement of persons and personalities. The Jarl appeared to have selected the widest variety of races and vocations that he could. Shield-bearers, swordsmen, rangers, mages, spearmen, and even an elven artificer. These were obviously well-trained warriors, which would save him the hassle of training new knights from scratch, he’d merely have to teach them about monsters. His new chapter of the order could be up and running in a few months.

  He dismissed the recruits with orders to meet him at the city’s gates the next morning. All but one of the huscarls departed. The remaining one followed him to his table. “Astrid, why are you tailing me?” He asked the huscarl that stood behind his chair.

  “I am your huscarl, your bodyguard, my liege, I am merely doing my duty.” She answered.

  David sighed “You do not have to tail me; I am more than capable of defending myself.”

  “It is my duty, until I retire, or you are no longer a thane of this land.”

  “Then at least take a seat, nobody will manage to sneak up on me, I assure you.” He felt her hesitation, though she eventually relented and took a seat in the chair opposite his own. “Tell me about your training, and your accolades.”

  “I was trained as a defender, to wield heavy armor and serve as my thane’s shield. I am a high gold level adventurer and cleared the gold rank dungeon of the crystal woods by myself. I have also assisted in the slaying of a wyvern.” She stated.

  “Not going to elaborate?” David asked. No response was given. He had his work cut out for him if he wanted a bodyguard that was at least moderately fun to be around. This one took her work too seriously.

  They sat in silence, watching the different groups as they arrived and mingled, forming themselves into groups. He was no expert in politics and posturing, but even he could see the dynamics of the interactions before him. Everything from the clothing one wore to the depth of one’s bow had a meaning to these people. And because of that, identifying those who also didn’t belong was so very easy.

  He picked out several such people. At a nearby table sat a group of beastkin, mostly Lycans, but also a few humans, all warriors of some kind or another. Armored knights, hooded rogues, a few rowdy barbarians, and the odd mage. They were a boisterous group; one likely hired by a noble or clan-chief, unless they’d somehow earned some honors in the Jarl’s court.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  A masked individual flitted about through the dancing ball-goers, stopping occasionally to greet important persons, clumsy bows and etiquette marked them as inexpert. A group of finely dressed gentlemen stood at the center of the dance, unmoving. A small collection of ladies, clearly the forgotten commoner dates of noble partygoers that had gotten too caught up in their conversations, sat at a corner table, chittering amongst each other.

  There were a few other such groups and individuals, small and obvious. It wasn’t their actions that gave them away, not really, it was the exclusion. None of those groups would be interacted with by nobles. In fact, they were outright avoided.

  He made a decision. He signaled a servant to take drinks to the table occupied by the warriors and stood from his own. His huscarl followed after him. He made sure to make himself conspicuous as he approached, summoning his raven to his shoulder and loudening his steps. He found an empty chair and wordlessly took his place amongst them.

  “What’s your story, another noble’s dismissed bodyguard?” A knight asked the second he sat down.

  “Fool, he’s an invitee.” A crass mage berated. “Don’t you recognize him? He’s the fucking raven Knight, goddess knows we’ve heard the man’s tale enough in the past few days.”

  “Already that title has spread so far, news seems to travel faster every year.” Said he with a sigh. “David Armodson, dragon knight.”

  “And thane of the land.” Interjected Astrid.

  “Apologies, noble ser, for the crassness of my companions,” Began one of the barbarians, a redheaded human woman of significant stature. “The two meant to greet you and welcome your companionship.”

  “There’s no need to be so formal, lass, I’m not a noble.” David stated. “I’m just a village boy with the good fortune to have been born into a family of warriors. Gods only know that the skills I gained from them are the only reason I’ve gotten so far as I have.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, I’ve heard your full tale, my fellows sing your saga from its very start, it’s a rather grim tale.” said a Lycan wolf-kin barbarian with an oddly lute-shaped axe on his back.

  “My full tale, you say? What feats are attributed to me, beyond the slaying of the demoness and her horde? Those are the sole feats of note...” He began as he took off his helmet.

  “Oh, where to start, where to start? Why, at the start, of course!” The bardbarian started, already pulling his lute off his back. “You hail from a mighty-”

  “-Not right now, Bard, I think our new friend has had enough of his tale being told.” Said the redhead. “What’s with you, Zosha? I’ve never seen you stare at someone quite so intensely... and why is your half mask still on?”

  “Nothing” the previously unnoticed Lycan fox-kin rogue stated, using Nordic sign language. A mute? The surprise in the eyes of her companions told David that the Werewolf didn’t typically speak in sign language. He stared at her, soulful brown eyes peered back from amongst crimson fur.

  “You mute?” Armored fingers signed, much to her surprise.

  “Yes, speech necklace broke.” She returned.

  “Standard enchantment?” David asked, to which he received a gesture of affirmation. “I can fix it.” The half-mask came off to reveal an utterly normal fox-kin, if scarred by a slash to the throat. Was she ashamed of her necklace, or the scar? Neither were things to be ashamed of. She passed him the necklace.

  The necklace was much like what he’d seen on some of his comrades who’d lost their voice one way or another, and to the one his father had vehemently refused to wear. The enchantment matrix had been disrupted by magical degradation caused by a leakage of mana. It had been faulty. Correcting the fault was easy, thanks to the order’s equipment maintenance training, recharging the necklace was more so. Everyone’s eyes were on him as he repaired it. Soon enough, it was returned to its wearer’s neck.

  “Thank you.” She said, her voice melodious enough to rival a siren’s own. “You are mute?”

  “No. But my father was, as are many of my comrades, so I learned to repair the spell matrix, just in case.” Said David. His awareness twinged, the smell of blood, the band’s music seemed too loud. A minor portent.

  “I didn’t even know she was mute.” Declared the bardbarian. “Another detail for our ballad.”

  “Say, Raven Knight, what brought you to the court of our Jarl?” asked a knight, unaware of the guards rushing from the room behind his back.

  “I am opening a new chapter of the order here, by request of the Jarl and the will of council.” Said David. He looked past the knight to where a table of clan-chiefs were spewing their guts out. It was a good thing the drinks he’d ordered had never arrived. Come to think of it, he’d not seen a servant in some time... He nudged Astrid to follow the guards, the raven hopped onto her.

  “Ah, the beasts have been growing stronger and more numerous in recent years... I suppose this is the logical solution. Is it truly just you?”

  “Yes. It is not the normal course of action, but I am alone for the moment, the rest of my comrades are otherwise occupied, at least the supply caravan’s people will join me upon its arrival. The normal course of action would have seen me never arrive in time for the ball, though I’d have gotten here with a contingent of my fellows ready to support me, should something happen.”

  “You are expecting something to happen?” Asked the vixen.

  “Expecting? It's already happening. Someone’s poisoned the beer, the caterers are dead, and the guards are in combat, if my raven doesn’t lie.” He saw cloaked individuals Wearing the jarl’s crest manifest from thin air, moving to engage what could only be their infiltrators.

  “The Raven’s a familiar?” Asked the mage, though he was drowned out by the knight.

  “Why haven’t you left, then?” the knight asked.

  “No need for me to seek my foes out, they’ll come to me. In fact,” David began. He stood and drew his seax, maneuvering through the now panicking crowd of nobles and their attaches. “They’re already here!” said he, gesturing towards an infiltrator with his free hand.

  The infiltrators didn’t appear to be very high level, their movements were too slow for what an agility specialist should have at a level above thirty, they were likely at the middle or start of the twenties, and some had decided to mix their specializations, seeing as some were even slower, and wielding truncheons rather than their profession’s preferred daggers and short blades.

  The thrum of a lute’s string, accompanied by a pulse of magic, empowered his armor and bolstered his courage. A knight took his place beside him, kite shield and longsword at the ready. The other soon joined them, he held a pair of hammers, ready to dash forth and into battle at a moment’s notice. A flare of magic, and spikes of ice manifested to suspend themselves above the mage’s outstretched hands, he hadn’t even moved from the table. The barbarian was already in the crowd, fiery hair whirling this way and that as she punched through a small group of infiltrators, wisps of red rose from her tattoos. In a blink, the rogue stood behind the shield-bearer, wielding a pair of scimitars.

  “Skellen, Harald, support Trudy, preferably before she gets killed.” Ordered the Bardbarian. A spike of ice flew into an infiltrator’s shoulder, the hammer-wielding knight dashed forward with a laugh. It appeared that his words ceased to rhyme whenever he got serious.

  A crossbow’s bolt bounced off David’s armor. He searched the crowd for the crossbowman, he spotted none. “Crossbow somewhere in the crowd!” He bellowed. “I don’t see the wielder!”

  “You heard the man, Regis, create a distraction, Sara, eliminate any ranged attackers!” The bardbarian accompanied his orders with a bellow infused with haste magic, to help the noncombatants escape faster. David replaced his helm onto his head and launched towards the largest group of enemies.

  It was a bloodbath. None of the assassins were powerful enough to hurt him, and they were assailed from all sides by the Jarl’s own agents. He had free rein over the battlefield. But he had no illusions about them having been the ones sent to kill him. He knew they hadn’t, he could feel the power of several high-level individuals in the area, and one was rapidly approaching. Still, he culled his foes until the ballroom was drenched in blood and he was free to battle whoever he would have to without any enemies intervening. The ones that remained were too busy with the agents and adventurers, and some of the nobles.

  He stood at the center of the ballroom, senses extended, weapon at the ready, waiting. His enemy drew nearer. The aura implied his foe was high level, on the cusp of platinum. He felt when the roof above him broke, long before it happened, dodging out of the way of the descending enemy and into a defensive stance. A pulse of energy filled the room with a buzzing, crackling, disruptive energy, though it did not harm them directly.

  “My magic is being blocked!” The mage hollered from the ongoing fight against the assassins.

  “The blessings of our lady are stripped from the heathens in the presence of a true believer.” Said the newly arrived enemy. A zealot in chain armor, helmed with a steel mask, he was larger than any human, likely due to his nature as a goliath. He twirled his mace and pointed it at David, the buzzing intensified. “I demand a duel. Should I lose, I will be dead, should I win, I will take you to our lady, the goddess of us all!”

  “I accept.” Said David, and he felt the magic close in on him. “On the condition that, should I lose, they-” he gestured towards his fighting allies. “-be allowed to escape.”

  “This is acceptable.” The zealot stated, and the magic fell upon them. It rushed into them, settling around their hearts like chains ready to constrict, to punish, should the rules be broken. “I trust you know the rules to a goliath duel?”

  “I do. To death or incapacitation, a ritualistic exchange of blows, who will have the first turn?” Said he, changing into a more evasive stance, lower to the ground and less solid. It was a good thing his armor was light and more flexible than a normal plate suit.

  “Then let us begin.” His enemy lunged forward, attempting to grab him, he dodged the grab, delivering a punch to the goliath’s knee as he did so. The big bastard barely flinched, his mace came down in a brutal crushing blow, aimed at David’s head. David barely rolled out of the way on time. His seax stabbed out at a gap in the zealot’s chainmail and was repelled by some artefact or spell.

  He couldn’t damage his enemy, but could he outlast him? Likely not.

  The zealot lunged forth, mace aimed at David’s chest, but his shield was in his free hand and over his chest in milliseconds thanks to binding magic. The mace clanged off, being unable to defeat the shield’s enchantment, but the shield still shook, sending vibrations down his arm. His grip faltered.

  A kick from the zealot dented his armor and sent him skidding across the ballroom, into a wall, sending up sparks the whole way through. He stood before the goliath could get there. His grip on his shield tightened, he braced himself. He charged. He didn’t hammer into his opponent, he knew that would have little effect, instead choosing to pivot mid-charge and use the momentum to throw his shield into his opponent’s face before continuing his charge, right past his enemy, to arrive behind him.

  That was when he spotted it, the artefact. An amulet hanging off his opponent's back, he stabbed at it. The zealot pivoted, taking the blow on his arm, rather than on the artefact. An ascending blow from the zealot’s mace impacted David’s free arm.

  He felt the bones shatter.

  He dodged the next blow, and the next, and the one after that, never allowing himself to take a direct hit.

  It was hard.

  The zealot clearly hadn’t had much reason to empower his speed, but he was still faster than David. His sole saving grace was his higher mental acuity, which enhanced his reaction times. The zealot attacked and he just kept dodging. He was starting to think that, with all the dodging he did, it might be for the best if he changed his plate armor for something lighter and more agile.

  An explosion shook the ballroom, three high-level fighters ceased to be detectable. The zealot let himself be distracted by that. David did not. He used the brief pause, the small moment of respite to slip behind the zealot’s back, and finally stab through the artifact.

  Or he would have, had someone not parried his blade.

  A white-cloaked man, face covered in a steel mask, stood between him and his target, a single, steel-clad finger extended, halting his seax before him.

  “You really must be more careful, Lothar, you nearly let an artifact of our goddess get destroyed.” The white-cloaked man stated.

  “The others... they are dead?” The zealot asked, his voice was filled with grief.

  “Yes. The Jarl is a far stronger combatant that we expected.” Said the cloaked one. “This will set our efforts in this region back greatly.” The zealot did not respond. Gold and crimson motes of light drifted up from his skin.

  “Fuck, Knight! He’s about to rage!” Someone yelled from the sidelines. The hooded one sighed, he ripped the amulet from the zealot and turned to look at David, then disappeared in a flash of silver light. The buzzing disappeared. The duel’s chains snapped. The Zealot lurched, suddenly hit by the backlash of violating the duel’s laws.

  David was empowered, his muscles, bones, and armor hardening with magic power. This was the magic’s way of evening the playing field and assisting him in punishing the oath-breaker. A duel was just that, an oath, not to a deity, ruler, or person, but to the magic itself, that two individuals would fight honorably, and then honor the terms of their defeat, or victory. The zealot would be weakened, and David would be empowered.

  The zealot whirled, noticeably slower. David didn’t give him a chance to attack. He attacked continually, relentlessly, following every attack with another, not giving the zealot any time to catch his breath. His blade could cut him now. The zealot’s skin was no longer unbreakable. He could look out from their fight now and still manage to suppress the zealot.

  His allies had, evidently, won, they stood at the sidelines of their fight, ready to intervene. David wouldn’t let them. The zealot had caused him a great deal of pain and suffering and would not go unpunished. “DO NOT INTERVENE, HE IS MINE!” He bellowed. His voice emerged a discordant roar, the screaming of a multitude enraged, rather than a single warrior.

  He decided to try something. He searched for his Qi, and found the cycle. Qi was all around them, a second layer to the magic of the world, given form and purpose by all within it. In a place of stone, it would take to the stone and adopt the element. He, too, had an element. Life, Fire, Space. He had not seen it previously, but he’d adopted those elements when he’d first used Qi, in the old forest as he fought against the Fexxakin Thralls, and now he would wield them truly.

  It just required some experimentation.

  The Qi around them was thin, a trickle of what it should be, per his instincts, and he wanted more. Qi flowed as he breathed, pouring into his meridians, the channels that it travelled through, but it was not enough. His opponent was beginning to overcome the oath’s punishment, growing stronger with every second he raged, and still had higher attributes than David did. He needed more knowledge.

  In the meantime, he had to experiment. He cycled his core, the Qi within it shifting outwards, better aligned to his own element, and the Qi beyond it cycled in, to repeat the process. The purified Qi formed a second layer of core and could be spent to do his bidding. The faster his core cycled, the more Qi he got. The more his core cycled, the faster it would cycle, though it likely had a limit. For the time being, he spent his entire second layer, forming a ball of fire behind his armored head. He felt his connection with it and knew he could control it. It was his Qi, after all. He also knew it could gather Qi, which would lead to it eventually dissolving due to being diluted.

  The ball orbited around him once. The raging zealot recoiled, the chainmail on his left arm superheated by a temporary adjacency to the fireball’s surface. David lunged forward, the ball orbiting at a fair distance, picking up speed. It would punish any attempt to retreat. The Zealot blocked his lunging stab, and their dance’s tempo changed.

  No longer was the barbarian just on the defensive, now he was losing ground, and that would lead to his rage ending. Slash, Stab, Stab, Slash, Parry, Riposte, their dance went, and his blade hummed, the mythril resonating with every strike, the air parting with every slash. He took a risk. He broke the rhythm, ceased to attack, the zealot rocketed forward, roaring as his mace fell in a descending strike, which David took head-on.

  It was reckless, impatient, sloppy. They were both growing tired, but David had the advantage in their dance. His raven landed on a broken piece of wall, and cawed a triumphant caw. His fireball morphed, taking the form of a raven, and soared into the zealot’s back. The zealot’s glow extinguished, and he roared in pain, and David’s blade rose and silenced him. The fireball was reabsorbed.

  He stumbled away from the corpse. He hated the stench of burning flesh. It always revived the memories of the worst moments of his life. He sighed, he was tired, pained, and crippled, a state that was quickly becoming his default after a fight. He fell to his knee and fumbled around his bag, searching for a health tonic. He quickly found what he was looking for, a vial of crimson liquid, quite akin to blood.

  “Need some help?” He heard someone ask as he fumbled with his helmet.

  “Yes.” He said, and someone tore his helmet off. The vial was quickly downed, and he felt the familiar searing pain and writhing discomfort of bone rearranging and melding. The fingers in his formerly broken arm flexed, a pair of displaced ribs clicked back into place, and his spine cracked as he stood. “Good thing my armor isn’t too dented.”

  “What was that?” his helper asked.

  “What was what?” David responded, to which his helper merely gestured at the corpse of his opponent. “Ah, the fight? Something a monk taught me during the party, evolved with a little experimentation and my knowledge of magic.”

  “Cultivation, you mean?” his helper asked. David peered up. The Jarl stood before him, definitely worse for wear.

  “Yes. I do appear to be a cultivator.” Said he, watching as a group of healers barreled through the ballroom, members breaking off to see to those still living. He began to stand. One of them knocked him out.

  .......................

  “So, the venerable ascended elder has selected an heir to inherit his teachings.” Said the Jarl as they met in the banquet hall after David had been seen to by the healers. They’d not had a chance to speak after the battle as the healers had scooped him up and whisked him away to their temple. No matter, he appreciated the free healing, and a chance to clean the blood off himself and change into unbloodied clothing.

  “Ascended?” David asked.

  “Yes. The ultimate goal of most cultivators is to ascend to immortality, and to defy the divine. Those who manage it eventually leave this world for another, or a divine realm, or decide to just reenter the cycle of reincarnation.” Said the Jarl. “The monk you met is one such ascended individual. He’s been lurking around sucking up all the Qi in the region for the past four hundred years, searching for an inheritor for his legacy.”

  “Moving on. By all appearances, the assassins were here to eliminate us, the rest of the guests being little more than an afterthought. They wish to rid themselves of me for the obvious reason of me being our people’s leader, but I simply cannot figure out why they want you dead.”

  “Well, it may be related to the churches that Irvendael and I burnt down while I was his squire. Correction, the wyverns we were fighting burnt the churches down, we merely dodged out of the flame’s path. It’s unlikely, but you never know with the faithful and zealous.” Said David. “We’ll have to figure it out the old-fashioned way.”

  “Indeed. Unfortunately, my agents have been unable to extract any information from the few fools we captured, even using the more old-fashioned methods.” Said the Steward, who sat beside them. "The enemy agents are either exceptionally well-trained or completely uninformed.”

  “It doesn’t matter now, they played their hand and failed.” David declared. Huginn “Now they know they won’t be able to pull a move like that again. I don’t doubt they’ll continue to make attempts on our lives, but, at least in my case, it’ll be far more difficult. Especially once my chapter has been established.”

  “You intend to depart soon?” asked a noblewoman, Lady Talis, who’d joined the battle in the ballroom and watched his duel.

  “Indeed, I hear you’ve already instructed your new cadets to prepare to depart.” Added the steward.

  “It's true, we set out as soon as they‘re ready. If we make haste, we can arrive at the fortress before the week’s end. I need to have the perimeter secured before the arrival of the supply caravan, so that they can get to work as soon, and safely, as possible.” Said David.

  “I could have you teleported to the site?” Offered the Jarl.

  “Thank you for the offer, but I’ll have to decline.” Said David “I’ll need the time we’re on the road to get to know my new recruits, and my huscarl. Speaking of huscarls, there she is.”

  “Sires, and Lady” Astrid greeted, dropping to her knee. Following etiquette, she waited for the Jarl to give her leave to stand before continuing. “The Dragon Knight recruits are eager to depart as soon as possible.”

  “Well, I’ll not keep them waiting any longer, we depart immediately.” David declared, standing from his seat. “Farewell, and may the future bring good tidings.”