Chapters 73-75

There was a delay in posting because I was still deciding where to kick off book 2, exactly. There are so many cool skills that we've yet to explore in detail! And Jacob's family history! Enjoy, please!

Chapter 73 - Book 1 Epilogue

Sir Renquell looks at Jacob Cloud packing his bags from outside the building, hidden away. 

Since the boy arrived in Clearwater just over a month ago, everything changed.

Clearwater will never be the same. 

Felicia is very different from her sisters. 

Under the tutelage of Jacob Cloud and Sir Greyson, she matured and became much wiser than she'd ever been. 

Sir Renquell doesn't doubt for a second that Felicia will be an even better ruler than her father. 

But even her father, in the wake of Jacob Cloud, decided to go through the fight with Veyl, an Ery who was supposed to become a Knight, became more sensible, and finally saw through all the schemes that had been hatched under his nose. 

Before then, and from what Sir Renquell understands, since the day Lady Clearwater died, Lord Clearwater had ceased actively managing the city and relinquished control to the stewards, as well as to his two older daughters. 

Now, however, that the Elves have already cut every commercial route with Clearwater and are trying to put pressure on his commercial partners, Lord Clearwater, a great seaman and a sharp noble when it comes to merchants, has once again started personally handling the business of his city.

*

So, what Jacob would soon find out is that the academy at Ytrial wasn’t going to be anything like Clearwater. Veyl was talented, sure, but that was by Clearwater standards, and Clearwater was nothing but a minor player. They wouldn’t send an Elf with actual talent here to waste their time. 

In the hierarchy of Elf candidates for Ytrial, Veyl would barely rank as average. And to be honest, he could have easily been ranked below average and among the least talented elves.

So, Renquell saw Jacob put two letters in his pack. One was from Sir Greyson and one from himsElf. 

With those, Jacob was almost guaranteed to be able to pass Ytrial’s selection for this year’s new candidates. 

He would still have to go through a few tests, but the word of a Wandering Knight, albeit a disgraced one, carried a lot of weight.

So, Renquell wonders. 

He wonders how Jacob is going to do once he reaches Ytrial. 

Being a Knight, as he himself is the foremost example of, isn’t just about power. If anything, politics is even more important than raw power.

Elves are just one of the many players at the Academy, which is, really, the center of the world. 

Every so often, too, one of the three Great Races appears. 

No one dares ask where they come from, and everyone pays great respect to them. 

Sir Renquell is worried that whatever Jacob has stirred, whatever power he’s been slowly soaking up, that allowed him to assume a vague infernal form, is going to make him a lot of enemies. 

And if any Infernal is currently at the academy, that might even spell his doom. 

The great races don’t take kindly to any of them. And so, only if he’s been in the enemy, with anything that needs to happen to one of them, most of their people would fall on whoever attempted harm on their kin. 

But even Sir Renquell has to admit that he’s not sure Jacob is going to stay at the bottom or the middle of the pack in Ytrial. 

Even among the best, even among the great races—which Sir Renquell has met several times—Jacob Cloud doesn’t feel like an ordinary contender.

*

I’m packing my last things when Felisia enters my room. I smile at her and say, “You ready to go?” 

Felisia previously said that she would love to become a Knight and that it would be nice to start at the academy with someone I know. However, when I see the expression on her face, I can immediately tell that something is wrong. 

“What’s going on?” I ask. She comes and sits on my bed.

She goes through seveal facial expressions, then, taking a deep breath and looking straight at me, announces, “I can’t come.”

“What?” I reply.

“I can’t come, Jacob,” she says.

I panic. I finally go to a chest in my room and take out the gift I had meant for her. It’ a decently sized Skill Crystal—a Platinum one—in my hand.

“What is that?” she asks.

“Crystal Focus,” I smile. “If you’re worried about your talent, I’ll just help you out. And after you get whatever evolution of Meditation you want, you can just learn this. This is like Meditation, but tenfold better—apparently this is an extremely rare variant that only appears in Elite Dungeons. It’s invaluable, almost. And you can move while you use it.”

“So this is what you got from the Boss that you kept hidden.” 

I nod. 

“Yeah, I wanted it to be a gift for you. But you really helped me out here. You lent me money. You gave me an opportunity to enter Clearwater. And I lied to you. So this was a gift for you winning the Sky Hunt.”

Felisia smiles sweetly, but she puts the Skill back in my hand. 

“You will need this more than I do.” 

“It’s a gift,” I say, half-panicked. 

“Then I gift it back to you.” Felisia smiles. 

There’s a weird calm on her face, as if the brat I knew had disappeared entirely.

I don’t see why she can’t come. 

“I warned about your talent. I told you that I—” But she interrupts me before I can finish.

“It’s not about my talent, Jacob. I want to take care of Clearwater. My father has a lot to teach us. Especially now that the city is in a difficult position.”

“Yeah,” I say, “I apologize about that.”

“No, don’t. Or you’ll think I’m becoming more independent.”

“All right,” I reply. “But can’t you just do this after the—why can’t you first become a Knight?”

“If I do,” Felisia replies, “my sisters have all the time in the world to put their claws back into the seat. I must become stronger. I must do that on my own. I’ve relied too long on you. But I really wanted to go to the academy together,” I say, scratching my head, embarrassed.

Felisia pats the bed beside her. 

I obey and sit there.

“None of this could have been possible without you,” she says, and takes my hands in hers, making me blush with them. “But I have duties to my people and to my city. I can’t come with you. I would love nothing more,” she says, and a few tears escape her eyes—just a few tears—and a sigh. “But I can’t. I’m sorry, Jacob. I really can’t.”

Before I can say anything, she leans forward, softly kisses my cheek, and then swiftly gets up. 

“I’ve arranged your transportation. It leaves tomorrow at dawn. I’ll see you there.” I can hear her sniffle and start to cry, but I just stay put on my bed, alone. 

“I’ll see you there. Thank you,” I whisper back, taking the Skill Crystal in my lap. 

* 

The docks are noisy even at dawn. Dockhands haul crates onto the ship bound for Ytrial, and the tang of brine hangs in the air. I keep my head down, the red cloak Orvick’s son once wore trailing behind me, catching the wind.

Sir Greyson waits near the gangplank, arms crossed and eyes scanning the crew. He glances at me, then flicks his eyes down to my boots.

“You look ridiculous in that thing,” he says. “But you make it work. Don’t start trouble on the ship, and don’t mouth off to any officers.”

I snort. 

“I won’t, I promise.”

He grunts, then sticks out his hand. 

“Keep your blade sharp, and don’t get soft. Ytrial isn’t Clearwater.”

I shake his hand. His grip is as solid as ever.

Felisia stands a few paces off, with Lord Clearwater beside her, both of them as formal as if they were at court. Felisia steps forward and opens her palm. She holds a silver pin shaped like a wave crashing against a cliff.

“Lord Clearwater wanted you to have this,” she says. “It’s the city’s insignia. He said he’d be lucky if you ever wanted to wear it.”

Lord Clearwater nods once, arms folded over his chest. 

“Wear it if you mean it. We didn’t treat you right, Jacob Cloud. But I hope you’ll forgive an old man’s foolishness. The city stands behind that mark and so it would be our pride to see you depart with it.”

I take the pin and fix it to my cloak. 

“I’ll wear it proudly.”

Felisia studies my face, then hugs me hard. 

“Don’t get yourself killed,” she mutters.

I nod and step back.

Lord Clearwater gives one last look, unreadable, and then says.

“Jacob Cloud.”

“Milord?” I ask.

The man shakes his head. 

“Nothing, I bet we’ll be hearing more of you soon enough. Now go, the captain will take care of you until you reach Ytrial.” 

The first mate shouts for boarding. Greyson cuffs my shoulder. Felisia wipes her eyes.

I step onto the gangplank, the red cloak billowing, the silver pin bright against it. I don’t look back. The ship creaks beneath my feet. 

Clearwater shrinks behind me as the crew hauls anchor.

The sea opens ahead, and Ytrial waits on the far shore.

Chapter 74

Name: Jacob Cloud

Class: Infernal Architect (Platinum) – Lv. 127

Core Skills:

Hell’s Sword – Lv. 100 (Gold – Offensive)

Fire Slash – Lv. 100 (Silver – Offensive)

Fire Shield – Lv. 100 (Silver – Defensive)

Fire Armor – Lv. 100 (Silver – Defensive)

Fire Walk – Lv. 100 (Silver – Movement)

Infernal Veins – Lv. 14 (Platinum – Support)

The Grimoire Extraordinaire (Rainbow – Support)

Class Skills:

Furnace Core (Passive) – Lv. 100

Flameform Blueprint (Active) – Lv. 100

Infernal Thread (Passive) – Lv. 100

Ember Keystone (Active) – Lv. 1

Architect’s Insight (Passive) – Lv. 100

Hellspire (Active) – Lv. 100

Ignition Array (Active) – Lv. 2

Attributes:

Strength (STR): 200 → 300

Dexterity (DEX): 200 → 314

Endurance (END): 125 → 200

Vitality (VIT): 200 → 314

Intelligence (INT): 328 → 600

Spirit (SPI): 300 → 600

Wisdom (WIS): 256 → 500

Charisma (CHA): 18 

Luck (LCK): 10 

Unassigned Points: 35

Other Skills:

Minor Cookery Lv. 34 (Iron)

Minor Night Vision Lv. 32 (Iron)

Light Lv. 67 (Bronze)

Pickaxe Mastery Lv. 81 (Bronze)

Minor Mineral Sense Lv. 72 (Bronze)

Mana Pool Lv. 100 (Silver)

Echo Pulse Lv. 100 (Bronze)

Meditation Lv. 100 (Silver)

Bronze Grip Lv. 100 (Bronze)

Intermediate Endurance Lv. 100 (Bronze)

Intermediate Strength Lv. 100 (Silver)

Infernal Wings of Ash Lv. 75 (Gold)

Dark Lattice Lv. 74 (Gold)

Diavolo Draw Lv. 42 (Gold)

Dark Blade Lv. 22 (Gold)

Black Flame Lv. 8 (Fusion Skill - Platinum)

I have distributed the Attributes I gained throughout the fights at the Sky Hunt and the Crucible with the Grimoire’s advice. 

All my mana-related Attributes, Intelligence, Spirit, and Wisdom crossed five hundred. When that happened, I felt a significant shift in power. Killing Veyl helped me gain several levels. 

Still, though, I feel like Infernal Architect is leveling up slower than it should have. It almost feels like the Class is a bottomless pit for experience.

I asked Sir Renquell whether it makes sense that stronger Classes take longer to level up, and, apparently, that’s the case. However, he said that, usually, there’s only so much of a difference between Classes. 

Yet, I should already be level one-sixty or something like that if that were the case. 

Even with the most demanding Class, with the monsters I’ve killed with my own hands, I should have had more levels under my belt. 

Yet, despite being in the early levels of Gold Rank, I’m already approaching a late Gold Rank in strength. And this is all thanks to the Infernal heritage. 

“Cloud! Come above board!” I hear the first mate shouting. 

I raise an eyebrow. 

It’s been a very long trip to Ytrial. About two months ago, we departed from Clearwater, but even with the Platinum-ranked vessel and crew, it took us two months to reach our destination. Apparently, that’s because we couldn’t cross certain zones directly. 

Most monsters have been purged out of every landmass outside of Dungeons. Whenever new ones appear, quests for adventurers and Knights are posted immediately. 

But at sea, it’s a whole different story. Very few Knights are armed for underwater combat—certainly not me. 

Being able to fight underwater is a skill unto itself. That is why large stretches of every sea cannot be crossed unless high-level sailors man your vessel. 

There are even Knights whose entire specialty is sailing, but not only are they far and few in between, but since they are essential to commercial routes, they are paid their weight in whatever currency their rank fetches. 

Jacob shoulders his pack and climbs the narrow stairs to the upper deck, letting the morning wind slap him across the face. It carries the scent of salt and iron and something sharper, some power so dense it almost stings. The fog ahead splits as the ship cuts through, and he gets his first real look at Ytrial.

Ytrial rises out of the ocean like a vision out of myth. The cliffs are black, carved by ancient hands, but the city above them is a riot of spires, banners, and towers that crowd together in a mad jumble, all fused into a single fortress that stretches for miles. Ramparts run along the cliff’s edge and then keep rising until they form walls that block out half the horizon. On every ledge, more fortifications bristle with enchanted ballistae, runic emplacements, and banners so large the wind rips them into tatters. Jacob sees bridges spanning impossible gaps, streets that twist in layers over one another, and a swarm of airships docking at piers anchored high above the water.

Above it all, dozens of floating islands drift lazily in the sky, tethered to Ytrial by chains as thick as city gates or left to circle the city’s heart. Each island holds a cluster of towers, gardens, and domes, their edges glowing with defensive wards and swirling mana fields. From below, the city looks less like a fortress and more like a citadel built by giants for a war that never ended.

He can’t even begin to count the number of people living there. The docks alone stretch for nearly a league, and every pier is crowded with ships larger than anything Jacob ever saw in Clearwater. Clearwater felt big when he left it, but now it seems like a backwater fortress some merchant might buy as a vacation home.

The captain stands by the prow, watching the city through a battered spyglass. He lowers it when Jacob approaches and points at a shadow gliding across the waves, just beyond the reach of the ship’s wards.

“There. See that?” the captain says, voice low.

Jacob squints and makes out a pale, spectral figure riding just above the water. The figure is clad in ruined armor and moves without making a sound, as if the waves themselves hold it up. There are more of them, each trailing wisps of fog and leaving no wake. Their weapons glint even though there’s no sun hitting them, and their faces are little more than empty visors and shadows.

“Ghost Knights,” the captain says. “Every one of them fell in defense of Ytrial. Powerful Necromancers pulled them back, bound them to the city’s fate. They say each one has the strength of a Wandering Knight, Mithril Rank, and they don’t leave these waters. Nothing makes it past them unless Ytrial wants it.”

Jacob keeps watching as one of the figures glides beneath an incoming merchant vessel, only for the air around the ship to freeze and flicker with warding runes. The ghost Knight disappears beneath the hull, leaving a trail of frost in its wake.

“Are they bound forever?” Jacob asks.

The captain shrugs. 

“Bound as long as Ytrial stands, or so the stories go.”

Jacob turns his gaze toward the city’s center. Past the clustered keeps and the endless banners, there is a single spire that rises higher than everything else, impossibly thin at its tip and thick at the base, built from stone that glows faintly red. It’s not connected to any other part of the city by bridges or chains; it simply rises straight from the heart of the citadel.

He can’t help himself. “What about that spire in the middle? The one that looks like it’s about to pierce the clouds.”

The captain lowers his spyglass and grins, showing a mouth full of gold teeth. “That’s the Heartspire. Some say it’s the oldest part of the city, built before even the Academy. I’ve heard it’s a legendary test, something only the greatest Knights ever attempt. I’ve ferried more than a few hopefuls to Ytrial, and I’ve never seen one come back out.”

“What do they find in there?”

“Couldn’t tell you. You’ll have to ask a local.” 

*

I step down the gangplank and find the docks even more crowded than they looked from above. Workers haul crates, porters shout for space, and Knights in silver armor ride past on mana-bred horses that leave trails of sparks on the stone. All of it blurs together until he spots four figures standing right at the end of the dock. They are not part of the chaos. They’re waiting.

The four don’t bother hiding their status. Their clothes are far too clean for dockwork, their boots made for court floors instead of ship decks. 

The oldest is wearing armor, while the two younger boys are wearing clothes you’d see at court—but even more refined, even more magical than the ones I’ve seen in Clearwater. They wear tailored jackets with inlaid runes that pulse faintly, and the youngest has a sword at his side that’s worth more than most people’s homes. 

The woman, probably only younger than the guy in armor, steps forward first. 

She has the kind of posture drilled into someone since birth, and she doesn’t even try to make small talk.

“You there. You just arrived from Clearwater, didn’t you?” Her eyes linger on the silver pin on my cloak.

I set his bag down, watching all four of them. 

“That’s right.”

The youngest among them, a tall, broad-shouldered man with gray-blue eyes, glances at his brother before speaking. 

“We’re looking for someone. Jacob Cloud. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is?”

Jacob raises an eyebrow.

“Might I ask who you are, milords, milady?” 

“We’ve been waiting for Jacob Cloud. We’re from the Valemont Family,” the oldest says, shaking his head. “If you know him, tell him to come down and that his half-siblings are here.” 

Chapter 75

Fuck. My half-siblings? Mother sent them here for me? Wait, they must have already been at the Academy before me. 

The noblewoman, my half-sister apparently, steps in front of me.

“You do know Jacob Cloud, don’t you?”

I keep my voice measured and cough a little. 

“Yeah, I traveled with him. Saw him a couple of times on board. He should come around soon.”

The youngest, tall and broad-shouldered, flashes an eager smile. 

“I’m Kai. How’s Jacob? Is he a good sort?”

I shrug, shifting my bag on my shoulder. “Seems decent.”

The one with the toughest eyes, the one who seems just about a few years older than Kai, narrows his eyes at me. 

The armored one tosses me a platinum coin, which I catch without thinking. 

Rich people, I muse, pocketing the coin. 

“Thanks for your time,” he says. “We’ll wait here for him.” 

I nod, then push past them, not giving them another word. 

The last thing I need is trouble with the Valemont family.

I set my bag down, keeping my voice even.

“It's been a pleasure, milords, milady, Kai.”

I don’t give them time to press further. I shoulder my bag and stride away toward the avenue, refusing to glance back. I want nothing to do with the Valemont family if I can avoid it, not after years of being their well-kept embarrassment.

*

Ytrial’s inner city is a labyrinth. 

I join a tide of travelers heading toward the center, keeping my gaze locked on the next archway and not the shimmering fortress walls that tower above the square. 

I keep my stride brisk, and I don’t bother hiding my relief when I finally lose sight of that pack of noble siblings in the crowd.

Every street here bends at strange angles, and every alley has its own array of mana lights that flicker with passing energy. 

The place teems with enough people to fill a hundred Clearwaters, but I pick up no trace of my half-brothers as I navigate the crush. I duck beneath a row of awnings that lead straight to the Academy’s registration hall. 

I have one goal: to get myself registered before the other half of my family starts bothering me again.

Whatever they want, if I’m already an academy student by the time they get to me, it should make things easier.

When I saw the letter from my grandmother, Queen Anthea, I knew things were serious. 

She didn’t say what they want, but whenever a noble—wait, not a noble—a royal wants something, it can’t be anything good. 

Inside the registration hall, the light turns colder and sharper. 

The stone pillars are veined with glowing runes, and every desk is manned by clerks with the harried faces of people who have seen one disaster too many today. 

I get in line behind a group of chattering teenage noble girls. 

I keep my hands folded and my pack pressed tight to my hip, not giving them an excuse to start a conversation.

When it’s my turn, I step up to the desk and give my name and candidate’s token. 

The clerk—a woman with skin darker than obsidian and hair bound in braids—gives me a look that says she’s handled far too many of me this week.

“Jacob Cloud, Knight candidate, seeking admission,” I say, standing straight and letting my cloak hang so the Clearwater pin is visible. I set the token on the counter.

She glances down at the token, then at me. Her eyes flick over the Clearwater pin before she picks up a quill and dips it in a jar of shimmering ink. She fills in my name and details with a speed that tells me she’s done this a thousand times.

“All right, Jacob Cloud,” she says, “present your Squire’s registration papers and you’ll move to the admission office.”

The words don’t register for a moment. I stare at her, feeling my heartbeat jump once. 

“My what?”

She sets the quill down and looks at me the way a brick wall would look at a charging deer. 

“All candidates must have a registered Squire. You’ll need to provide a signed Squire’s parchment before your admission can proceed. If you don’t have one, you can find the Squire Selection Square just north of the academy’s gate.”

I blink, and for a second, I want to ask her to repeat it. I school my expression into something close to calm. 

“Is this a new rule?”

Her lips tighten.

“It’s always been in effect for the main cohort. The only exceptions are for sponsored candidates or those with dispensation from the Deans or the Headmaster—well, the vice-Headmaster, I suppose—dispensation which you do not possess.” 

She looks back at her paperwork and doesn’t spare me another glance. 

“Next.”

“Thanks,” I say, turning and following some signs for this Squire Selection Square. 

If the Academy wants a Squire, I’ll find a Squire.

I step away from the desk with the kind of measured, even stride that looks like confidence and feels like a rope pulled tight. A wave of laughter and chatter drifts in from an open archway to my right. I follow the noise until I emerge into sunlight again.

Squire Selection Square sprawls in the shadow of the academy’s southern towers. The place buzzes with a hundred voices—teenagers dressed in every kind of faded livery, all gathered in a ring around a central wooden platform. \

Every few moments, another would-be Squire leaps onto the platform to show off.

A guy is playing with knives, showcasing a peculiar concealing/throwing Skill that makes them difficult to detect. Another guy is fencing with a rapier—great abilities, honestly. 

Many of these individuals are actually quite talented. 

The bar to be a Knight is so high that even these people, who would make many in Clearwater turn their heads, can only be Squires. 

Several Squires carry signs around their necks. Some list their meager talents in clumsy script—“Fast runner, good cook, will clean armor”—while others get more creative. One reads, “My father trained three Knights. Please pick me.” Another kid, not more than eleven, stands on a box and yells, “Pick me, mighty sir! I’ll bring you glory!” He even throws in a bow so deep he nearly topples into the mud.

The whole spectacle has a farcical edge that makes me want to laugh. I smirk despite myself. Even as I survey the chaos, I keep one eye trained on the street in case my family decides to follow. 

I weave through the crowd, ignoring the kids who try to grab my cloak or sing their own praises. 

Whom should I pick?

That’s when I hear the first wailing cry.

I freeze. The voice is high and raw, and it carries over the din with a kind of ragged force. 

Heads start turning, and people on the far end of the square begin to point.

I follow their gaze to a wooden tower built against the square’s southern wall—a crude stage, easily twenty times the height of a man. 

Someone is standing on top, framed by the sky and a tangle of banners. 

I see a boy—short, morbidly obese, with red cheeks and eyes swollen from crying—clinging to the edge with both hands. His wailing bounces off the stone, drawing stares and laughter from below.

I feel something cold run through my chest. I see the way the crowd responds: some laugh, others glance away with embarrassment, and a few watch with cold interest. 

The fatty’s hands tighten on the rail as he shouts, “No one wants me! I’ll jump! I mean it!”

He looks like he believes it.

A kid with spiky black hair elbows past me, snorting. “He’s at it again. Does this every single day.”

Another squire—skinny, eyes too old for his face—nods. 

“Don’t bother rushing. He just wants attention. If anyone goes up, he’ll bawl harder. And nobody’s gonna pick him.”

I glance at the two, but neither one seems interested in helping. They watch the spectacle with the detached look of people who have seen the same play a dozen times.

A third voice—this one older, probably a returning student—chimes in from behind me. “Fatty did it yesterday, too. Apparently, he’s been doing it since last year as well. He climbs up there, screams about how he’ll end it all, and by lunch, he’s eating pies from the food stalls. Watch, the old merchant lady’s got one ready. It’s a ritual.”

The boy on the tower flails, making the banners snap. 

“I’m serious! If a Knight doesn’t pick me this year, I’ll throw myself down! And I’ll haunt whoever takes my spot, you’ll see!”

A few younger squires glance at each other, uncertain. One girl whispers, “Maybe someone should tell the teachers?”

“Nah,” the spiky-haired kid says, “they don’t care. They’ll only show up if he actually falls, and he never does. He’s actually quite nimble for his size.”

There’s a kind of sick entertainment in the way people gather at the base of the tower. Some throw jeers, others watch in silence. One boy, face painted with some family crest, cups his hands and shouts, “Jump then, fatty! If you survive, I’ll make you my squire myself!”

Laughter breaks out in a jagged wave. 

I catch the look on Fatty’s face: a twist of hurt pride and theatrical rage. 

He shakes the railing, red-faced, and howls, “You’ll regret mocking me! I’m the best cook in the city, and my uncle’s a great martial artist! I swear I’ll—”

He loses his grip with one hand for a second, flailing, and the crowd’s laughter crests. The old merchant woman someone mentioned appears near the base, holding a pastry box and a tired expression. She waves it above her head.

“Come down, Lancelot,” she calls, “before you ruin your uncle’s good name. I have your tart.”

The boy freezes. He looks down, lip trembling. 

“Is it the honey one?”

She lifts the lid, showing a glint of syrup. 

“Still warm. I won’t hold it forever.”

A few Squires groan. 

“Every time,” someone mutters.

A girl beside me—freckled, with a chipped front tooth—shrugs. 

“He actually can cook, you know. Last year, he got picked as a squire for a week, just for the food. Dropped him after he burnt a house down because he fell asleep in front of the stove.”

I shake my head, feeling a mix of annoyance and pity. This is what I have to work with? A circus.

But I also sense something from the boy as he shakes his head vigorously. 

“IT’S ALWAYS BEEN MY DREAM TO BE A SQUIRE! I SWEAR, I’M ENDING IT TODAY! I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!”

However, no one seems to believe him still. 

I see him looking at the platform and closing his eyes, muttering a few words to himself. 

Damn it! I think. That guy might really do it! I’m not sure he’ll survive that fall!

“Wait!” I shout, my voice cutting through the crowd.

The boy freezes. He stares down at me, still sobbing but suddenly attentive. The laughter dies off, and the other candidates and Squires begin to step back. I step through the ring, glaring at the ones who look amused.

“Don’t move,” I tell him, every word clear and cold. “If you want someone to hear you out, then wait. I’ll come up.”

He nods, and the crowd’s tension ripples outward. I find the ladder at the side of the tower and start climbing. The rungs wobble under my weight, but I keep moving. 

I could use my wings, but it doesn’t seem wise to reveal so much about myself this early.

At the top, the wind tugs at my cloak. The boy stands with his back pressed to the rail, tears streaking his face. He’s younger than I thought—probably my age. 

He meets my eyes, and his lips tremble.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I say, keeping my voice rough but not cruel. “You think if you throw a tantrum, someone’s going to swoop in and save you?”

He shakes his head and tries to wipe his nose with a sleeve. 

“I’m sorry. I… I just…” the Fatty’s voice breaks, and he chokes on a sob. “No one wants me, sir. I tried every apprentice Knight, but I’m too slow and too fat. They all said so. They said I’d just get in the way.”

His words tumble out in a rush, shame and fear tangling in his throat. 

“I trained for a whole year, and my da told me it’d be different here, but it’s all the same. Nobody cares. If I go home, I’m just a joke. I’ll just end it.”

I look at him and see a bit of myself in the desperation, in his dreams—the sick ache of knowing you don’t fit, the certainty that nobody wants you. My jaw tightens, and I hold the feeling down with a force of will.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

He stares at me, surprised. “Lancelot. Lancelot Grafton.”

“Lancelot Grafton,” I repeat, then snort. “You know, you have a ridiculous name for a Squire.”

He manages a watery laugh and nods. 

“It’s my mum’s favorite. She thought it’d make me lucky.”

“Well, Lancelot,” I say, “I didn’t come up here to watch you jump. I’m looking for a Squire, but I don’t take cowards, and I don’t take pity cases. If you want a shot, you’ll have to prove you’re worth it. Understand?”

He straightens, nodding so fast his jowls shake. 

“Yes, sir! Anything, sir! I’ll work twice as hard as anyone! I’ll—”

Then, he jumps back on the platform with the kind of dexterity that belies his form.

I frown, looking at him. 

This shameless bastard climbed up too easily! What the hell?! He might have somersaulted from this platform if he were so nimble! 

“How strong are you, good sir?” Fatty inquires. 

“Shut up,” I say, grumbling, “you go down first. I’ll follow.”

We reach the ground. The crowd parts to let us through, and I steer Lancelot to an open patch of earth where the mud isn’t too deep. He wipes at his face with both hands.

“All right,” I say, crossing my arms. “Show me what you can do.”

He blinks, then nods and glances around for a weapon or training dummy. 

I saw a few squires hitting these before. They’re scarecrows that materialize a score based on how much damage you deliver to them. I’d be curious to unleash the Black Flame on them, but… yet again, not a wise move. 

I’m so curious to know how hard that hits, though. 

Fatty snatches up a wooden staff from the edge of the ring and takes up a stance that’s all wrong—too wide, knees locked, grip too far forward. 

I watch him swing at the post, his arms shaking with the effort. He manages to hit the target with a loud crack, but the blow glances off instead of landing square.

“42.”

“Is that good?” I ask someone by my side.

It’s a noble girl.

“The threshold to qualify is five hundred.” 

“WHAT?!” I look at the Fatty, already panting, incredulous. 

This guy’s talent is terrible!

“Well, that wasn’t that bad!” Fatty says, walking up next to me, already sweating up a storm. 

I turn, my senses prickling with the warning that always comes before trouble. The crowd is parting, and I spot two young men striding toward us. The space around them opens as if everyone knows their names.

The first is tall, broad-shouldered, with hair the color of smoke and eyes like sharpened steel. He wears a set of pristine academy robes trimmed with gold, and a white tiger as tall as him pads along at his side, its coat marked with runes that pulse in time with its breathing. The animal’s eyes sweep the crowd with lazy confidence.

The second is Kai, a very tall man with gray-blue eyes.

Kai towers above me, but he has kind eyes.

The other one, instead…

They already found out? 

Kai’s looking at me with a big smile, but the older one is looking at me with murder in his eyes. 

“Well, look who we have here. You had me, Thorne Valemont, sent to chase you down, Jacob Cloud. Why did you lie?” Thorne leads, and his voice cuts through the crowd. 

He stops a few paces from me, folding his arms across his chest. The gigantic tiger sits at his feet, tail lashing in slow, dangerous arcs.

Kai steps up beside him, hands in his pockets and eyes full of open curiosity. 

“Hi, Jacob! It’s such a pleasure! You must have been shy. I already introduced myself, but can I shake your hand? Mom told me a lot about you, and—”

“We have business with you,” Thorne says, unsheathing his sword and causing the tiger to jump to its feet and roar so violently that several Squires around us—surprisingly not Fatty—faint.

I relax my shoulders and I get ready to call upon my Skills, but I can feel Thorne’s aura. 

He’s Diamond Rank—he’s way too strong for me.