The horses were prepared. The banner of House Verentis fluttered on the lead carriage—deep navy blue stitched with a silver sun.
Achilles stood dressed in formal light armor, his sword sheathed at his waist. A modest trunk sat beside him, packed with both combat gear and books.
His mother hugged him tightly, longer than usual.
> "You don't need to prove anything, Achilles," she whispered. "Not to them. Only come home safe."
He smiled and nodded. "I will."
His father gripped his shoulder with a steady hand. "If anyone moves against you… remind them you are my son."
For a moment, neither parent spoke.
They had agreed to let him go.
But their eyes—especially Irelya's—held a deep tension. As if fate had just tilted slightly against their favor.
Achilles waved as the carriage rolled forward.
> Goodbye, Father. Mother…
I'll return stronger.
---
🐎 The Road to House Aldren
The journey north took two days by noble convoy.
House Aldren's territory was richer, more politically aligned with the Crown. Their estate was massive—marble columns, crystal windows, guards clad in matching black and gold.
At the gates, they were greeted by Sir Vellian Aldren, the third son and acting host for the Youth Exchange.
He bowed with a formal smile.
> "Young Lord Verentis. You honor us."
> He's smiling like a merchant, Achilles thought. Too wide. Too measured.
---
🏰 The Gathering
In the outer courtyard, a dozen young nobles milled about—swordsmen in training tunics, mages with trimmed robes. House Aldren had invited heirs from multiple regions.
A large dueling circle had been etched into the ground.
Sir Vellian's voice rang out:
> "To break the ice—we begin with a friendly duel! No killing strikes. No third-circle magic. And if any of you nobles are too pampered to lift a sword… well, you'll be the entertainment, won't you?"
Laughter followed. A few glanced at Achilles.
They had heard he was "the quiet one" from a minor honorable house.
> Let them think that, Achilles thought. Let them mock. I'm here to learn.
---
⚔️ The Duel Begins
Achilles stepped into the circle.
His opponent: Lord Rian of House Fenner, a 3rd-rate swordsman known for speed. The boy sneered, clearly underestimating him.
> "Try not to cry when you fall, Verentis."
The signal was given.
Rian rushed in—fast, aggressive.
Achilles deflected the first strike with minimal motion. No aura burst. No posture shift.
Just data.
His System lit up in his vision:
> >>> Swordsman Style Detected: Lateral Wind (Basic)
>>> Weakness: Predictable horizontal arcs
Inject: Spell.fire.lash-lite()
Trigger: step + downswing
Chant: disabled
Output: pulse-burst edge, 1.3s duration
Achilles pivoted with a step. His blade arced low—and ignited.
Not visibly. Just a thin layer of burning pressure, wrapped around steel.
It connected.
Rian stumbled backward, clutching his scorched side. His coat smoked slightly. The arena went still.
A noble girl gasped. A young mage blinked in disbelief.
> "He didn't chant…"
> "That wasn't aura. What was that?"
Sir Vellian's smile dimmed. Just slightly.
Achilles sheathed his sword with calm, masking his heartbeat.
> Test successful. Next version—longer range.
---
🧩 Whispers Begin
That evening, in the estate corridors, whispers passed between pages and stewards.
> "The Verentis boy—he cast without incantation."
"Is he a hybrid?"
"Maybe a silent-type enchanter…"
"No—he's something else."
And in a high tower, a cloaked figure reviewed the dueling circle through a scrying orb.
> "Interesting…"