Chapter 29: New Power and Practice

In Constantine’s room at the Western Frontier Governor’s Mansion of the Phoenix Empire.

The boy sat in a wide, comfortable chair, looking like he was resting with his eyes closed. Only the constant twitching at the corners of his mouth and eyebrows showed he probably wasn’t relaxing.

“Your power has indeed grown. It seems that fellow is much better than me at teaching students. You can now be called a true Sorcerer,” Kotelo de Hartdiel said after a thoughtful pause. “But I can’t be completely certain about the true nature of this power hidden within your soul. Or perhaps we could call it… an offshoot of power?”

“Useless! I’m asking you when this thing burrowed—well, attached itself to me? Didn’t I clearly reject that guy’s demand?” Constantine retorted angrily. The Lich now resided within the boy’s body, claiming it allowed him a better sense of the boy’s changes. But clearly, it hadn’t helped much with his so-called research.

“Isn’t that natural? This is the power of a Deity? I haven’t had much opportunity to study how Deities use their powers!” Hartdiel’s voice rose slightly, expressing his annoyance at the criticism… though he soon fell silent. The result was what mattered now; anything else felt like an excuse.

“The only certain thing is, this power is derived from what he implanted in you last time… A change like this happens only after your abilities awaken and you connect to the Weave of Magic. It’s not him meddling again. So don’t worry too much.” After sensing a while longer, the Lich withdrew from the boy’s body… returning to the Soul Amulet. Much later, he offered this conclusion.

“Your rapid connection to the Weave this time seems partly thanks to him… Or perhaps, as the Bards so often sing… a seed of power is sprouting?”

“Sprouting? That doesn’t sound good!”

Constantine slammed his fist on the table, frustrated… A sprouting seed? Wasn’t he just some kind of growth medium now? Maybe gaining a usable power was good news for the Lich, but he himself wasn’t excited by such a dangerous development. This wasn’t some childhood science story to stop kids eating too fast! If one day this seed became a giant tree, wouldn’t this little flower pot—him—just shatter?

“That guy… he must be a Devil or a Demon!” Constantine spat.

“Who said only Devils and Demons use such methods? Those self-proclaimed righteous Deities do too! Compared to the Underworld’s evil creatures naked temptations, they just sugarcoat it. Call it a blessing. They shout, ‘Yes, we give power! When their immense strength peaks, they join us, becoming eternal!’ Most poor souls chosen by them just explode from overloaded power!” The Lich’s enthusiasm surged whenever knowledge was involved. “But your ability is different… It isn’t physical. It resembles a supporting ability, or what Mages call a Feat. A method for applying Mental Power!”

“Oh? Isn’t that something only Mages have?” The boy’s interest piqued slightly. Just before the Weave connection training, Nikolai had mentioned Feats. They seemed to be a key difference between Mages and Sorcerers.

“Of course not! Anyone can control their Mental Power, though they might not use it to touch the Weave!” The Lich never stinted in sharing knowledge. “Warriors use it to master their bodies, Bards to amplify their music’s effects, Clerics to deepen their communication with Deities… Everyone finds their use. The one you grasp now… I’ve never seen it before… Want to try it?”

“Well…” The boy hesitated, but before he could answer, the door burst open.

“I thought you might die out there… What a disappointment.” Utterly ignoring noble etiquette, the Blood Elf stormed to the table. She slammed a tray down before Constantine, though the tempting scent of pastries almost masked the venom in her words.

Tasks like serving tea were now wholly entrusted to the Blood Elf. Initially, Constantine worried this Rogue might struggle with such service, but that worry proved unfounded—the Elves’ pursuit of beauty made them excellent tea masters and pastry chefs. Though each time, the lady inevitably cursed while helping herself to some treats.

“What? Try… Ah! You!” Constantine frowned. He ignored the afternoon tea, his gaze shifting to the Elf. Then he suddenly grinned.

…

Three hourglass marks later, Constantine and the Blood Elf stood on an open patch in the Duke’s Mansion’s back garden, weapons raised, facing each other from a distance.

“Alright, begin…” Constantine swung his sword… Their weapons, of course, weren’t real blades but wooden substitutes. Yet, the fierce fighting spirit burning in the Blood Elf’s crimson eyes was utterly real. “If you beat me… I’ll give you this.” Constantine casually produced a gemstone brooch he’d gotten from Feesman. The radiant glow of the ruby embedded in it seemed enough to stoke the Blood Elf’s competitive fire.

His words barely finished when the Elf dashed forward like lightning!

Dull thuds rang out instantly. Despite being prepared, Constantine couldn’t hope to match her speed. In a flash, he was struck three times… not counting the blows he managed to block. Striking his simple leather armor, the hits still left him aching heavily.

“Constantine ‘Young Master’… Fighting me at that speed? You’d better just hand it over… Or do you want big sister to vent some more?” After a brief clash, the Blood Elf stepped back, seizing the chance to mock.

Like most fighters in this world, the Blood Elf moved with simple, direct efficiency. She relied purely on explosive power and speed. But when she turned serious, the pressure Constantine faced was a world away from that night days ago. Her strikes were merciless, precise, and lethal. A wooden blade could still cause real damage if landed properly!

“Don’t celebrate yet. Nothing’s ever certain!” Constantine chuckled, unfazed. A Sorcerer losing to a Rogue in combat skill wasn’t shameful. Besides, this spar wasn’t about that for him.

He shook his wooden sword, then extended a hand, beginning to chant strange Runes.

But the Elf gave him no chance for spell-casting. Twenty feet seemed just like air to her. Almost as soon as the boy raised his hand, she vanished from her spot, reappearing from another direction, lunging at his flank!

With her target now so close, the Blood Elf twisted her arm, the wooden blade swinging towards the nape of his neck. This blow wouldn’t sever a head, but it could knock the annoying brat out cold for the whole afternoon – a fair price for having this baffling Curse planted. She smirked coldly inside.

Suddenly, the Blood Elf felt her foot snag. Something seemed to bind her! For a speed-based fighter, even the slightest coordination stumble could be disastrous. The strike aimed at Constantine’s neck flailed short by a foot, passing harmlessly before him. A mere breeze rustled the boy’s pale grey hair.

“What… kind of trick is this?” the Blood Elf muttered, stunned. Constantine had only uttered three syllables! No spell she knew could activate this fast! Gritting her teeth, she tried retreating to regroup, but that horrible dragging sensation persisted. Pushing herself back, every movement felt slower than an old man’s shuffle. She could only watch as the boy’s wooden sword swung towards her graceful neck.

“So? Another try?” The boy turned slowly, flashing a cheeky grin.

…

What was that saying?

“Faith is good. But always remember, overconfidence is a bottomless grave, ready to bury any great man or sage?”

That advice from the Old Steward a few days ago now etched itself deeply in Constantine’s mind—the cost was a big bump on the back of his head.

“This ability seems to slow your opponent, triggered just by your gesture… But the speed reduction likely connects to your own power. She isn’t particularly powerful, so it worked well then. Also, it doesn’t always succeed. And if it fails once, the opponent escapes its hold forever,” the Lich’s voice murmured near the boy’s ear. To Constantine, its slow pace felt tinged with mockery.

“Damn it! What use is being wise after the event?” Constantine groaned helplessly.

He’d turned the nimble Nightingale into a snail twice. But on the third try, Miss Nirwen broke free. Unprepared, Constantine instinctively ducked but couldn’t evade the swift strike entirely! Then he found he couldn’t bind her with the Feat anymore. Frustrated, he cut the spar short, tossing the brooch to the delighted Blood Elf.

“Your strength… seems to have much room for growth, Young Master Constantine.”

A deep voice spoke from behind them. It made the happy Blood Elf whirl around!

The boy turned and saw a figure in polished black Full Plate Armor standing not far off. The late autumn sunlight seemed unable to penetrate the Darkness surrounding him… Only Constantine’s magically enhanced gaze could make out the pair of deep red pupils within the helm’s slit.

Constantine touched his nose, masking his shock. He recognized him as the leader of Scorite’s squad, the three Griffon Knights. He recalled an introduction, a long, strange name he hadn’t remembered.

He hadn’t even sensed the man… Crucially, neither had the famously keen-eared Blood Elf! And he was clad in thick metal Armor! How had he moved so silently?

“I notice you favor a Drow Scimitar. Even holding a longsword, you swing and chop more than thrust… Have you trained in such weapons?” The Griffon Knight seemed oblivious to their surprise and continued.

“Ah… That? I studied orthodox Foil combat. The Scimitar… I just bought it recently and used it casually… Though it feels comfortable. So my style shifted a bit lately,” Constantine scratched his head. He couldn’t say his past life held more blade knowledge than swordcraft, could he?

“Casually? You achieve this level just casually?” Surprise tinged the Knight’s voice. Striding closer, he added, “Young Master Constantine, if you wouldn’t mind… Could we have a little spar?”

Constantine happily agreed. A Griffon Knight might lack grand fame – but they were elites forged in blood. Guidance from such a fighter promised great improvement… Though he knew risks like the street fight days ago likely wouldn’t recur, the saying went: many skills never weighed heavy, right?

“Not drawing?” The Knight eyed Constantine’s Scimitar, hidden red eyes seeming to flicker. His tone held an unreadable note.

“Right…” Constantine settled slowly into his stance. He sheathed the blade, sank into a low horse posture. His left hand gripped the scabbard, his right hovered loose on the hilt, eyes locked on the Knight. His form looked convincing. This fighting art, inherited from overseas and tested by time, offered a potent offensive method.

“A stance brimming with presence… Suited for instant release. It relaxes the body massively, concentrating force into one point… A form developed for the Scimitar’s nature?” The Knight lifted his own long blade, slicing the air with a whistling sound, assuming a power-gathering pose. “But however thunderous that single blow may be, follow-up attacks will surely falter.”

“Actually, this form suits your long blade better. Gather every scrap of force for that first strike. Aim for one decisive kill,” Constantine answered. He didn’t expect this stance to defeat the Knight. Looks were deceiving; his unpracticed execution felt crude and clumsy. Strength and speed? He lagged far behind the Knight. More crucially, tactical insight and experience…

Not even true masters from memory would likely triumph easily here, let alone a half-baked fighter like him? “You’re right. It discounts a second move. There isn’t one. But its speed and power often leave foes utterly unable to guard… So please be careful.”

Against such a foe, balanced attack and defense felt pointless.

“Then begin,” declared the Griffon Knight. He merely flicked his long sword. Still sheathed, yet it seemed sufficient.

Constantine acknowledged. The next instant, his Scimitar grated from its sheath in a hoarse shriek! Accompanying the ugly screech, it lunged like a gale at the Knight’s chest!

The Knight made a surprised noise, leaning back a fraction. The boy’s full-power strike merely grazed his chestplate, showering sparks! Simultaneously, the Knight tapped Constantine’s knee with the back of his own blade.

The brief clash rendered further fighting needless. Constantine retrieved his blade, breathing heavily. That one slash brought him the sensation of total focus, the ultimate single strike. Clearly, his body couldn’t yet unleash enough speed to outpace the Knight — that Armor was daunting, the Scimitar incapable of piercing it. Even unprotected, his thrust likely wouldn’t have landed!

“No need to continue, Young Master Constantine… Your strength, speed, eyesight, and reflexes are passable. Technique? … But perhaps it’s good you’re unbound by crude rules. One day, you might surpass all expectations…” The Knight mused. “If you’re interested… I could offer some training.”

Their talk halted abruptly. Constantine noticed the Old Steward Walter approaching alongside his younger brother.

“Young Master Constantine, I hope we haven’t disturbed your training…”

The old man bowed slightly, his face holding a pleased smile. Constantine’s lips instinctively curved upward too… Any progress of his genuinely delighted the man who’d known him since childhood, however tiny. It was comforting.

His younger brother, by contrast, wore a sour expression… The little lord remained clad immaculate white Hunting Attire. Face blank, yet his darting eyes betrayed distinct displeasure at seeing Constantine engaged with the Griffon Knight…

“Please see this… The Minister of Internal Affairs, Marquis Paul, invites you to his birthday celebration. Tonight.”

The Old Steward produced an invitation—though Constantine hadn’t seen such a thing in this life, he recognized it resembling memories. Made of fine, supple goatskin wrapping its cover, its elaborate, perfect script declared its importance.

“Huh? Why would Father…?” The boy frowned. He lacked experience with noble celebrations. Such events, dubbed “banquets,” were pure political circles.

“A bit later, His Lordship and I must journey to the Ministry of Defense. Topics of next year’s Western Frontier provisions and logistical support await… Likely delaying our return. His physical presence at such an invitation isn’t demanded; yourself and Young Master Consens suffice as representatives…” The Steward explained. After a pause, he quietly added, “Marquis Paul holds middling status. Tonight’s attendees won’t be particularly lofty company. A perfect setting to get accustomed to such environments. Facing considerably larger gatherings likely awaits you soon. Thus, early acclimation proves beneficial.”

“Alright…” Constantine’s gaze swept over Consens’s faint, scornful smile. He nodded.