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Chapter 6 – Time Passes

— *Training in the dust is over, Lycon* — said Cassian, holding out the flask toward me while his gaze turned solemn. — *Take the conductive ink. It is time to find out if your first mana blade will exist only on paper... or if you really have what it takes to cut the air.*

My heart was beating at a rapid, almost painful pace while I held the flask of conductive ink he gave me. With a light hand and bated breath, I passed the tip of the brush with extreme care over the relief I had carved myself with the stick moments earlier. Thanks to this groove in the gravel, I had no trouble with the magic circle's distortion; the perfect geometry was already traced there, waiting to come to life.

Inside, a wave of almost childlike joy bubbled in my chest, the euphoria of seeing the project finally taking shape exactly as I had imagined. But immediately afterward, my stomach plunged into a cold knot of anxiety. The trace looked perfect, but uncertainty gnawed at my thoughts: what if all that effort turned out to be nothing more than an illusion? What if the ink didn't conduct energy as it should? I was about to find out if my effort would succeed or if everything would explode right next to me.

Silas stood by my side, maintaining his usual formal, upright posture, but his eyes fixed on the engraved circle betrayed the genuine astonishment he tried to contain, mixed with a curiosity that made his fingers twitch slightly against the folds of his tunic.

Before I could sit down to activate the circle, Cassian warned me: — *The activation of this circuit will be my responsibility, for your protection. Since you have not yet learned to meter the flow of energy, and your circle does not do this on its own, trying to activate it would drain the necessary mana instantly. In the process, the shock of the flow would certainly cost you your hand.*

I stood up immediately, shrinking the hand that was about to touch the other end of the square: — *Good thing you warned me! But jeez... I wanted to activate it myself.* — A mix of relief and indignation welled up inside me as I stepped back close to Silas.

As soon as everyone stepped back, he began to concentrate. Even without touching it, the square was turning bluish, the exact same tone as when I had charged it earlier in the cleansing circle. I was waiting curiously for the square to fully charge.

In moments, the square was completely bright blue, so bright that it looked like it was about to explode. However, it kept shining brighter and brighter, until it reached a point where it looked like it would actually blow up. That was when I screamed in my mind:

— *NOW!!!* —

All the energy quickly passed through the line I connected to the terminal, where it condensed into an extremely thin blade of pure mana that cut the air for a few seconds before dissipating. I jumped with joy for making it work, while Silas was surprised that a circle could create something like that.

— *A remarkable execution. The absence of Frequency Nodes allowed the In-Line Terminal to operate at its maximum compression capacity, generating a clean blade without affecting the magic circle.* — Said Cassian, after carefully analyzing the in-line terminal and realizing that the circle had worked without any obvious problem.

Although he was about to say something, my professor probably didn't want to ruin the celebratory mood, seeing as he only said: — *Save your enthusiasm for the day you are capable of channeling this very same charge with your own body without losing control.*

— *I'm glad to have a professor like this — if it were the monk I'd already be doing calisthenics or something just to ruin everything.* — I thought.

Then Cassian turned his gaze to Silas, taking a step toward him.

---

— *Remember this lesson, Silas: willpower can shape magic, but it is the engineering of circles that optimizes it.*

And with that, he gave us 30 minutes to rest before I continued with the leaf levitation exercise.

Those 30 minutes of rest were the best thing I had seen in a long time. I managed to rest without being sore, and on top of that with the lingering taste of victory from the mana blade.

Once the thirty minutes of rest had passed, returning to spellcasting without an arcane circle felt more like a test of patience than of power. I stared at that dry leaf on the ground with such intensity that my eyes began to burn. Without the geometric structure to organize the energy for me, trying to make the piece of matter rise using just "willpower," as Silas used to say, felt extremely annoying. I strained my mind with everything I had until I felt an uncomfortable pressure at the top of my head and my eyelids twitched from the effort. The leaf even gave a few jolts on the gravel, but soon flew off out of control to the side or crashed headfirst into the stone, making it clear how much I struggled to guide something so simple.

I realized that trying to squeeze my brain like a lemon would only bring me a migraine and solve nothing. I took a deep breath, dropped my shoulders, and closed my eyes for three seconds to banish the impatience, trying not to let anger take over. When I opened my eyes, instead of throwing an invisible punch of mana, I maintained steady, desperate-free attention. The dry leaf finally began to rise at a snail's pace; it hesitated in the air for a moment, but stabilized and floated in a straight line until it landed gently in my open hand. I smiled in relief to see that it had worked. My head was a little heavy from mental fatigue, but compared to the physical martyrdom and muscle aches of Alistair's push-ups, that training was infinitely more bearable.

— *Much better. You have finally understood that squeezing the mind like someone carrying a burden of stones does not produce magic, only a migraine. Now that you have proven capable of conducting a simple element with a minimum of composure, we will consider arcane practice concluded for today.* — Decreed my professor.

— *Yay, after this headache I'll finally be able to rest!* — That was what I thought, until I noticed a look of contempt for something, but he didn't want to tell me.

I tried to remember what could cause that look of contempt that was bothering me so much, until I remembered that annoying conversation with Silas: — *Master Cassian disapproves of a slumped posture, even after grueling chores.* —

I adjusted my posture immediately, keeping it as if I were at a dinner with my mother. Right after, he let out a sigh before saying: — *However, the mind is not the only thing that demands discipline. Look at how you were sitting on the stone floor: collapsed shoulders and a spine curved like that of a tired servant. A nobleman's elegance must be maintained even after exertion. Get up, we will immediately begin your posture and etiquette training.*

I got up and we headed to the hall where we all had lunch in the castle—*Although typically this only happens on special occasions*—It was missing the chairs, leaving only the large table, which probably wasn't removed because it would be too complicated.

My mother had already taught me the basics of table manners—not chewing with my mouth open, using the correct fork, and not spilling soup on my tunic—so I naively thought passing this class with flying colors would be easy. I couldn't have been more wrong. To Cassian, noble etiquette had nothing to do with eating properly; it was an absurd web of tiny rules that seemed to have been invented just to complicate everyone's life.

My professor stopped at the doorway, and as soon as we were in the middle of the hall, he said:

— *What I will teach now is court diplomacy and state protocol. Your posture and your greeting communicate the weight of your house even before you open your mouth. Start by walking toward me.*

I thought it was just walking. I took three normal steps across the patio, but didn't even get close to him.

— *Stop. Absolutely lamentable* — interrupted Cassian, frowning as if I were stepping on grapes to make wine. — *Your torso sways sideways, your left knee bends more than your right, and your right arm swung more than your left. You are not marching in the mud with Lord Alistair, Lycon. A nobleman glides across the hall.*

I tried again. I locked my arms by my sides, kept my spine rigid, and took short steps.

— *Now you look like a marionette with broken strings* — He almost let out a background laugh, sighing at the irony of me going to one extreme, him complaining and asking for the ideal, and receiving the other extreme instead. — *Align your chin parallel to the ground. Increase your stride by half a palm. And wipe that expression of suffering off your face. Neutrality is your only armor in a ballroom.*

We spent 30 minutes repeating the "ideal walk" until he seemed satisfied. But to my misfortune, the etiquette training was not yet over.

— *Let us move on to court protocol* — announced Cassian, indicating Silas with a subtle hand gesture. Silas was standing a few steps away, impassive like a marble statue. — *Silas will play the role of a Count from a neighboring province. You are a Baron's son. How do you greet him?*

— *Do I say good morning and bow?* — I ventured.

— *However, how do you bow?* — asked Cassian.

I was trying to come up with an answer, stuttering whenever anything tried to come out, until he interrupted, visibly irritated: — *For a Count, your bow must originate from the torso, but without breaking the line of your neck. Your chest descends just enough to show respect, keeping your gaze firm on his chest line. If you lower your head too much, you will look like a servant begging for mercy. If you bow only your neck, you will be treating a higher-ranking noble as if he were an equal, which is a diplomatic affront.*

— *These nobles think too much of themselves! Dropping your head a little deeper is a declaration of war?!* — I thought, horrified by the absurdity of it. — *How on earth could he tell if my chest dropped a palm lower than it should have?! That man's eye was absurdly sharp!* —

We spent about an hour training diplomatic bows, before I spent another 30 minutes trying to consolidate everything I had learned.

When the class finally ended, around twelve-thirty, my arms and legs weren't aching like in the workouts with Alistair, but my mind was so cold and bored that thirty push-ups seemed almost attractive, even though as soon as I thought that, my mind backed away instantly.

My official routine had turned into an inflexible three-day cycle, each with its own type of ordeal:

The first day was Alistair's hunting ground. To make up for the time he couldn't touch me, the monk made a point of compressing a full week's worth of physical strain into a few hours under the sun. He drove me to the absolute limit, charging every push-up, gravel run, and sit-up with a relentless rigidity, almost as if discharging the frustration of having lost ground to Master Cassian. I finished those days with a battered body, a tunic covered in dust, and muscles burning with pain.

The second day continued under Alistair's tutelage, but the martyrdom changed shape. Instead of exhausting my physique, he turned his claws on my brain through the lessons of the Quadrivium. They were endless hours of arithmetic, logic, grammar, and astronomical questions. Although it was a tiring intellectual drain, it was at least the day when my arms and legs got a breather to recover from the previous day's massacre.

Finally, the third day was the true reward of the cycle—or almost that. Dedicated entirely to Master Cassian, it was when I could pore over arcane theory, draw circuits on the floor, and feel magic come to life. Seeing mana respond to my reasoning made all the effort worthwhile. The only thorn in my side was the second half of that same journey: as soon as spellcasting gave way to etiquette classes, I traded arcane excitement for the agony of diplomatic boredom.

After the first year of this martyrdom, the cook forgave me for the sewage trap I had made long ago, finally putting pie slices in my breakfast. I didn't know if Master Cassian had pulled any strings for this, but I thanked him from the bottom of my heart for being able to eat the pie I liked so much.

With that, another 5 years passed.

Totaling 6 years of training with the two mentors, I was already 12 years old, and my training with Alistair had turned my muscles into true steel armor; I could compete in arm wrestling with someone 15 to 16 years old, typically army recruits, and win the match. However, my wrist would ache for a while whenever I tried.

Training with Master Cassian had also yielded results. I could easily move about 30 scrolls with magic circles using just my mana. Although I had difficulty remembering exact combinations of existing spells, I had already learned all the logic of the circles he had taught me.

At twelve years old, the routine was suddenly broken when my father, Horus, called me to lunch a few days after my birthday. When the family gathered around the large table in the hall, it meant only one thing: a matter of extreme importance was about to be discussed.

I crossed the carved oak doors and was met with the whole scene already set up. My father, Lord Horus, was leaning back in his chair with a relaxed yet upright posture, spinning his goblet between his fingers with the lightness of someone who didn't seem to care about the hall's strict etiquette. Beside him, my mother, Lady Isis, was the perfect opposite: impeccably upright, shoulders aligned, and maintaining that formal, elegant composure in any situation.

On the other side of the table, my two mentors of the past six years completed the gathering. Master Cassian was adjusting the folds of his refined tunic with his usual flawless posture, while Alistair remained seated like a block of carved stone—firm, hard, and silent.

Seeing the monk and the sorcerer sharing the same table, glaring at each other with that icy respect they had developed throughout my training, made my stomach knot. I had just turned twelve years old, and that lunch in the hall clearly wasn't to celebrate another slice of the cook's pie.

I pulled my chair out and sat down under everyone's gaze. My father gave a slight smile, adjusted himself in his chair with a nonchalant air, and looked straight at me, ready to break the silence.

— *Son...* — He began, trying to rest his shoulders on the table, but getting cut off by my mother's glare — *You've turned 12. By the kingdom's traditions, you need to be presented to the nobility. We came here to discuss this.* —

I just gave a positive nod with my head before my father continued: — *A week from now, the Festival of the First Gleam will take place. It's a festival where you will present yourself to the noble houses. And especially to the Ladies—*

— *Husband?* — She interrupted.

— *Okay, okay, but you don't want him to find a suitor already?!* — I heard my father whispering in her ear. For a moment my mind stopped, unable to process the information I had received, with my mind, for some reason, blushing a little.

My father gave a loud throat-clearing and then continued: — *Anyway, this will demand a lot from your etiquette so as not to stain our reputation, but...* — Then he gave a sigh, easing his throat a bit raspy from the clearings, swallowing some saliva — *I think you'll like this. Besides the presentation ball, there will be a grand tournament with various forms of competition—we need you to choose at least 3 of them.*

For me, this was a big surprise. Even so, I responded calmly, as I was still trying to comprehend the situation:

— *Well... So you want me to participate in a tournament, is that it? What do I need to do?* —

My father was going to try to say something, but Isis interrupted him with a subtle yet categorical gesture of her hand, taking control of the table with her natural presence. She adjusted her posture with flawless elegance and fixed her severe eyes on me, slightly adjusting the collar of her dress before taking the floor.

— *Let me take over from here, Horus. Stop filling the boy's head with frivolities before time* — she said, cutting off her husband's side conversation with a melodious yet razor-sharp tone. Then she turned back to me, maintaining her flawless posture. — *This is about your reputation and, above all, the honor of House Horus. At the Festival of the First Gleam, the tournament is divided into six distinct modalities, held over three days—two per day. We demand that you choose at least three, and I expect you to choose those in which you will not shame us.*

She made a surgical pause, resting her hands delicately on her lap, and began to list:

— *The first is the Magic Tournament. Where you will duel against other young nobles. Each participant is equipped with an amulet that generates a magic shield. Whoever has their barrier broken first loses the duel. A perfect opportunity for you to demonstrate the discipline of your new master, without resorting to... deplorable methods.*

She took a small sip of water and continued with an aristocratic nod:

— *The second is the Chess Tournament, the ultimate art of civilized strategy. You will face other young masters in formal matches. It is the ideal environment to prove you possess an analytical and mature mind. I believe you have already played with Cassian or Alistair, haven't you?*

The monk, who had been rigid as a stone, broke his rigidity and gave a simple nod with his head. As soon as my father saw the confirmation, he commented: — *I'd like to test him later, it'll be fun.*

As soon as my mother saw that the conversations had stopped, she leaned forward slightly, watching my movements intently:

— *The third modality is the Fencing Tournament. A traditional competition of chivalry and precision, where whoever demonstrates the best technique in combat wins. There will be trained judges observing every millimeter of the fight, so vulgar attitudes or any distasteful trickery will result in summary disqualification. Magic, obviously, is strictly prohibited.*

She smoothed an invisible fold on the table and continued, with a slight raise of her eyebrow:

— *The fourth is The Great Harvest. It is a test of intelligence, perception, and agility in an open environment. Symbolic treasures have been scattered around the event region, and participants must find them. Whoever gathers the largest amount of them by the end of the time wins. Obviously, it is expected that you will find them by your own merit, without cheating, without extorting other competitors, and without causing scandals.*

She made a brief pause, staring at me firmly:

— *There are two more, do you want me to explain them?*

— *No... No need.* — I replied, adjusting myself to a better position so my mother wouldn't scold me — *I think I'll want the magic tournament, the chess tournament, and the Great Harvest tournament...* — I turned to Cassian before continuing my answer — *but I don't have confidence that I'll do well in the magic tournament if I have to compete with people like Silas right from the start.* —

As soon as I finished speaking, my father replied with a scoffing sigh: — *Silas is a prodigy at spellcasting!* — He exclaimed, and my mother's eyes, which had been fixed on me before, began to glare daggers at him — *Although there are people like that in the nobility, I think you can at least get third place* — He probed around, looking mainly at where Alistair and Cassian were — *After all, we didn't pay them so dearly for nothing, right?*

As soon as the words left my father's mouth, the air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. Lady Isis placed her silver cutlery on her plate without making the slightest noise. She slowly turned her face toward my father, piercing him with an icy and cutting glare.

— *Horus* — she called, in a measured voice, but sharp as a blade. — *It is in atrocious bad taste to mock your own son at the table to exalt someone else's talent. Keep your chuckles to yourself.*

My father immediately shut his mouth, adjusting his posture in the chair and clearing his throat, visibly uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

Then Isis turned her attentive eyes back to me, maintaining her flawless posture.

— *And as for you, Lycon... Silas is a commoner, so he won't even set foot in that arena. There is no reason to fear him in this competition. And even if you faced nobles of great talent, I do not want to hear whining about 'not having confidence'. Defeating mediocre opponents brings no glory whatsoever to our House. We provided you with the best training with the monk Alistair and master Cassian precisely for this moment. Do not accept a mediocre third place. If you chose the Magic Tournament, you will enter to give your absolute best. Was I clear?*

— *I understood... But what about the others...* — I tried to say, but my mother quickly cut me off.

— *Was I not clear the last time?* — her firm voice echoed throughout the hall, but it didn't sound loud, rather as if an invisible commandment were resting on my shoulders. With such pressure, I couldn't utter another peep.

After the conversation, we all went to eat. The atmosphere was extremely heavy, and to make matters worse, a sudden downpour hit the castle, sealing the bitterness of the environment even further. Now I have a pickle on my hands: I have to get first place in all three championships... I don't even want to imagine what will happen if I don't get first in any of them.