Gamble King Chapter 23. Ambidextrous

Gregory led Max past the practice dummies, past the archery targets, to a section of the training yard that looked like it had been designed by someone who took violence very seriously.

Weapon racks lined the area—swords of various lengths and weights, maces, hammers, axes, spears, and things Max couldn't immediately identify but that looked designed for the specific purpose of ruining someone's day. The ground was packed earth, worn smooth by countless hours of people learning to hurt each other efficiently.

"Tell me about your understanding of Fanga," Gregory said, stopping near a rack of practice swords.

Max blinked. "My... understanding?"

"How it works. What you know of its formation, its stages, its risks."

The question caught Max completely off guard. In Sabo's story, the magic and power systems had never been properly explained. The story had begun with Bjorn already possessing Fanga, already knowing basic magic he'd learned from his grandmother.

The mechanics, the training, the actual process of development—none of it had ever been detailed. Sabo had treated these abilities like background elements, assumed knowledge that readers should simply accept.

"I..." Max searched for something intelligent to say. "I know it makes you stronger?"

Gregory's expression suggested this was roughly equivalent to saying water was wet.

"I see." The knight studied Max for a long moment. "You're a special case, Harek. Most young men begin their path to knighthood as squires, bound to a knight at twelve years of age. Proper Fanga development takes years. Many years."

Max felt a growing sense of unease. "Years?"

"The first stage of squireship is Companion," Gregory continued. "A boy bound to a knight, but not yet on the true path to knighthood. He learns discipline, watches combat, tends to weapons and armor. Most remain at this level their entire service—they never develop Fanga at all."

The knight gestured toward the training yard, where several young men were practicing with wooden swords under another instructor's supervision.

"Those who show promise advance to Apprentice-at-Arms. That's where you are and when the real forging begins—daily conditioning that breaks down the body so it can be rebuilt stronger. Climbing, lifting, striking, running, fasting. Mental discipline as well—meditation, breath control, exercises to sharpen the mind like a blade."

Max watched the squires training, noting their lean, hardened builds... Show off.

"This conditioning continues for years," Gregory said. "Two years at least, often six or more. The body must be prepared, the spirit tempered. Only when a knight deems his squire 'ready in body and spirit' does the next phase begin."

"Which is?"

"The Tonic." Gregory's tone grew more serious. "A brew of rare beast marrow, fire-root, silverleaf, and oils blessed by mages. Given in careful doses over many months. Too much, too quickly, and the squire dies. His insides tear apart, they say. The body destroys itself from within."

Max's throat went dry. "And this is... necessary?"

"For proper Fanga development, yes. The Tonic prepares the flesh for what comes next—the formation of the second heart." Gregory touched his chest, just above his heart. "Fanga forms here, around the true heart, like a brother organ. When awakened, it sends strength through the blood, hardening muscle, bone, and sinew."

"Around the heart, huh?"

"Think of it as a second heart, one that pumps power instead of blood. When you run, it flows to your legs. When you strike, it surges into your arms. But like any heart, it can burst from strain. Push too hard, and it stops—taking your true heart with it."

"What do you mean, stops?"

"Death," Gregory said simply. "Fanga collapse. The power floods the body faster than flesh can handle it. Heart failure follows within moments." He paused, studying Max's face. "I've seen it happen. Young knights who thought themselves invincible, pushing their cores beyond safe limits. They die coughing blood, their bodies unable to handle the competing pressures."

How inconvenient.

It might've scared Max, if he didn’t have rerolls.

"The stages of development reflect this reality," Gregory continued. "Let me show you what proper mastery looks like."

Gregory stepped back and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, white energy began to flow around his body like visible mist. But this wasn't the raw, chaotic energy Max had felt when he used his Fanga. This was controlled, refined, moving in steady currents around Gregory's form.

Then steam began rising from Gregory's skin—thin wisps at first, then thicker clouds that made him appear as though he stood in a forge. The sight was striking, almost otherworldly, like something from the old tales.

"Our ancestors have categorized Fanga in six stages of mastery. This is the Knighted stage," Gregory said, his voice carrying easily despite the power radiating from him. "The fifth stage of Fanga development. See the steam—excess energy escaping through the skin in controlled release. The white aura—power flowing in proper channels rather than wild torrents."

Max stared, fascinated and somewhat intimidated.

"The stages progress like this," Gregory continued, the steam continuing to rise from his skin. " First comes Initiate—when the second heart first awakens. This is where you began, Harek, without any of the preparation that should come before. After that, comes Flickering, unstable energy that barely shows itself."

Gregory demonstrated, dimming his aura until only faint wisps of white energy were visible around his hands.

"Trained—when a squire learns to call upon it at will." The energy brightened, flowing more steadily but still somewhat erratic. "The energy becomes visible, but control remains limited. The body suffers greatly from its use."

"Then comes Tempered—the fourth stage." The energy stabilized further, moving in organized patterns. "Bones like iron, joints strong as good steel. True command begins. The energy flows steady, though steam rarely appears except during great strain."

Finally, Gregory returned to his full demonstration.

"And Knighted—what you see now. I can maintain this for hours if necessary. The steam shows my body's mastery over the energy, releasing excess before it can cause harm."

He powered down gradually, the steam fading and the white energy dimming until he looked like an ordinary man again.

"There's one stage beyond," Gregory added quietly. "Unbound. Rarer than dragon's teeth. At that level, Fanga affects not just the wielder but everything around him. Nearby enemies feel the weight of it, the very air grows heavy with dread." His expression grew distant. "I've seen it three times in my life. It's... unsettling to witness."

Max tried to process all of this. "So when I use my Fanga..."

"You jumped straight to something like the Initiate stage without foundation," Gregory said.

"But I haven't died," Max pointed out.

"No, and that speaks to uncommon strength of body and will. But each time you've called upon your Fanga heavily, you've courted death. It is why I asked you to train without it so far." Gregory's expression was grave. "That you still breathe is either the gods' favor or exceptional constitution. Perhaps both."

It would have been nice to tell me that before, bro. Thought Max.

"When you awakened your energy this morning," Gregory continued, "I could see you wielding high Initiate power, perhaps touching the edges of Flickering. That's remarkable for someone with no proper conditioning. It's also dangerous beyond measure."

"Dangerous how?"

"Your body doesn't know how to govern the energy properly. You use Fanga like a berserker—all fury, no skill. In a long battle, your heart would give out long before your enemy's."

Gregory moved to the weapon rack, selecting a particularly nasty-looking sword.

"The work you've been doing—the farm labor, the physical training—has likely saved your life many times over. Your strengthened heart, the muscle you've built, the mental discipline—all of it helps your body bear Fanga's burden."

"So I'm getting better at it?"

"Your foundation improves, yes. But you're still wielding a system you don't understand." Gregory hefted the sword, testing its balance. "Which brings us to why we're here. Combat training isn't just about swordwork—it's about learning to use your Fanga with wisdom, not waste. Squander your energy, and you die. Overreach, and you die. Lose your head to panic, and you most certainly die."

Max swallowed hard.

"Now," Gregory said, "tell me about your fighting experience."

Max considered this. "You mean besides the wolf thing? And the Eastwatch thing?"

"I mean training. Formal instruction. What you're comfortable with."

"Honestly? Nothing formal. I can shoot a bow pretty well, obviously. But close-range fighting..." Max shrugged. "I've been in a few scraps, but mostly just swinging and hoping for the best."

"Hmm." Gregory put down the previous sword and selected a practice one from the rack—a simple straight blade, maybe three feet long, designed for someone learning the basics. He held it out to Max, hilt first.

"Show me."

"Show you what?"

"If you were to swing this sword at an opponent, how would you do it?"

Max took the sword. It felt heavier than he'd expected, but the weight was still manageable. He lifted it, testing the balance.

"Like this, I guess."

He swung the blade in what felt like a natural arc—a diagonal slash that would have caught an imaginary opponent across the chest.

Gregory watched this display with the expression of someone observing a particularly awkward dance.

"Again," he said. "But this time, imagine I'm your enemy. Attack me."

Max hesitated. "You sure about that?"

"I'm certain I can avoid being seriously injured by your current technique."

Well. That was encouraging.

Max raised the sword and swung again, this time aiming for Gregory's shoulder. The knight sidestepped the attack so casually that Max felt like he was moving in slow motion.

"Your stance is wrong," Gregory observed. "Your grip is wrong. Your balance is wrong. Your timing is predictable." He paused. "Other than that, not terrible."

"Thanks for the confidence boost."

"Confidence without competence gets you killed." Gregory moved to the weapon rack and selected a different sword—something shorter, more like a large knife. "Try this."

The smaller blade felt more natural in Max's hand, though he couldn't say why. When Gregory gestured for him to attack again, the movement felt less clumsy.

"Better," Gregory said, dodging easily. "But still fundamentally flawed."

They spent the next twenty minutes or so working through different weapons. A longer sword that made Max feel like he was trying to fence with a tree branch. A mace that seemed designed for people who preferred their violence blunt and decisive. A spear that had Max nearly tripping over his own feet.

"The problem," Gregory said, watching Max struggle with a particularly unwieldy two-handed sword, "is that you're thinking like an archer."

"Meaning?"

"You're used to fighting at distance. Calculating angles, predicting movement, taking time to aim." Gregory gestured for Max to put down the sword. "Close combat is different. It's instinct, reaction, muscle memory. There's no time to think."

Max set the weapon back on the rack. "So why is close combat necessary? I mean, if I'm good with a bow..."

"Because arrows run out. Bowstrings break. Enemies get past your range." Gregory's tone suggested this should be obvious. "A knight who can only fight at distance is a knight who dies the moment someone gets within arm's reach."

"Fair point."

"More than that—close combat is what separates a soldier from a warrior. It takes years to master swordwork, to read an opponent's movements, to react faster than thought." Gregory studied Max's face. "You have potential. Your reflexes are good, your balance is adequate. But you need to find a style that suits your instincts."

"And how do we do that?"

Instead of answering, Gregory moved to a different section of the weapon rack and returned with two identical practice swords—shorter blades, maybe two and a half feet long, balanced for speed rather than power.

"Hold these," he said, offering one in each hand.

Max took them, and something clicked. The weight felt... right. Natural. Like his hands had been waiting for exactly this configuration.

"Now attack me. Both blades."

Max didn't think about it. He just moved.

The attack was still clumsy, still predictable, but there was something different about it. A fluidity that hadn't been there before. His left hand moved independently from his right, creating a pattern of strikes that felt instinctive.

Gregory blocked both blades easily, but his expression had changed.

"Interesting," he said. "Again."

This time Max tried a different approach—a high strike with his right hand while his left swept low. Gregory parried both attacks, but Max noticed the knight had to work slightly harder to do it.

"You're ambidextrous," Gregory observed.

"Huh?" Max lowered the swords. "Yeah, I guess."

Even in his past life, he'd been like that. Could write with either hand, throw a ball with either arm, kick a football ball (The real football, not that egg shaped thing) with either foot. It had never seemed particularly remarkable—just one of those things about himself he'd taken for granted.

But Gregory was looking at him differently for the first time since they'd started training.

"That," Gregory said slowly, "changes everything."

Max waited for elaboration, but Gregory had gone quiet, studying him.

"Is that... good?" Max asked finally.

"It's rare," Gregory said. "Most who claim they can do it are simply mediocre with both instead of skilled with one." He paused, considering. "It's also a bit funny that another person is gaining a name for themselves in Valdris and is known to be ambidextrous as well."

Max's attention sharpened. "Another person?"

"I don't know him personally. Some young man making waves in the capital. Word is he's being considered as the next Hero."

Oh.

Hero. Capital H.

That meant the Nine Realms were finally moving to fill the void Bjorn had left seven years ago. The process of choosing a Hero wasn't simple—it required unanimous agreement from all Nine great houses of Hommenor, a political nightmare that had kept the position empty despite the growing Shard threat.

The tradition reached back to the kingdom's founding, when Iskandar Klark I had forced the kingdoms of men to kneel through sheer, overwhelming power.

When his campaigns ended, nine great kingdoms remained: the North, Valdris, Astoria, Drakmoor, Norvaine, Sylmere, Kalthen, Viremont, and Evrador. Their former kings becoming High Lords under Iskandar's banner as High King and Hero of the kingdom of Hommenor.

Hommenor, "The Land of Men" in some ancient, forgotten tongue spoken by the first humans—the birthplace of all mankind. It was also the same name as the continent that housed it.

Max knew all this because it had been the opening monologue of Sabo's very first chapter, those sweeping words that had introduced him to this world fourteen years ago.

As such, choosing a Hero was as much about politics as capability. Each house had to believe the candidate would represent their interests, or at least not actively work against them.

The Hero became the kingdom's face, the symbol of Hommenor's unity and justice. They assembled parties, led campaigns, became legends that inspired entire generations.

More importantly, they became independent.

Once chosen, a Hero answered to no single house, gained access to resources from all Nine realms, and could make decisions that shaped the kingdom's future. It was why the selection process was so contentious—you were essentially creating someone who could ignore your authority. In Hommenor's 1065 years of history, only six Heroes ever existed. The first was Iskandar, and the last was Bjorn.

So for Max, the political implications weren't what made his chest tighten.

Bjorn had been his hero for fourteen years. Fourteen years of reading about his adventures, his struggles, his victories. Fourteen years of following a character who felt more real than most actual people in Max's life. The barbarian who'd united Hommenor, who'd faced impossible odds, who'd represented everything heroic and noble about this world.

And now they were looking for his replacement.

It made Bjorn's death feel... final. Real in a way it hadn't before. When this world had just been a story, Bjorn's disappearance felt like it was just a plot point, a mystery that might eventually be resolved. But now, standing in the actual training yard where Bjorn might have once practiced, talking to people who'd known him, the reality was unavoidable.

Bjorn was gone. Actually gone.

Fourteen years of Max's life, invested in following that story, and it was over. Some new Hero would take his place, start fresh adventures, become the symbol that Bjorn had been. It felt like watching someone else move into a house where your best friend used to live.

Suddenly, Max realized he felt territorial about it in a way that didn't make sense.

"Anyway," Gregory continued, apparently unaware of Max's internal crisis, "dual-blade fighting is complex. Difficult to master. But for someone with the right instincts..." He trailed off, still studying Max like he was solving a puzzle.

"But what?"

"But it's devastatingly effective. Most fighters train to face a single blade. They read patterns, anticipate strikes, develop counters for specific techniques." Gregory's expression was thoughtful. "Two independent weapons create patterns that are much harder to predict."

Max hefted the swords, feeling their weight, their balance. The conversation about fighting styles felt distant now, overshadowed by the realization that the world was moving on from the story he'd loved.

"So you're going to teach me to fight with both hands?"

"I'm going to determine if you're capable of learning," Gregory corrected. "Dual-blade technique requires precise coordination, split-second timing, the ability to think with both sides of your body simultaneously."

He stepped back, settling into a ready stance.

"Most importantly, it requires you to stop thinking like an archer and start thinking like someone who lives in the space between heartbeats."

Gregory raised his own practice sword.

"Let's see if you can do that."

They spent the next hour working through basic forms.

Gregory demonstrated simple strikes—overhead cuts, diagonal slashes, thrusts—and had Max repeat them until his movements stopped looking like he was trying to swat flies. It was tedious work, the kind of repetitive drilling that made Max understand why so many people gave up on learning martial arts.

"Your timing is off," Gregory observed, watching Max attempt a basic parry. "You're thinking about each movement instead of letting your body flow."

"Hard not to think when you're telling me everything I'm doing wrong."

"That's the point. Eventually, thinking becomes a liability." Gregory demonstrated the same parry, his movement smooth and economical. "In real combat, hesitation gets you killed."

Max tried again, this time attempting to mimic Gregory's fluidity. It felt awkward.

"Better," Gregory said. "Again."

They worked through defensive positions, basic footwork, the fundamental building blocks of swordplay. Max's muscles began to ache in new ways—not the deep burn of heavy lifting, but the fatigue of holding proper form for extended periods.

"Enough," Gregory said finally. "Your single-blade technique is acceptable for a beginner. Predictable, but not hopeless."

"Thanks for the ringing endorsement."

Gregory ignored the sarcasm and moved to the weapon rack. "Now let's see if my suspicion is correct." He returned with two short swords—curved, single-edged blades about two feet long, balanced for speed rather than power.

"Hold these," he said, offering one for each hand.

Max took them, and immediately felt the difference. The weight distribution was completely different from a single blade. His hands found natural grips, his stance shifted automatically to accommodate the dual weapons.

"Now," Gregory said, settling into his own ready position, "forget everything we just practiced. Don't think about form or technique. Just... attack me."

Max hesitated for maybe half a second, then moved.

It wasn't conscious thought that guided his actions. His right hand swept high while his left came up from below, creating a crossing pattern that felt instinctive. When Gregory blocked the high strike, Max's left blade was already there to capitalize on the opening.

Gregory had to step back, actually had to work to defend against the combination.

"Again," Gregory said, and there was something different in his voice now.

This time Max tried a different approach—both blades moving in parallel, then diverging at the last moment to attack from opposing angles. Gregory parried both strikes, but Max could see the increased effort it required.

His balance was better, his timing more intuitive. The awkwardness that had plagued his earlier attempts simply... wasn't there.

"Interesting," Gregory murmured, then raised his sword again. "Once more. This time, I'll actually try to hit you back."

The next exchange was faster, more complex. Gregory attacked with a diagonal cut that Max instinctively caught between both blades, then twisted to redirect the force while his right hand came around for a counter-strike. Gregory was 'forced' to disengage entirely, stepping well back to avoid the follow-up.

Max found himself grinning. For the first time since he'd started training, he wasn't fighting against his own instincts.

It felt pretty good.

"Well," Gregory said. "I believe we've found your style."

"It feels completely different," Max said, looking down at the two blades.

"Dual-blade fighting suits your natural instincts. Your body wants to move that way." Gregory lowered his sword. "Most people who attempt this style fail because they try to use two weapons like they're extensions of a single weapon. You understand intuitively that they're independent tools."

Max executed a few experimental movements, feeling how the blades wanted to flow together. "So what's next?"

"Now," Gregory said, "we see how you perform with Fanga enhancement."

He stepped back, giving Max room to work.

"Manifest your Fanga, then attack me as you did before. Let's discover what your body is truly capable of."

A stupid grin spread across Max's face before he could stop it. He actually giggled—a short, breathy sound that escaped despite his best efforts to look dignified.

This was it. This was what he'd dreamed about since he was twelve years old and first read about Fanga-enhanced combat. The reason he'd started taking martial arts classes, why he'd spent hours playing with action figures in his backyard, why he'd gotten into a dozen arguments with online forums about theoretical combat applications.

He was about to fight with actual Fanga enhancement.

"Something amusing?" Gregory asked dryly.

"No, just—" Max cleared his throat, trying to compose himself. "This is kind of a big deal for me."

"I can see that."

The energy flooded through him with that familiar rush.

Max was still grinning like an idiot, and looked at Gregory, who stood ready with his single practice sword, expression somewhere between patient and mildly concerned.

The dual blades felt weightless in Max's enhanced grip. His muscles tonified then slightly hypertrophied. His heart started beating faster. His breathing arythmic.

Max moved.

The first strike came faster than anything he'd attempted before—his right blade cutting through the air with a sound like tearing silk. The force behind it was tremendous, far beyond what his unenhanced body could generate.

Gregory sidestepped the attack entirely, the blade passing close enough to ruffle his shirt.

Max's left hand followed immediately, sweeping upward in a diagonal arc that would have taken Gregory's head off. Again, the knight simply wasn't there when the blade arrived, having shifted backward just enough to let the steel whistle past.

"Whoa!"

The momentum of his own strikes pulled Max forward, threatening his balance. The sheer power behind each swing was intoxicating—he could feel the air displacement, hear the weapons cutting through space with violent intent. But that same power made him vulnerable, his enhanced strength carrying him further than intended.

Max spun into another combination, both blades working in tandem, creating a whirlwind of steel that should have been impossible to avoid. Right blade high, left blade low, then reversing, then converging on the same target from opposite angles.

Gregory flowed around the attacks like water, never quite where Max expected him to be. Not blocking, not parrying—just moving with an economy of motion that made Max's enhanced speed look clumsy by comparison.

The exchanges grew faster, more intense. Max threw everything he had into each strike, the Fanga amplifying his natural ambidextrous instincts until the two blades became extensions of his will. The power was incredible—each swing carried enough force to shatter bone, to cleave through armor.

But Gregory remained untouchable.

Max found himself overextending on a particularly vicious cross-strike, his enhanced momentum carrying him past his intended target. Gregory could have ended the fight right there, could have landed a dozen different counter-attacks while Max struggled to regain his balance.

Instead, the knight simply stepped aside and waited for Max to recover.

By the time Max finally stopped, his chest was heaving like he'd just finished a boxing match. Sweat poured down his face despite the cool morning air. His heart hammered against his ribs, and his enhanced muscles burned with exhaustion.

The Fanga still flowed through him, but he could feel it wavering slightly, responding to his body's fatigue.

"That was..." Max gasped, trying to catch his breath. "That was incredible."

Gregory's expression was unreadable. "Your power output is impressive. Raw strength, enhanced speed, good instinctive combinations."

"But?"

"Your control is terrible. You're fighting like someone drunk on their own capabilities." Gregory gestured with his sword. "Fanga enhancement is not about hitting harder. It's about hitting precisely."

Max straightened, still breathing hard but listening intently.

"You threw away your balance at least six times. Left yourself exposed after every major strike. Committed so fully to attacks that recovery became impossible." Gregory's tone was analytical. "Against a real opponent, you would have died within the first thirty seconds."

The criticism stung, but Max could see the truth in it. He'd been so focused on the raw power, the thrill of enhanced combat, that he'd abandoned everything resembling tactical thinking.

"So what do I do differently?"

Gregory studied him for a long moment, taking in Max's exhausted but eager expression.

"Again," he said simply.

***

The morning wore on, and the training yard slowly filled with spectators. Knights, squires, and soldiers gathered at the edges, drawn by the rhythmic clash of steel and Gregory's sharp commands.

"Your left guard is dropping. Again."

Max adjusted, sweat dripping into his eyes despite the cool air. His muscles burned with a deep fatigue that even Fanga couldn't fully mask. They'd been at this for hours, and Gregory hadn't slowed down once.

"Look at him go," someone called from the crowd. "Finally learning which end of the sword to hold!"

Laughter rippled through the onlookers. Max gritted his teeth and tried to focus, but another voice chimed in:

"Bet he wishes these were turnips instead of swords!"

More laughter. Max's concentration slipped, and Gregory's practice blade tapped his ribs for the hundredth time.

"Focus," Gregory said flatly. "Their words mean nothing. Your opponent means everything."

Max nodded, raising his dual blades again. He could see the problems now - his stance was too wide, his weight distribution uneven. Two hours ago, he wouldn't have noticed these details. Now they were glaringly obvious, which somehow made it more frustrating when he couldn't correct them fast enough.

"Getting tired, my lord?" called another voice. "The farms not preparing you for real fighting?"

"Quiet," Gregory snapped without taking his eyes off Max. "Or you can join him here."

The crowd fell silent.

Max tried to reach for that archer's focus, that perfect state of calm. But Gregory was already moving, his blade a gray blur that forced Max to react purely on instinct.

Block, parry, counter. Max's twin swords moved in patterns that felt almost right, creating combinations that occasionally made Gregory adjust his footwork. Once or twice, he even caught a flicker of approval in the knight's eyes.

"Better," Gregory said after a particularly smooth sequence. "Your body understands what to do. Your mind needs to catch up."

Max attempted a complex cross-strike that should have trapped Gregory's blade. Instead, he found himself stumbling forward as the knight simply wasn't there.

"Natural instinct isn't enough," Gregory continued, rapping Max's shoulder with the flat of his blade. "True swordwork lives in the space between thought and action. You're still thinking too much."

Max's reflexes saved him from a low sweep, recognizing the setup before his mind processed it. He jumped back, blades moving independently to cover his retreat.

"Not bad," Gregory admitted. "Those reflexes aren't learned here. You've fought before."

"A bit," Max managed between breaths. "Different style though."

"It shows. Again."

They continued until Max's arms felt like lead weights. His enhanced strength began to waver, the Fanga struggling to compensate for pure physical exhaustion. Even his natural ambidexterity couldn't make up for lack of proper muscle memory.

Finally, after one last failed combination, Max's legs simply gave out. He dropped to one knee, practice swords clattering on the packed earth.

"And there's your limit," Gregory said. The knight hadn't even broken a sweat. "We'll continue tomorrow morning."

The crowd began to disperse, a few good-natured jabs floating back:
"Good show, Harek!"
"Better than your usual drinking practice, eh?"
"Save some energy for the farms!"

Max barely heard them. He was too busy trying to remember how breathing worked.

"The Archmage sent word," Gregory added, collecting the practice weapons. "He expects you this afternoon for magical instruction."

Max groaned.

"Your reflexes are excellent," Gregory continued, his tone matter-of-fact. "You have a fighter's instincts. But swordwork requires its own language, and you're still learning the alphabet." He paused. "Still, not bad for a first real session."

Coming from Gregory, that was practically a standing ovation.

"Tomorrow morning," the knight said again, turning to leave. "Don't be late."

Max stayed on one knee, watching Gregory's retreating back. His muscles trembled with exhaustion, his hands could barely grip the waterskin a servant brought him.

Max gulped down the water, splashing some on his face. Which he instantly regretted as he couldn't feel it for a minute when it chilled.

His muscles still trembled from the morning's training as he made his way to the bathhouse. The hot water helped, though getting his shirt back on afterward felt like wrestling a bear.

The bundle of eggs from Edmund sat wrapped in cloth, along with some dried lamb he'd been saving. The farmers kept forcing food on him despite his protests. "Can't have you working on an empty stomach," they'd say, ignoring his insistence that payment wasn't necessary.

Walking through the courtyard, Max spotted his old friend - that absolute bastard of a rooster strutting near the stables. Their eyes met. Max slowly pulled out an egg, holding it up.

"See this? Breakfast."

The rooster's head snapped up. Its beady eyes narrowed.

"Your cousin says hello," Max added, deadpan.

The bird launched itself forward with an indignant squawk. Max took off running, dodging between startled servants and guards. The rooster pursued with surprising speed, its angry calls echoing off stone walls.

"My lord, are you-" a guard started.

"Don't ask!" Max called back, rounding a corner.

He finally lost his feathered nemesis near the keep's entrance. The dining hall would be empty now - Frosthold ran on strict schedules, breakfast at dawn, dinner after dark. During the day, people made do with whatever they could carry. The castle was too busy for formal meals between, especially since work on the magic towers had begun.

The kitchen, though. There had to be something there.

Max pushed open the heavy door and stepped into absolute chaos.

Heat hit him like a wall. Dozens of bodies moved in chaotic coordination, shouting orders and curses. Massive pots bubbled over fires, meat sizzled on spits, and somewhere in the madness, an elderly woman's voice cut through it all:

"If that bread burns, I'll have your fingers for sausages!"

No one even noticed Max standing in the doorway. A young woman with flour-streaked hair rushed past, then stopped dead when she saw him. Her eyes went wide.

"Um, Cook?" she called, trying to get the elderly woman's attention. "Cook?"

"WHAT?" The woman spun, gray hair escaping its tight bun, face red from heat and fury. "Can't you see I'm-" Her eyes landed on Max. "Who in the hells are you?"

Max cleared his throat. "Harek. You know, Vanheim?"

She looked him up and down, expression unimpressed. "Huh. Lost some fat, didn't you? I almost didn't recognize you."

"Almost? You literally didn't."

The woman frowned. "Fair point. I have bad eyesight." She tilted her head. "Still standing in my doorway, though. You want something or just here to watch us work?"

"Just came to cook some eggs," Max said, stepping into the kitchen. In Frosthold's perpetual chill, the heat felt like a blessing. "Don't mind me."

The cooks froze, watching their head cook's reaction. Her frown deepened into new territory.

"Since when does Lord Harek cook anything?"

"It's just eggs," Max shrugged. "Got somewhere I can fry them?"

Her frown reached previously undiscovered depths. Max couldn't help himself:

"You know, you'd be perfect for Gerth. He likes to frown like that too. I could introduce you."

A few chuckles broke the tension. The woman's expression shifted slightly.

"That old grouch? Wouldn't know romance if it bit him in the arse."

Max blinked. "Wait, you know each other?"

"Here." She turned abruptly, grabbing a flat cooking stone and setting it over the fire. "Cook fast and get out. We're preparing dinner."

"Got any butter?"

She gestured to a young cook. "Butter for his lordship. And-"

"Salt too, if you have it? Pepper maybe?"

The kitchen staff watched in silence as Max cracked his eggs onto the hot stone. His eyes caught sight of thick bacon slabs nearby.

"Could I grab some of that?"

The head cook handed him several pieces without comment. The sizzle of eggs and bacon filled the awkward silence as everyone stared at him cooking his own food.

"Thanks," Max said when he finished, gathering his plate. "Sorry for disrupting things."

He headed for the door, feeling their baffled stares on his back.

"And uh, good luck with Gerth!" he called over his shoulder, ducking out before the head cook could respond.

The eggs were nice, but Max hadn't expected to come back out with bacon. Which was even nicer. There was something perfect about a simple, protein-heavy breakfast after an intense workout. His muscles had that pleasant ache of having been properly used, and the combination of eggs and thick-cut bacon felt like exactly what his body needed.

Max pushed open the dining hall door, humming under his breath. The tune drifted out almost unconsciously—something from Earth that had always stuck with him. "So you're a bad guy, like a really tough guy..."

He stopped mid-note.

Prince Keiran sat alone at one of the long tables, legs propped up casually, a goblet of wine at his elbow. Documents were spread before him, but his pale eyes had lifted to study Max.

Shit.

Max had been actively avoiding the Prince since learning he was still at Frosthold. Successfully, until now. Apparently, he stayed to supervise the construction of the Towers.

"Ah," Max managed, holding his plate awkwardly. "Good day, my Prince."

"Harek." Keiran smiled lightly. "What was that song you were singing? Rather good."

"Just... something I had in my head for a while."

"I wasn't aware you possessed musical talents."

"I don't. That's really the one thing."

Keiran kept studying him for a long moment, then... "Take a seat. Eat."

Max would have preferred his own company, but refusing wasn't really an option. He sat across from the Prince, setting his plate down with more care than necessary.

The silence stretched as Max began eating, hyperaware of Keiran's attention. The bacon was excellent—thick slabs that were crispy on the outside and perfectly tender within. But eating under the Prince's gaze made every bite feel like a performance.

"I thought there was only breakfast and dinner served here for residents," Keiran observed, his tone mild but pointed.

Max swallowed a particularly delicious piece of bacon. "I made it myself. Just finished training."

Something like amusement flickered across Keiran's features. "Did you now?"

"The kitchen staff were... accommodating."

"My daughter, Aelara, also takes pleasure in barging into kitchens and cooking her own meals." Keiran lifted his wine, looking at Max over the rim. "She often claims to prefer them prepared the way her late mother cooked them."

Max nearly choked on his eggs. His betrothed. Right. That was still a thing.

"A point you have in common, apparently," Keiran continued, setting down his goblet.

The way he said it made Max wonder exactly what point the Prince was referring to. Cooking? Barging into kitchens? Or something else entirely?

"I wouldn't know," Max said carefully. "We've met, of course, but..."

"But you barely spoke two words to each other during her last visit." Keiran's fingers drummed once against the table. "She's been in Sylmere this past year, studying with the Marrix trade masters. Learning to manage accounts, negotiate contracts. Skills that will serve her well as Lady of the North."

Max took another bite of bacon, mostly to avoid having to respond immediately.

"She returns in a few days, actually," Keiran added, setting down his document. "Not next month as originally planned."

"Ah."

"Indeed." Keiran's eyes fixed on Max. "I find myself increasingly confident that uniting House Klark and House Vanheim was a wise decision. Your recent... behavioral changes have been most encouraging."

Max's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "Thank you."

"Of course." Keiran leaned back slightly, his posture casual but his gaze sharp. "One might wonder what prompted such dedication to self-improvement, but the results speak for themselves."

The question felt like a trap, though Max couldn't identify the specific hazard. "Seemed like a good idea."

"It was. House Vanheim commands the largest military force among the Nine. Two hundred thousand men, with another hundred thousand of potential barbarian allies in the Deeper North." Keiran's voice carried higher. "Such power demands responsible leadership. Your father understands this. I trust you're beginning to as well."

Max set down his fork, suddenly aware that this conversation had moved beyond pleasantries. "I'm trying to be better."

"Better." Keiran repeated. "An admirable goal. The alliance between our houses secures the North's loyalty and the crown's stability. My daughter will be High Lady of the North one day. Her husband must be worthy of that position."

Well, at least the message had the virtue of being clear enough.

Max nodded once, firmly.

"I'm glad we understand each other." Keiran lifted his wine again. "Aelara is... particular about competence. She has little patience for weakness or indolence. Your previous interactions were, shall we say, less than promising."

Max tried to remember what Harek might have done during their last meeting, but came up blank. "Of course."

"This visit will be an opportunity for both of you to know each other again. Particularly given how poorly things went last time." Keiran's expression remained neutral, but something flickered in his pale eyes. "I trust there will be no repetition of that... unpleasantness."

Last time? What the hell had Harek done?

"Naturally," Max managed, hoping his confusion didn't show.

"Good." Keiran set down his goblet with a soft clink. "She arrives in three days. I suggest you prepare yourself accordingly. First impressions, while important, are not nearly as crucial as second chances."

The words carried the unmistakable weight of threat wrapped in paternal concern. Max had the distinct feeling he was being given very clear instructions about how to treat the Prince's daughter—or else face consequences that wouldn't be pleasant.

"I understand," he said.

"I'm certain you do." Keiran's smile was thin and sharp as a blade. "After all, you've shown such remarkable capacity for change recently. I have every confidence you'll continue that progress."

Max finished the last piece of bacon and stood, gathering his plate. "Thank you for the conversation, my Prince. I should let you return to your work."

"Of course." Keiran's smile remained sharp. "Remember what we discussed."

"I will."

Max made his way out, acutely aware of those eyes tracking his movement until the door closed behind him.

The meeting with Kellor went exactly as expected. Max sat in the Archmage's study, surrounded by dusty tomes and crystalline artifacts, and lied through his teeth.

"Still no connection to the Source," Max said, affecting mild frustration. "I can feel... something, maybe? But nothing concrete."

Kellor stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Patience, young Harek. The Source reveals itself in its own time. Continue the meditation exercises we discussed."

"Of course, Lord Archmage."

Twenty minutes later, Max was back in his chambers, door locked, settling into the chair by his window. The familiar routine had become almost ritualistic over the past weeks.

He closed his eyes and began constructing the Thoughtshape.

Purpose: Create flame. Form: Small fire, contained above palm. Limits: Duration thirty seconds, heat sufficient for candle work, extinguish on command.

The mental blueprint formed with ease.

Max opened himself to the Source.

He drew carefully, pulling just enough raw power to fuel the spell. The energy felt chaotic, formless, like trying to hold liquid lightning. Too much and it would burn him out. Too little and the spell would collapse.

Shaping.

The Source energy flowed into his prepared Thoughtshape, settling into the mental framework like water finding its level. The structure held, stable and ready.

Stabilization.

A brief moment to ensure everything aligned properly. Internal pressure balanced, no weak points in the construct.

Release.

Max opened his eyes and snapped his fingers—a bit of theatrical flair he'd added recently.

Fire bloomed above his palm. Clean, steady, perfectly controlled. Four seconds from start to finish.

"Hah."

This was the thirtieth successful casting out of thirty-five attempts. The improvement curve was satisfying in a way that reminded him of learning to drive stick shift—awkward fumbling followed by sudden, smooth competence.

The flame danced above his hand, completely stable. Max could feel the spell's structure, could sense exactly how much Source energy it was consuming, could predict to the second when it would naturally expire.

He'd internalized it. The spell had become muscle memory, mental reflex, an extension of will rather than conscious effort. Soon—maybe another week of practice—he'd be able to cast it in the blink of an eye. Just snap, then fire. No four-second delay, no visible concentration.

That was mastery.

Max smiled, watching the flame flicker. According to the novels he'd read, the magical hierarchy was based on Degrees—not just raw power, but depth of understanding and the ability to safely manipulate complex Thoughtshapes.

The system was human construction, really. A way to measure progress and competence rather than some cosmic law. Mages advanced by demonstrating mastery of benchmark spells and observed stability, but the lines between degrees were often blurry.

First Degree mages could manage light, sparks, simple pressure effects. Basic flame control definitely qualified. Most took months to achieve stable fire casting, and many never progressed beyond parlor tricks.

Second and Third Degree was where most "practical" mages operated—village healers, court wizards, military battlemages. They could throw proper fireballs, maintain barriers, handle the bread-and-butter magic that made civilization function.

Fourth and Fifth Degree mages were rare enough to have reputations. They could create lasting constructs, control battlefields, command respect from noble houses. This was where magical theory became as important as raw talent.

Sixth and Seventh Degree was where things got really interesting. Environmental manipulation, chain-casting multiple spells simultaneously, the kind of power that made people speak in hushed tones.

Kellor was somewhere in this range—Max had read descriptions of some Archmages calling down localized storms and crafting artifacts that lasted decades. Seventh was essentially the practical ceiling for mortal mages.

Since magic in this world was tied to how deeply an individual understood reality, it was natural that mages became scientists, engineers, philosophers, linguists. Knowledge was literally power, weaponized through Thoughtshapes and Source manipulation. Long-living mages, especially among naturally long-lived races like elves and dwarves, often became experts in dozens of fields over their centuries of existence.

Which raised an interesting question.

On earth, humanity had reached twenty-first century technology over the course of roughly twelve thousand years, from the first agricultural settlements to smartphones and space travel. Max knew that a single elf could live longer than that entire span of human civilization.

So why weren't elves driving cars and launching satellites? If knowledge made you literally more powerful, and you could weaponize it through magic, why had this world remained seemingly medieval for millennia?

The answer, Max remembered with growing unease, was mentioned only briefly in Sabo's novels. When mages reached a certain level of understanding—somewhere around what humans would classify as high Sixth or Seventh Degree—it was said that they "ascended" and were taken to the Aspect's lands.

There had always been a mystery around that, which had infuriated Max as a reader. Sabo never bothered to finish explaining what ascension actually meant, or where these powerful mages went, or why. It felt like at a certain degree of mastery, you just... got taken out of the equation.

At the time, Max had assumed it was bad writing—Sabo's lazy method of preventing power scaling from disrupting his story's internal logic. Can't have Seventh Degree archmages reshaping continents when you need political intrigue and sword fights to matter.

But now that he knew this world was real...

Max extinguished the flame with a thought, his mind racing.

If knowledge truly was power here, and if there was some cosmic mechanism that removed people who learned too much, then that just made him more curious. What happened to those ascended mages? Where did they go? And more importantly—who or what was powerful enough to just... take them?

The thought didn't scare him. It excited him.

If he got his hands on that Draught of Perfect Recollection, he knew he'd watched documentaries about nuclear fission. How uranium-235 split apart, the critical mass calculations, the precise timing of conventional explosives needed to compress fissile material. He'd absorbed it all as background noise while eating takeout, but the information was there somewhere in his brain.

He'd also watched countless videos about black holes. Hawking radiation, event horizons, the way they warped spacetime itself. Documentaries about neutron stars, gamma ray bursts, the fundamental forces that held reality together.

If he could remember those details—really remember them with perfect clarity—and then master the magic to implement them...

Max grinned. He'd be the most powerful human in this entire universe. Let's see who'd be stupid enough to kidnap someone with a black hole on their ass.

Hell, maybe he could even force an audience with Sabo himself. What if he could fix the conditions of this whole situation instead of being stuck following some predetermined path like a character in a story.

The idea of ascension didn't feel like a threat anymore. It felt like a goal.

Whatever mechanism was removing powerful mages, Max wanted to meet it face to face. He wanted answers. He wanted to understand how this world really worked, who was pulling the strings, and why someone like Sabo had chosen him specifically.

This only made him more determined to become ridiculously overpowered as quickly as possible.

Max reached for a piece of paper Gerth had given him during one of their conversations. A list of spells the old healer recommended mastering before attempting anything more ambitious.

Flame (hand-held)
Water conjuring (one cup)
Light orb (sustained)
Object movement (feather-weight only)

All first-degree work. Harmless, relatively simple, perfect for building foundation skills without risking spectacular failure.

Max had been working through them systematically. The flame spell was nearly perfected. Water conjuring came next—and with his understanding of H2O molecular structure, that should be interesting.

He folded the paper and tucked it away. Tomorrow he'd start working on sustained light orbs. Tonight, he'd practice the flame spell until he could cast it without thinking.

After all, there was nothing quite like the satisfaction of turning theory into controlled, repeatable reality.

It was while he was lost in these thoughts that Max noticed something moving in his peripheral vision. He looked up to see a small white spider descending slowly on a strand of silk, spinning lazily as it dropped from the ceiling.

"Oh, hey there," Max said softly. "You got lost?"

The 'little' spider was actually pretty big--about the size of his thumb, which was definitely on the larger side for a house spider.

He extended his index finger toward the descending arachnid. The spider seemed to sense the offered perch and delicately stepped onto his fingertip.

"You're not venomous, are you?" Max asked, bringing his hand closer to get a better look.

The spider's white body was marked with an intricate pattern on its abdomen that looked almost like... a skull. The markings were remarkably detailed--elongated features with what appeared to be small horn-like protrusions extending from the sides.

It reminded Max of a dragon skull.

"That can't be good," he muttered.

Max gently placed the spider on the floor. The moment it touched the stone, it began jumping up and down repeatedly, its entire body bouncing with what could only be described as excitement.

Max blinked, amused despite himself.

He'd never seen a spider act like this before. Most spiders were deliberate, methodical creatures. This one seemed to be practically vibrating with enthusiasm, continuing its little bouncing dance on the stone floor.

The thought crossed his mind that if this thing was venomous and deadly, he still wasn't particularly afraid. He could always come back if things went badly. Which was starting to make him self-conscious--should a person really not be afraid of death?

That seemed like it might not be psychologically healthy.

Max kept watching the spider's animated display, trying to figure out what had gotten it so excited, when he noticed something strange. A faint glow was beginning to emanate from the spider's abdomen, right where those skull-like markings were.

"Whoa," Max said quietly, leaning closer. "Are you glowing?"

The light grew brighter, pulsing gently like a tiny heartbeat. It was beautiful--a warm, orange radiance that made the skull pattern seem to flicker and dance.

Max reached out tentatively, curious to see if he could feel any heat from whatever was happening inside the spider's body.

The glow suddenly intensified, becoming brilliant orange-white, and Max realized with dawning alarm that this wasn't just bioluminescence.

FWOOSH!

The spider breathed a jet of flame that scorched a black mark across the ceiling.

"WHOA!" Max jerked backward, nearly falling off his chair as the spider resumed its enthusiastic bouncing on the floor.

Max stared at the smoking scorch mark, then down at the spider, his heart hammering.

"Hey," he said. "What the hell are you?"