He said the name, remembering the fierce battle between Israel and the invaders in the Black Forest, and how he delivered a cross-shaped strike that pierced through one of them and crashed into the blood-shield of the other.
I told Isack about my brief, albeit indirect, encounter with Israel that day.
The old man's eyes lit up.
"Ah… the Phantom Surgeon." He nodded slowly, wearing the look of someone rediscovering a beloved tale he never tires of telling.
'Now that's a nickname that actually makes sense,' I mused to myself.
"One of the best living examples. Israel's aura allows his blade to choose what it cuts. Literally. It can pass through flesh, bone, armor — without leaving a single scratch. Unless he wants it to. But if he marks you…"
Isack snapped his fingers.
"…then no wall, no prayer, no technique will stop that cut. It's as if the world itself conspires to make sure that blade fulfills its promise."
I remained silent. A chill crept down my spine. Obviously, he was exaggerating — but there was truth in his words.
And Isack wasn't done yet.
"What you saw… that was more than aura infused into an object. That was pure will, taking shape."
"A strike cast from afar, like his intent had taken flight straight toward the target."
He shook his head, clearly impressed with himself.
"That's an intermediate technique. But applying an attribute to it? That's advanced. Not impossible, but tricky. And it's that kind of thing that makes these auras so… irritating."
He chuckled quietly.
"I bet that criminal who fought Israel regretted every decision he'd ever made, the moment that strike went through his chest. Must've felt like being pierced by a spirit."
I nodded, though something gnawed at me.
"The weird thing is… they managed to escape," I said, frowning. "And the fight dragged on longer than it should've. Israel could've ended it. But for some reason… he didn't."
"Who knows. He must've had a reason. Maybe they really were skilled. After all, no matter how deadly a technique is… everything has a weakness. Anything can be dodged, blocked, or countered."
His voice grew more distant, but I was barely listening anymore.
My thoughts were stuck on something else.
On one simple question.
"…Beatriz… is she one of the special ones too?" I murmured, barely audible.
Isack broke into a grin.
"I'd bet every coin I've got on it," he said without hesitation. "And this is just the beginning. Once you're officially part of the family, you'll see things that make this look tame."
Down below, Beatriz finally let out the breath she'd been holding since the start. Her support foot still planted, hands lowered, a cracked katar in one of them.
But she was the one still standing.
And Oswin was out.
✦ ✦ ✦
After the duel — and after that flood of information Isack dumped on me — I returned to my quarters. The old man, meanwhile, went off in high spirits after Beatriz, wearing one of those smiles… the kind of smile you only see when someone knows they're about to get exactly what they want. Sharp, almost childlike. Almost dangerous.
To my surprise, Axel was awake.
Curled up on my lap, he radiated a gentle warmth as I ran my fingers through his soft fur. It was warm and soothing — one of the few sensations that still brought me peace.
Fooooh…
A low onomatopoeia escaped us both at the same time. A shared yawn.
I smiled.
"Looks like we're in sync," I said, tickling him behind the ears. He squirmed in delight, letting out a satisfied little growl, tail wagging.
In truth, ever since I started watching the morning duels between Oswin and Beatriz, my schedule had flipped completely. I now slept from 10 AM to 6 PM, and stayed up through the night and early morning.
Unlike the first duel, which took place at noon, the matches started happening earlier and earlier. And truth be told… Oswin had guts. Waking up every day before sunrise just to get his ass handed to him by Beatriz — well, that earned at least some respect. Even if I didn't like him all that much.
Knock knock.
Two knocks on the door.
"Who is it?" I asked without raising my voice.
"It's me, Lewis. Sir Isack is calling for you."
I frowned, one eyebrow lifting. 'What the hell does that old man want with me at this hour?'
"Wait for me at the entrance. I'll be down in five, ten minutes," I replied.
Axel stood up with a soft sound, giving me room to move.
Since I'd just bathed, I was only in my underclothes.
I got up and pulled on a pair of thick, comfortable pants — good for sleeping, but tough enough for walking around at night. Instead of a regular shirt, I chose a long-sleeved top made of cotton mixed with fine wool, perfect for colder nights like this. The sleeves fit snug on my arms, and though the fabric was light, it trapped warmth well.
I laced up my leather boots — a little worn, but still reliable. Just before leaving, my eyes instinctively landed on the wall beside the bed.
There, resting on a carved dark-wood mount I'd asked to be installed, was a sword.
'Better take it.'
I grabbed the weapon carefully, familiar with its abnormal weight and the solid feel of the grip in my hand.
Axel watched me closely, alert, ready to move.
"Axel, let's go," I said, nodding toward the door. "It's been a while since our last nighttime stroll, hasn't it?"
He leapt off the bed with his usual agility, eyes gleaming under the faint light from the window. But instead of coming to me, he hopped onto the desk — where I'd cobbled together a little bed for him with the help of the servants — and curled up like a king on his throne.
"Seriously?" I asked, incredulous. "All that show just to tell me 'no'?"
I sighed as I watched him.
'This little wolf is unbelievably lazy,' I thought, just as he let out a sound that… honestly sounded like a yawn.
Defeated, I left the room. The sound of my boots against the floorboards, the soft rustle of my clothes, and the warm breath escaping into the cold air made up the only soundtrack at that hour of the night.
Downstairs, Lewis was already waiting.
Despite being noisy and talking too much — especially when it came to romance — I had to admit Lewis was a good guy. Loyal, helpful… and completely ruled by his feelings.
Since I'd joined the Knights' Order, he'd been assigned as my unofficial mentor. He was the one who explained the rules, the customs — and, unfortunately, also the one who kept offering romantic advice no one had asked for.
"I heard you haven't made any more moves on Beatriz," he said as we walked through the stone hallways. The torches mounted on the walls cast dancing shadows along the way.
"I get it, really. But don't give up. You still have a shot."
I blinked, surprised at the nerve. "I've told you a dozen times: I'm not in love with her."
"Sure, sure…" he replied, with a sly smile full of implications. "No need to hide it. I know how it is. You're probably just embarrassed. Happens to the best of us."
Before I could snap back, as if the scent of gossip had lured them in, others joined the conversation.
"Quit bugging Alexander, Lewis. When are you gonna confess to Teresa?" said Bart — the spiky-haired kid who once led me to the oh-so "secret" base.
"Look who's talking," shot back António, red-skinned and long-haired, always with that mocking tone. "Didn't you get rejected by, what, seven girls just this week?"
"Seven's an exaggeration!" I jumped in, glad the attention had shifted. "At most… six and a half."
"Alexander, even you?" Bart faked offense, placing a hand dramatically over his chest as if he'd been struck.
"I thought you'd understand… After all, true love is about leaving untouched that which does not wish to be touched."
"That's straight out of the scrolls of chivalry," I said, lifting my chin with mock nobility. "But failing to touch seven roses in the same week is borderline treason against honor itself."
"Maybe those roses had thorns," Lewis muttered, pulling laughter from the whole group.
We kept walking, exchanging jabs and shoulder nudges, laughing as we moved through corridors now slowly filling with other young people. Some were members of the Order, others were squires or family descendants, all gathered and waiting for the ceremony. The cold night felt lighter with that little procession taking shape.
Until a soft voice called out behind us.
"Alexander… Were you also summoned by Sir Kyle?"
I turned around. I knew that voice.
Glória. Always at Oswin's side — though this time, she was alone. Or nearly alone. Three other girls walked with her, but Oswin, oddly enough, was nowhere to be seen.
And of course, that tiny detail didn't go unnoticed by the three fools with me.
"Quite the opposite, ladies," Bart replied with theatrical flair, bowing awkwardly. "We were called by Sir Isack, the retired captain."
He even reached for Glória's hand, trying to kiss it, but the girls were quicker — and less amused. One of them nearly slapped him. Probably one of the many roses that had already turned him down, judging by the way her eyes burned holes in him.
"I believe we were all summoned to the same place," I cut in, hoping to break the awkward tension.
"So why don't we go together?"
Two of the idiots behind me nudged my back, visibly excited by the idea of walking alongside the girls.
"Our fearless leader thought of everything, huh?" Bart whispered. "Sir Alexander of the Order of Hopelessly in Love" Lewis added.
"A noble club, fueled by rejection and deluded hope…" I muttered, a crooked smile tugging at my lips.
"Just don't let Damian hear you say that, or he'll shove the 'Code of the Pure Heart' down your throat," said António — which reminded me: he had already warned me never to mention that name again.
We kept going, now as one group. The cold cobblestones clinked beneath our boots as torches cast flickering shadows across the ancient walls of the Fortress. The air bit at our faces, carrying the damp scent of midnight and burned wood. Despite the freezing wind, the warmth of our jokes and failed flirtations kept the chill at bay.
It was a strange kind of courage — the kind boys wore when trying to act like men, hidden behind confidences and clumsy charm.
✦ ✦ ✦
A few minutes later, we passed through the gates of the Southern training field.
At the center, standing like living statues under the pale torchlight, were Sir Kyle, old Isack, and a handful of veteran knights. And — surprisingly — Damian was among them.
But the one who truly stood out was Sir Alaric — Commander of the Fortress — in his gleaming armor and flawless posture. He didn't need to speak to command attention. His mere presence did the job.
Scattered groups already surrounded the field. I spotted Beatriz up front, beside Oswin. Next to them was a hooded figure I couldn't quite make out, along with a few others I didn't recognize. They must have arrived well before the rest of us. She wore that same unwavering, distant look. Something stirred inside me, but I swallowed hard and looked away.
✦ ✦ ✦
Fifteen minutes passed. The field was packed.
A thousand people — maybe more. Squires and descendants, all under the same frigid sky. A murmur lingered above the crowd, that peculiar tension one feels right before a storm.
'So that's why they chose the second-largest field... I thought. What are they planning?'
Then Sir Alaric stepped forward and—
Clap.
The sound echoed, sharp and clean. And with it, an invisible wave rippled outward like a silent thunderclap.
The air grew heavy. My chest tightened. As if the very space around me had become thicker, more hostile. But not enough to knock me down.
Alaric frowned — as if disappointed.
Clap.
Another burst. Sharper this time. I saw a few people stumble, and when I looked around, at least a hundred were on their knees. Ten had completely collapsed — among them… Glória.
My fists clenched.
Clap.
Stronger. Each clap now felt like a hammer chiseling the very air.
Then came the fourth. Then the fifth. Half of us were already doubled over.
"Alexander, your legs are shaking… you alright?" Lewis asked, flashing a nervous smile, sweat trailing down his forehead.
"Look who's talking," António teased, still surprisingly steady. "You two are about to lose points with the roses we brought along."
"This pressure's nothing. I've been through worse," I said with a cocky grin, recalling the pressure Israel had unleashed back in the Black Forest — though my voice came out louder than I meant.
"You've figured it out, huh?" asked a boy standing beside us.
"Yeah. The pressure is constant… but it's the wave that hits with each clap that breaks us. The key isn't resisting the pressure — it's riding out the wave."
António, again, answered for me.
Lewis tried to respond — "At least you're not an idi—" but ended up biting his tongue.
Clap.
The pressure surged again, and the air felt like it was slicing through my lungs.
"I see I've been too lenient," said Alaric, his deep voice slicing the air. "You're still cracking jokes…"
The tone shifted.
Clap.
his time, it wasn't just double. It felt like the entire world tripled in weight. Like the air itself had thickened, grown suffocating. As if even my bones wanted to buckle under the invisible weight.
Some of the last few still standing were crushed downward, the wooden floor creaking under the strain. Only a handful remained. Very few.
And among those who still stood, a few glared at us — furious — as if our jokes had offended the gods themselves.
My knees faltered.
I looked up, struggling.
And then I saw him.
Alaric.
Unlike anything I'd seen before. The thing, energy, maybe aura, that was surrounding is being. It wasn't like the soft, rose-hued yet intimidating stillness that surrounded Leopold — silent, commanding.
Nor the wild and powerful swirl of pale blue and deep navy that enveloped the Patriarch.
This was something else.
There was certainty. Balance. A kind of presence that didn't roar — it just was. Steady. Absolute.
Around him, a sort of white veil. At its center, as if seared into the very air… a sword, embedded in the heart of the ethereal shield that surrounded him.
It was like staring at the purest ideal of what it means to be a knight.
'When I meet Leopold… I have a lot of questions. Especially about these eyes. My eyes.'
Clap.
The pressure tripled again.
My muscles locked, as if gravity had been rewritten.
"Nngh!" — a guttural sound escaped me, straining not to fall to my knees.
'But maybe… I should be asking the Patriarch first.'
I remembered when he asked me, with that terrifying calm, what I saw when I looked at him. As if, maybe, he already knew more than he let on.
"We've spent enough time on this. It's time to end it," Alaric said, his voice clean and sharp like a blade slicing through the air.
"It hasn't even been five minutes!" someone shouted from the crowd, outraged.
"Idiot!" Bart and Lewis growled in unison.
Clap.
Bart's leg gave out partially, and he dropped low, gasping for air — but still conscious. "Weakling!" Lewis sneered, trying to taunt his friend into holding out.
Bart grumbled back, defiant, digging deep into his pride to push himself upright once more.
Clap.
Another wave. The pressure climbed again. This time, everyone staggered. Even the strongest among us.
But no one fell. Not even Bart.
'That's… strange', I thought, frowning. With effort, I turned my head to scan the field.
And then I saw it.
About two hundred people were still standing.
Clap.
Now there were one-sixty. And nearly all of them shared something in common —
A faint white glow, like a soft mist clinging to their bodies. White aura...
Yes.
All of them… except Beatriz, Oswin, and the eight who stood at their sides.
The only ones with no visible aura — and yet, still standing firm like unshakable pillars.
Then it hit me: I didn't have any aura either.
But Alaric didn't give me time to process it.
Clap.
The pressure now matched what I'd felt in the Black Forest. My arms were shaking. The hands I struggled to keep steady were beginning to fail me.
"Scared?" Lewis muttered through gritted teeth. One of his legs was already dug into the ground, face weary — but his smile still defiant.
I ignored him.
All of me was focused on one thing: Not giving in.Holding on. Trying to understand.
Clap. Clap.
The claps came faster now. With each strike — more falls. More bodies hit the ground.
Two minutes passed in that torment.
And when I finally couldn't take it anymore… one of my knees buckled. I dropped to one leg, gasping.
I looked around.
Only twenty-five were still conscious. And of those, just ten were still fully upright: Oswin, Glória, and the eight silent ones beside them — strangers I didn't know.
The other fifteen, myself included, were scattered among the unconscious. Still breathing, still awake — but trembling, panting, or kneeling like me.
Lewis, Bart, and António were still hanging on. Barely. Bart could hardly keep his eyes open, his whole body shaking like a leaf in the wind.
Clap.
…Nothing.
The clap came — but the world didn't shudder. On the contrary, the pressure eased.
Like the sound of a storm drifting off in the distance, leaving behind only its aftermath: the shivering, the gasps, and the echo of devastation.
Then, as his eyes swept across the field, Alaric smiled.
"Now, we can begin."