Gray’s legs gave out the moment the noble’s group disappeared into the crowd.

  He dropped to his knees beside Tamemoto, arms shaking so badly he couldn’t hold himself up.

  The slash across his brother’s chest was still bleeding, soaking through the torn tunic.

  Gray’s own arms burned from the earlier kick and the failed aura attempt — sharp, grinding pain that radiated all the way to his shoulders.

  “Tam… Tamemoto…” Gray gasped, voice cracking, the words barely audible through clenched teeth.

  Tamemoto tried to push himself up but collapsed again, a weak groan escaping his lips. “It… it hurts…” he whimpered, small hands clutching the wound, tears mixing with blood on his face.

  Passersby walked around them like they were just another piece of roadside trash.

  A merchant pushed his cart past without even glancing down.

  Two travelers stepped over Tamemoto’s outstretched leg.

  n Camp Tile, a bleeding kid on the ground was just another Tuesday.

  Gray tried to stand.

  His knees buckled.

  A low, involuntary groan tore from his throat as fresh pain spiked through his injured arm.

  “Gah—!” he cried out, collapsing forward again, palms hitting the dirt.

  Rorik appeared from the crowd, face pale. He had been watching from a distance.

  He knelt quickly, slinging one of Gray’s arms over his shoulder and helping Tamemoto up with the other.

  “Come on. I’m taking you home.”

  Gray wanted to refuse, but he had no strength left.

  The world tilted as Rorik half-carried, half-dragged them through the market and down the river path.

  When they reached the hut, Rebecca was already on the porch.

  Her face went white the moment she saw the blood.

  “Boys—!” she gasped, voice breaking as she rushed forward.

  Tamemoto’s eyes fluttered.

  The moment Rorik lowered him onto the porch, the younger boy passed out completely, head lolling to the side.

  Gauis stepped out, knife already in hand. His good eye locked on Rorik.

  “What happened?”

  Rorik told them everything — the noble, the duel, the ice lance, how Gray had thrown himself over Tamemoto.

  He didn’t sugarcoat it.

  Gauis listened in silence.

  When Rorik finished, Gauis’s hand tightened around the knife until his knuckles turned white.

  “Those Solvaris bastards!” he growled, voice low and venomous.

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  “Anywhere I go… they still find a way.”

  The air around him shifted.

  Without realizing it, Gauis’s aura leaked out — not a full flare, just a subconscious release of pressure.

  It rolled off him like a heavy, invisible wave — cold, sharp, carrying the weight of a man who had once stood among the Thirteen Seats.

  The air thickened.

  The temperature seemed to drop a few degrees.

  Rorik’s POV

  He had never cultivated.

  Never felt aura or mana in his own body.

  But he had heard the stories — whispered tales from caravan guards, from old mercenaries who had survived long enough to retire.

  They spoke of knights whose presence alone could make men kneel.

  Of mages who could freeze the air with a glance.

  He had seen magic once, years ago — a desert sorcerer turning sand into glass in a single breath. It had terrified him then, and the memory still made his stomach twist.

  But today he had seen it again.

  When the noble — Lirian el Calder — had opened that little book, blue light had flared from the pages.

  An ice lance had formed out of nothing, sharp and crackling, aimed straight at the boy on the ground.

  Rorik had felt the cold before the lance even moved — the air turning brittle, his breath fogging in an instant.

  It was magic, real and deadly, and it had scared him more than any blade or monster ever could.

  And then the old man — Gauis — had stepped forward.

  Something rolled off him.

  Not visible.

  Not a glow or a flame.

  Just… weight.

  Like the air itself had turned to iron.

  Rorik’s lungs seized.

  His heart stuttered.

  For one heartbeat he was certain he would die.

  “Hrrk—!” Rorik choked, the sound strangled and panicked, hand flying to his throat as his vision blurred.

  Many things ran through his mind in that frozen moment.

  Who are these people?

  He had thought they were just another struggling family on the outskirts. Weak. Desperate. Easy to pity, easy to ignore.

  Now he wasn’t sure.

  What did I just feel?

  It wasn’t magic — not like the sorcerer’s sand.

  This was something colder, heavier.

  A will so sharp it could cut without touching.

  A presence that belonged to someone who had once been far more than a broken man in a river hut.

  And the woman — Rebecca — had done something with that stick.

  A flicker. A moment of pressure so sharp it had stolen his breath entirely.

  Rebecca, still holding what looked like a worn-out stick (her old wand, disguised as nothing more than a walking staff), felt the surge from Gauis.

  Her own mana responded instinctively.

  A faint glow flickered along the wood — barely noticeable — but enough that Rorik’s lungs suddenly seized again.

  He gasped, eyes widening, hand flying to his throat.

  “Hrrk—!” Rorik choked once more, the sound desperate.

  Rebecca’s eyes snapped to Gauis. She stepped forward quickly, placing a trembling hand on his arm.

  “Gauis,” she whispered firmly. “Enough.”

  The aura receded instantly. Gauis exhaled sharply, face suddenly pale, sweat beading on his brow. His shoulders sagged as the effort caught up with him.

  Rorik sucked in a ragged breath, coughing once.

  “What… what was that?” he rasped, voice hoarse.

  Gauis didn’t answer. He just looked at Rebecca, then at the boys.

  Rebecca’s voice was steady despite the fear in her eyes. “Let’s leave it for the meantime. We need medicine. I’ll go with you.”

  Gray stayed on the porch, watching them leave. His arms still burned. Every breath hurt. The cut on his side from the earlier fight throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

  He forced himself up and limped to the same spot behind the hut where he had spent those six months recovering from his broken arm. The ground was still marked with old training lines. He sat down hard, back against the wooden wall, staring at the river.

  Why can’t I do it?

  The question burned hotter than the pain in his arms. He had felt the spark. He had tried. But every time he reached for his aura, it tore him apart instead of obeying.

  He saw Gauis and Rebecca walking away toward the market, shoulders close, talking quietly.

  Gray pushed himself up. Pain shot through his arms and side, but he didn’t stop.

  “Gauis! Rebecca!” he called, voice raw and cracking.

  They turned. Gray limped toward them, breathing hard. Tears — hot and angry — stung his eyes. He didn’t wipe them away.

  “I… I can’t do it,” he said, voice breaking.

  “I try every day. I push and push and it just burns. It hurts so much I can’t even hold it for a second. I watched Tamemoto almost die today and I couldn’t do anything.

  I’m supposed to protect him. I’m supposed to protect both of you. But I’m still… still this weak.”

  The words poured out of him, raw and unfiltered.

  “I hate it. I hate feeling useless. I hate that you two keep getting hurt because of me and Tamemoto. Tell me how. Tell me how to get stronger. I’ll do anything. Just… please.”

  Gray stood there, chest heaving, tears cutting tracks through the dust on his face. His arms shook from pain and exhaustion.

  Gauis and Rebecca looked at him — really looked.

  And for the first time in a long time, Gray let them see everything he had been holding inside.