- 02 - Evaluation

Adam sat at the head of the grand dining table, the polished wood cool beneath his palms. The scent of fresh bread and roasted meat wafted through the air, a stark contrast to the stale convenience store snacks he'd lived on in his old life. Across from him, Ethan tore into a chunk of bread with the enthusiasm of a boy half his age, his mop of dark hair falling into his eyes. The appraisal window still hovered faintly in Adam's vision, Ethan's stats glowing like a neon sign: Strength (aura): 72/100. (C-). That number gnawed at him. What did it feel like to have that kind of power?

"Brother, you're staring," Ethan said between bites, his tone light but his blue eyes—sharp like Adam's own—narrowing slightly. "Did I grow horns overnight or something?"

Adam blinked, forcing a chuckle to mask his racing thoughts. "No horns, just wondering how you manage to eat like a starved wolf and still look like you could wrestle a bear."

Ethan grinned, flexing an arm that, even under his tunic, showed lean muscle. "Years of swinging a sword, that's how. You should join me at the training grounds sometime, Adam. Sitting behind a desk all day's going to turn you into Baldric—old and creaky."

From the corner of the room, Baldric cleared his throat pointedly, his dignified posture unwavering. "I assure you, Master Ethan, my creaks are a testament to years of loyal service, not idleness."

Ethan laughed, a bright, unrestrained sound that echoed off the stone walls. "See? Even Baldric agrees you need to get out more, brother. What do you say? After breakfast, come watch me spar. I'll show you what a Blackthorn's made of."

Adam hesitated, his mind spinning. This was his chance to see Ethan's strength up close—to figure out what this "aura" thing really meant. His own stats flashed in his memory: Strength (aura): 39/100. (F). Dismal compared to Ethan's, but he needed context. "Alright," he said, leaning back in his chair. "But don't expect me to jump in the ring with you. I'd rather not embarrass myself on day one."

"Day one?" Ethan quirked an eyebrow, pausing mid-bite. "What's that supposed to mean? You've been lord for months now."

Adam's stomach lurched. Right—he wasn't supposed to be a stranger here. He scrambled for a cover. "Just… feels like a new start today, that's all. Woke up with a clear head for once."

Ethan shrugged, accepting the excuse with a nod. "Good. A clear head's what you'll need to keep up with me."

Baldric stepped forward, his voice smooth as velvet. "If I may, my lord, breakfast is served in full. Shall I have the staff bring the rest?"

"Yes, please," Adam said, grateful for the interruption. As Baldric signaled to the servants, Adam studied his brother again. Ethan's aura—whatever that was—rated a C-. That was leagues above his own F, and he couldn't shake the curiosity. Was it something he could feel? Something tangible?

The servants bustled in, laying out platters of eggs, sausages, and fruit. Ethan dove in with gusto, while Adam picked at his plate, his mind elsewhere. "Ethan," he ventured, keeping his tone casual, "how's the training going? The knights treating you well?"

Ethan swallowed a mouthful of sausage and grinned. "Better than well. Sir Robert's been drilling me on footwork, and Sir Morris keeps trying to outmuscle me in sparring. They're tough, but I'm tougher."

"Robert and Morris, huh?" Adam filed the names away. "They're strong, then?"

"Strong enough," Ethan said with a shrug. "But they've got nothing on me when I get going. You'll see."

Adam nodded, his decision firming up. "After this, take me to the training grounds. I want to see you in action."

Ethan's eyes lit up. "You won't regret it, brother."

The training grounds sprawled behind the Blackthorn manor, a dusty expanse ringed by weathered wooden fences. The clang of steel and the shouts of men filled the air as Adam followed Ethan across the packed earth. The sun hung high, casting sharp shadows, and Adam's borrowed boots—far finer than his old sneakers—kicked up puffs of dirt with each step.

Ethan strode ahead, his gait confident, almost swaggering. "This is where the real work happens," he called over his shoulder. "No fancy chairs or parchment here—just sweat and steel."

Adam's gaze darted around, taking in the scene. Men in armor sparred in pairs, their movements a blur of precision and power. He squinted, willing the appraisal windows to appear, and sure enough, they flickered into view as his eyes settled on two figures near the center of the grounds.

The first was a broad-shouldered knight, his dark hair streaked with gray, swinging a blunt sword with methodical force. The window popped up:

[Robert de Clare]

Profession: Knight of House Blackthorn

Age: 34

Statistics:

Strength (aura): 58/100. (E)

Magic (mana): 5/100. (F)

Loyalty: 87/100. (Steadfast)

The second knight, leaner and younger, parried a blow with a deft twist of his blade. His window followed:

[Morris Valtrek]

Profession: Knight of House Blackthorn

Age: 29

Statistics:

Strength (aura): 62/100. (E+)

Magic (mana): 8/100. (F)

Loyalty: 91/100. (Devoted)

Adam stared, piecing it together. Robert's aura was 58—an E—while Morris clocked in at 62—an E+. Four points difference, but what did that mean in practice? He focused harder, and a faint sensation prickled at the edge of his senses. Robert's presence felt steady, solid, like a stone wall—impressive, but lacking edge. Morris, though, had a sharper bite to it, a subtle pressure that made Adam's skin tingle faintly. The difference was there, small but real.

"Oi, Adam!" Ethan's voice snapped him out of his trance. "Stop gawking and come here. Robert, Morris—line up!"

The two knights sheathed their practice swords and approached, bowing stiffly. "My lord," Robert said, his voice gruff but respectful. "Good to see you out here."

Morris nodded, his expression more reserved. "An honor, Lord Adam."

Adam waved a hand, trying to play the part. "At ease. I'm just here to watch Ethan show off."

Ethan smirked, grabbing a wooden sword from a nearby rack. "Watch and learn, brother. Robert, Morris—warm me up, will you?"

The knights exchanged a glance, then took their positions, forming a loose triangle with Ethan. Adam stepped back, his heart pounding with anticipation. As the sparring began, he focused on Ethan, and the appraisal window flared brighter in his vision: Strength (aura): 72/100. (C-).

The moment Ethan moved, Adam felt it. A wave of pressure rolled off his brother, thick and suffocating, like the air itself had thickened. Ethan's sword flashed, meeting Robert's with a crack that reverberated through the grounds. Robert grunted, his stance holding, but the strain was clear. Morris darted in, aiming a swift strike at Ethan's flank, but Ethan twisted with inhuman speed, parrying and countering in one fluid motion.

Adam's breath caught. Ethan's aura wasn't just stronger—it was sharper, more oppressive. Compared to Robert's steady weight and Morris's crisp edge, Ethan's felt like a storm—wild, cutting, and overwhelming. The difference in their ratings—58, 62, 72—played out before his eyes. Each tier wasn't just numbers; it was a visceral gap in presence and skill.

"Had enough yet?" Ethan called, deflecting a blow from Morris with a grin.

Robert wiped sweat from his brow. "You're a monster, young master. Give us a break."

Morris chuckled, stepping back. "He's right, my lord. Your brother's a terror with that blade."

Ethan spun the sword in his hand, then planted it in the dirt. "Come on, Adam. Your turn."

Adam froze. "Me? I don't—"

"Don't play coy," Ethan cut in, tossing him a practice sword. "You're a Blackthorn. Let's see what you've got."

Adam caught the sword awkwardly, its weight unfamiliar in his hands. His own stats loomed in his mind: Strength (aura): 39/100. (F). Pitiful next to Ethan's. But he couldn't back down—not with Robert and Morris watching. He squared his shoulders and stepped forward.

"Fine," he said, voice steadier than he felt. "But don't cry when I accidentally nick you."

Ethan laughed, raising his sword. "Big words, brother. Let's Fight!."

The first clash nearly knocked Adam off his feet. Ethan's strike was light, a test, but the force behind it—the sheer weight of his aura—made Adam's arms tremble. He swung back, a clumsy arc that Ethan sidestepped effortlessly. The gap was glaring. Where Ethan's movements were fluid and precise, Adam's felt sluggish, weak. His aura, if he even had one worth feeling, was a whisper against Ethan's roar.

"Focus!" Ethan barked, circling him. "You're thinking too much."

Adam gritted his teeth, lunging again. This time, he put everything into it—every ounce of frustration from his old life, every flicker of determination in this new one. The sword met Ethan's with a dull thud, and for a split second, Ethan's grin faltered.

"Not bad," Ethan said, stepping back. "Raw, but there's something there."

Adam panted, lowering his sword. Raw, maybe, but weak. His 39 paled against Ethan's 72, Robert's 58, even Morris's 62. The aura difference was stark—Ethan's suffocating, Morris's sharp, Robert's solid, and his own… barely a breeze.

"You'll get there," Ethan said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Just need practice."

Adam nodded, his mind racing. Practice, sure—but he had bigger plans. If aura and strength defined this world, he'd find a way to climb those rankings. His EX in Strategy and Tactics wasn't just a fluke. He'd use it.

"Robert, Morris," he called, turning to the knights. "Good work today. Keep pushing Ethan—he needs it."

The knights bowed, and Ethan smirked. "Oh, I'll be ready for you next time, brother."

Adam smiled faintly. Next time, he'd be more than a spectator for sure.