Exams...Of Course.

Revan had three priorities in this life:

i>A peaceful existence.

ii>A countryside estate with all the comforts of nobility, and

iii>A life of unrestrained indulgence in fine cuisine.

'Unfortunately, a deadbeat of a father and an instigating bitch won't let that happen easily.'

He exhaled sharply as they stepped into the hallway, a silent resignation settling over him. The corridor stretched long and dignified, lined with walls of polished wood, their surfaces dark and gleaming under the flickering glow of iron sconces. The scent of burning oil mingled with aged parchment and the faint trace of lavender—an old attempt to mask the stale air of a house that had seen better days. Ornate rugs ran the length of the floor, their intricate patterns dulled by time and use. Heavy crimson drapes loomed over arched windows, their fabrics embroidered with the fading sigils of House Ritch, a duck with a crown, blade and a shield, a once-proud emblem now reduced to a mere decoration.

It was a noble's home, but not a prosperous one.

The air was thick with quiet judgment as they passed. Servants in simple, well-maintained garb offered stiff bows, their expressions carefully schooled into neutrality, yet their eyes lingered too long on Aldric.

Even the household guards, men accustomed to seeing knights come and go, shifted slightly at his presence. Their hands tensed against their sword hilts, their stances unconsciously braced. Revan saw it all, and the realization came easily.

They weren't wary of him.

They were wary of Aldric.

It was not fear, not outright, but there was a certain stiffness in how they acknowledged him—a respect too careful, a deference too practiced. The knight moved through the halls with the ease of a man who knew he had nothing to prove, yet every step he took sent ripples through the space around him.

Revan did not like that.

A man who commanded more presence than a noble in his own home was not a simple knight.

"Sir Aldric," Revan began, tone light as if posing a casual thought, "why must I train when I can simply become a bureaucrat? A proper education should suffice—"

"A war is not won by brutes," Aldric interrupted smoothly, his voice carrying its usual knowing cadence. "If the cowardly strategize and the dumb fight for us, that is not a war." He cast a glance over his shoulder, winking. "And, well, Lord Otto did order me to do so. Therefore, we will do it."

Revan sighed. 'Bastard.'

They descended the staircase, boots tapping against the stone steps, and exited through the back of the cobblestone mansion. Beyond, the training field stretched wide and open, a space of churned earth and packed sand. Soldiers moved in formation, their bodies slick with sweat, their hands wrapped around dulled blades and weighted spears. Their instructor's voice barked commands, sharp and relentless, pushing them forward without mercy.

The presence of Aldric did not go unnoticed.

Whispers ran through the air like an unspoken current, heads turning subtly, hands pausing in their drills. The wary glances from before became something more—acknowledgment, apprehension.

Revan caught the way they instinctively stepped aside, clearing a path for Aldric without him needing to ask. Even the instructor, a grizzled man with a scar splitting his lip, dipped his head slightly before resuming his shouting.

A knight held respect, certainly. But a man like this?

Revan knew, without a doubt, who held true authority here.

And it wasn't him.

Aldric strolled toward the weapon rack, fingers brushing over the handles of various blades before plucking one from the rest. A practice sword—dull-edged steel, heavy but blunted, crafted to withstand strikes without cutting flesh. He tossed it to Revan without warning, and Revan caught it on instinct, the weight of it pressing against his palm. Another was taken for himself.

Aldric did not remove his coat.

Revan narrowed his eyes. "Are you positive you want to test me while wearing all that?"

The knight scoffed, stepping onto the field without pause. "Thank you, Young Lord, for your concern, but—" He let his gaze sweep over Revan from head to toe, eyes calculating. "—I don't think there will be any need."

Every word, every tone, chipped away at Revan's patience.

His grip tightened around the hilt of the practice blade, fingers curling with irritation.

Then, without warning, he moved.

His boots kicked off the ground, body surging forward with a burst of speed. Left foot steady, right foot propelling him with enough force to twist his torso. His arms followed the motion, his entire body acting as torque as he swung the heavy blade in a horizontal arc.

A sharp clang rang out.

His momentum halted—stopped cold. His hands hissed in pain.

Aldric had blocked it. Effortlessly. His feet had not shifted. His expression had not changed. He had met the full brunt of Revan's strike without even flinching.

Revan scowled, stepping back.

"Young Lord does have some fire," Aldric mused, his smile unwavering.

Revan's brow twitched. His nose scrunched in irritation. "Shut up!"

The blade came down in a vicious vertical swing.

Aldric took a single step to the left.

The strike hit nothing.

Revan's teeth clenched as he turned, swinging diagonally—only for Aldric to step back, his movements fluid, effortless. Every attack was met with the same dismissal, not even worth the effort to block. Avoidance. As if he was not even worth the energy of a proper engagement.

Revan swung again. And again. And again.

Each strike met only air.

A minute passed. Then another.

Then—

His knees hit the ground.

His hands pressed against the dirt as he gasped, body heaving, exhaustion weighing heavy on his limbs.

Above him, Aldric stood. Composed. Unbothered. Watching.

"Are you done?"

The words cut deeper than they should have.

Something flickered in Revan's mind, unbidden. A memory. Not his own.

{"Are you done?"

The voice of his elder sister.

The sun had hidden her face—or perhaps, the trauma had blurred it into nothingness.

El Ritch stood, small and trembling, surrounded by faces twisted in disdain, in disgust. They mocked him openly, some with cruel laughter, others with sneering whispers. Eyes bore into him, burning, hollowing him out with their contempt.

This—this was why he had locked himself away. This was why, when they had finally forced him out, he had chosen death instead.}

Revan gasped, jerking back into the present.

A hand tapped against his head.

"Young Lord," Aldric's voice rang, steady and unmoved. "I asked—Are. You. Done?"

Revan's vision sharpened.

That same situation. That same disdain. That same look.

Aldric was gazing down at him as if he were nothing. As if he were less than nothing.

Something inside him snapped.

"NO!"

A roar tore from his throat, and suddenly—he felt it.

A surge of energy, wild and untamed. Thin white lines formed around his body, dancing along his skin like threads of light. The exhaustion that had gripped him moments ago shattered, replaced by a fire that burned through his veins. His body felt severely light.

He launched himself forward.

Aldric's eyes flickered. For the first time, something akin to recognition passed through them.

"Mana?" he murmured.

Revan's right arm coiled back, fist clenched, body driven by fury.

He swung.

Aldric caught the strike against the flat of his blade. The practice sword bent from the sheer force of impact, curving inward as if it might snap.

"YOU WILL NOT GET TO DO THIS!"

Revan's left hand grasped Aldric's coat, holding him in place as his right arm pulled back once more.

"I AM R—"

A sharp pain cracked against the back of his neck.

His body seized.

Aldric had thrown his bent sword, striking the practice rack, rebounding it back with a precise force that sent it colliding against Revan's spine. The impact cut through the rage, through the mana, through everything.

His vision blurred. His body failed him.

Aldric caught him before he could collapse completely.

"Rest well, Young Lord," he murmured, voice edged with something unreadable. "We have lots to talk about."

The last thing Revan heard before the world went dark was his own voice, distant, fading.

Fu…ck yo…u…