Chapter 14: The Weight of Power

Chapter 14: The Weight of Power

The dawn sky bled hues of gold and crimson as the Everhart estate awakened. Servants moved swiftly, knights prepared for their morning drills, and nobles exchanged hushed conversations in the grand halls. Yet, within the heart of the estate, inside the private training grounds of the Grand Duke's heir, a storm of power raged.

Leonhardt Valerian Everhart stood amidst the chaos, his ashen-black hair glistening under the morning light, strands of deep red catching in the sun's rays like embers. His fiery red eyes, flecked with gold, burned with unrelenting focus as he clashed swords with his father.

Steel met steel.

The sound of impact sent a ringing echo through the grounds, shaking even the air. Leonhardt's arms trembled slightly under the pressure, but his grip never wavered. The blade in his hands wasn't just a weapon; it was an extension of himself.

Damian Aurelius Everhart, the strongest swordsman in the empire, pressed forward without hesitation. His strikes were sharp, relentless, carrying the weight of a man who had honed his craft to perfection. Each movement was precise, every attack aimed not just to test Leonhardt, but to break him.

Yet, he did not break.

Leonhardt pivoted at the last second, shifting his weight, using the force of his father's strike to maneuver into an advantageous position. With fluid precision, he countered—his blade slicing through the air with lethal intent.

Damian's eyes flickered with approval. He deflected the attack, but the fact that his son had forced him to react was not lost on him.

He's improving. Faster than even I anticipated.

They fought for what felt like an eternity. Leonhardt's body screamed from exertion, but he ignored the pain. He could not afford weakness. Not when time was slipping through his fingers.

With one final clash, Damian disarmed him. Leonhardt's sword flew from his grip, embedding itself into the ground several feet away. He panted, sweat dripping down his brow, but his gaze remained cold and calculating.

Damian studied him for a moment before lowering his blade. "That will do for today."

Leonhardt didn't reply. He simply gave a small nod, retrieved his sword, and exited the training grounds.

The halls of Everhart Castle were grand, lined with golden chandeliers and rich tapestries depicting scenes of war and conquest. Leonhardt moved through them like a shadow, ignoring the greetings of nobles and servants alike. He had no time for them.

As he entered his personal study, he found a familiar figure waiting for him.

His mother, Anastasia Everhart, sat in an elegant chair, a thick tome resting in her lap. Her icy-blue eyes met his with a mixture of pride and expectation.

"You're late," she remarked, closing the book with a soft thud.

"Training," he replied simply, taking a seat across from her.

Anastasia studied him for a moment, her gaze sharp as a dagger. "And yet, your mana remains stable. You didn't push beyond your limits this time."

Leonhardt didn't respond. He wasn't foolish. He knew his mother could sense even the smallest fluctuations in his mana flow.

She smirked slightly. "Good. Then we can proceed."

With a flick of her wrist, the room darkened, the air thickening with raw, ancient magic. The floor beneath them lit up with intricate runes, glowing faintly with golden and silver light. The bookshelves trembled slightly, as if reacting to the immense power swirling in the air.

Leonhardt sat still, unfazed. This was his true lesson.

Modern magic was nothing more than a diluted form of what once existed. His mother was the only 9th-class magician in the world, but even her knowledge could not compare to the magic of the past. The magic he was reclaiming.

Anastasia raised a hand, and a complex array of symbols appeared mid-air, shifting in a mesmerizing dance of power. "Tell me, what do you see?"

Leonhardt's eyes flickered with something unreadable. He understood this magic. No, he remembered it.

Instead of answering immediately, he reached out. The moment his fingertips brushed the symbols, they reacted. The formation trembled, adjusting itself to his presence, as if recognizing him.

Anastasia's breath hitched slightly. She had expected him to analyze it, but for it to respond to him?

"Interesting," she murmured, her gaze unreadable.

Leonhardt withdrew his hand, his expression impassive. "It's incomplete."

Anastasia's smirk widened. "Then complete it."

With a flick of his fingers, the symbols shifted. Runes rearranged themselves, ancient patterns correcting their forms, until finally—the formation stabilized.

The room vibrated with power, and for a brief moment, the entire estate felt it.

Anastasia's eyes gleamed. He's already surpassing me.

But Leonhardt remained silent, his mind elsewhere. This is not enough.

No matter how powerful he became, the seal remained. She was still trapped.

And he would not accept that.

Night had fallen.

Leonhardt stood alone beneath the open sky, the cold wind ruffling his cloak. The world was silent, yet he could feel it—the distant pull, the faint connection that remained.

Aetheria.

His fingers curled into a fist. Somewhere, she was fighting just as he was, pushing against the seal that bound them apart.

He exhaled slowly. I will break this.

Not for power.

Not for revenge.

For her.