Chapter 6 - Intermediate Knight

Chapter 6 - Intermediate Knight

The forest had calmed, though the air still held the scent of scorched earth and ash. Dust drifted faintly through the clearing, curling like spirits across the charred soil, circling the crater where the mystic fire had once blazed.

Ashborn sat alone on a flat stone at the edge of the blast radius. His shoulders were slumped, his breath steady but deep, as if he were trying to anchor himself. Head bowed, he stared into his open palm. Thin wisps of green light flickered across his skin, curling like threads of living silk before sinking back into his flesh.

Footsteps approach-measured, cautious. Valyn was the first to speak, his voice light but edged with concern. "My Lord, are you all right?" He asked with a smile. "You looked quite heroic there, and then you started glowing."

Ashborn didn't respond at first. His gaze remained fixed on his hand, watching the flickering light. He slowly closed his fingers into a fist, then pressed them against his chest, just above his heart.

"It is burning in me quietly." He said quietly. A bright smile spread across Valyn's face.

A second set of footsteps followed. Alde stood beside Ashborn, dusting his clasped sleeves. His face was unreadable, but his voice was wary, not hiding his happiness.

"What happened there?" He asked. "I've read about mystic fires and their legends. But to witness and see one being absorbed, that's something else entirely." Ashborn closed his eyes, taking a long breath. "It swept through me, my veins, my lungs, and my bones. It burned away... Something. I don't know what. But I don't feel the same anymore."

Valyn raises an eyebrow, folding his arms. "Different in what way?" Ashborn opens his eyes. They shimmer faintly in green light. "I can feel those things," he said. "The warmth of your sword. The heartbeat of the forest. The hum beneath the earth, as if the world was vibrating."

He raised his palms again. This time, a green flame sprang up at once, swirling along his fingers like a ribbon of silk. It cast no heat, yet the air shimmered with its power. The grass around him bent as if bowing to it.

Alde recoiled slightly, awe in his eyes. "By the gods," he breathed. "You actually absorbed it. A mystic flame. That's... going to help you out a lot." Ashborn let the flame flicker out. He exhaled slowly, tension still heavy in his shoulders.

"I need to understand what it's done to me," he said. "My aura is larger, more stable. My meridians have expanded. Energy flows more easily now, like a river that's broken through its dam. It's like my body has awakened after years of sleep."

Valyn's brows furrowed. "I've heard of mystic fires granting power, but widening meridians? That's unheard of." Ashborn nodded. "Exactly. And I don't think this one is like the others. It's not just a flame. It feels ancient and alive."

Alde stood, scratching his beard, his tone firm. "Then we train. We learn what it is. We make sure it serves you, not the other way around. Until then, no one else must know."

Ashborn looked up. The dusklight shimmered on his face, reflecting faintly in his eyes, where the green fire still glowed. "Agree," he said. "I understand it... this power shall stay hidden, until it's needed."

Valyn smiled. "Good. If word got out, we'd have every fire priest and relic hunter all over the realm knocking down our camp."

Ashborn allowed a faint smile to touch his lips, the first since the fire had entered him. He looked down at his palm once more, then clenched it. Something had changed. The path forward just grew much longer. And deep within him, the flame stirred again, silent, lingering.

To keep the matter under wraps, Ashborn would practice controlling the flame only in remote areas, where no prying eyes could witness the spectacle. Additionally, Valyn and Alde would craft a story about a failed mission to explain their prolonged absence, ensuring that no one suspected the true nature of their newfound secret.

The conflict had faded, and the quiet of the forest had settled once more. Faint shafts of morning light pierced the thinning mist as Ashborn stood, brushing ash from his coat. The clearing still bore the scars of the skirmish- splintered trees, torn earth, and blackened trails from where the mystic fire had touched the ground.

Ashborn turned to Cilian, who was inspecting the perimeter and speaking quietly to a couple of knights arranging supplies. "Cilian," Ashborn called.

The young knight glanced back and walked over, his boots crunching through charred undergrowth. "My Lord?"

Ashborn's voice was calm, but there was a faint weight behind it. "How bad are the casualties?" Cilian's expression softened, and with a proud smile, he said, "Nobody died, My lord, but there are a few wounded- broken ribs, gashes, a dislocated shoulder or two. The two tigers gave us a tough fight, but we, your knights, held the line."

Ashborn released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. It slipped from his lips like steam, carrying tension with it. "And they'll recover?"

Cilian nodded. "Most are already back on their feet. A week or two of rest, maybe three for the worst. They're all Primary or Intermediate knights. Their bodies will mend fast."

A flicker of guilt passed through Ashborn's eyes, quickly masked. "Good. I led them here... I needed to make sure I hadn't led them to their deaths."

Valyn stood beside them, flexing a strip of cloth tied around his bicep. Blood had dried at the edge, but his grin was intact. "Led us into a fight?" he said, "That's what we live for. We are glad you absorbed that flame, it was like a story from the old songs."

Ashborn shook his head helplessly. His gaze drifted over the clearing again, as if committing it to memory. Then he turned back to Cilian and Valyn. "Erase our tracks. Leave no signs that we were here."

"Already being done," Cilian replied. "We've got scouts dragging branches over the trail. By midday, this place will be a ghost." Valyn adjusted the straps of his pack. "Where to now, my Lord?"

Ashborn looked to the distant treeline, where the forest opened toward the hills that led to his newly inherited fief. "We rest and then we move back to the camp." Cilian gave a sharp nod. "Understood."

The three stood in silence for a moment longer, the wind rustling the recovering forest, carrying with it the scent of char and pine. Ashborn turned his back on the crater, not knowing this was the place where his path had changed, and walked toward the rest area, where the soldiers were cleaning what little remained.

Behind them, the clearing faded into shadow, its secrets buried under ash and silence.

By midday, the forest began to thin. The trees grew sparse, the sunlight poured through in full strength now, casting light across the dirt path, where boot prints and hoof marks were imprinted. Ashborn rode at the head of the column, his cloak, still faintly scorched at the hem, shifting lazily in the breeze. The green glint in his eyes had softened.

His posture was upright, eyes calm, though the green glint flickering in the depths of the eye remained. His horse trotted quietly beneath him, as if sensing the unspoken weight in its rider's silence.

The trees finally parted, revealing the edge of their makeshift camp, nestled in a wide hollow between grassy hills. Wisps of smoke curled from the cookfires, rising toward the blue sky. In the distance, the rhythmic clang of hammer on steel rang out from the blacksmith's corner. The camp bustled with measured efficiency, healers tending the wounded, infantry sharpening blades, scouts repairing armour and polishing saddle straps.

At the perimeter, a patrol of sentries stood stiffly with spears in hand, their eyes narrowing with alertness as the returning column came into view. Then recognition dawned.

"Lord Ashborn returns!" one of them called, voice clear and high.

A ripple passed through the camp, and their heads turned. Activity slowed down, and conversations stopped mid-sentence. They're back. What happened out there?

Ashborn dismounted, his boots sinking softly into the earth. He exhaled through his nose, a breath deep and grounding, the pulse of the mystic flame steady in his veins. He passed by the murmuring crowd, past soldiers scrubbing blood from armor and serfs mending torn cloaks. Their eyes followed him—some wide with awe, others shadowed with unspoken questions.

Near the supply tents, a young boy with tousled hair and a clay cup ran toward him, cradling it with both hands. He stopped just short of Ashborn, wide-eyed but smiling nervously.

"I hope you're all right, my lord," the boy said, voice small but earnest. "I brought you water…"

Ashborn slowed and looked down. A moment passed before a kind smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He slightly ruffled the boy's hair. "Thank you," he muttered. "You're a good lad. What's your name?"

"Ranen, my lord."

"Well, Ranen... you did well today." He accepted the water, took a small sip, and handed the cup back. "Make sure the one's who are hurt get some before the end of the day." Ranen gave a wide, toothy grin and nodded furiously before scampering away, the cup clinking gently as he ran.

Behind Ashborn, Alde and Valyn approached. Alde's expression was as unreadable as ever, his sleeves newly cleaned, though the collar of his tunic still singed. Valyn, by contrast, was grinning with a relaxed look, one arm bandaged, the other holding a chunk of black bread.

"We should gather the men," Alde said, voice low but firm. "They'll want to hear your word. It would help them calm their nerves." Ashborn nodded, his gaze drifting to the rows of tents, some filled with resting knights, others housing healers tending to bruises, cuts, and broken bones. The scent of boiled herbs and root stew mingled in the air.

"See to it," he replied.

Under the shade of a canvas awning near the heart of camp, the forty knights gathered. Some leaned on lances, others sat on overturned crates or low logs, battered but attentive. The wounded stood or reclined on the outskirts, bandaged, bruised, but listening. The air was still, heavy with anticipation.

Ashborn stepped forward, resting his hand lightly on the hilt of his sword. His voice, when it came, was calm. "I brought you into that forest not knowing what we'd face," he began. "Two beasts met us there, one wielding metal and the other wind, both quite powerful. Each of you stood your ground. None of you broke. And because of that, we have all returned."

A few nods, a soft hum of agreement. "I know some of you carry wounds," he continued, eyes sweeping the group, pausing on familiar faces, Sir Theren with a sling, young Malric with his forehead bandaged, Cilian standing stoic despite the heavy limp. "But you are here. Breathing. And for that, I am grateful, more than words can say."

Sir Halwen, the grizzled knight with streaks of grey in his beard, raised his arm, his shoulder bandaged in thick white linen. "You were with us, my Lord. That's all a knight ever asks."

A cheer rose from a few men, subdued but genuine. Others offered proud nods, murmuring approval. Ashborn raised a hand, silencing the wave with a slight gesture. A smile, faint but honest, curved his lips. "We'll rest here for the day. Tomorrow, we move. There's a land that awaits us. Blackwood Vale won't claim itself!"

The men roared approval. Someone shouted, "To the Vale!" Spears clashed.

He paused. "But the forest… what happened there… stays between us. No tales or rumours about it. Let this be our secret. This world is more than steel and soil. Remember that. Understood?" The response came as a low but unified murmur—affirmation, loyalty, and silence wrapped in one.

Twilight fell slowly over the camp. The sky turned to amber, streaked with the last fire of the sun. The scent of grilled root vegetables and wild hare filled the air. A soft plucking of a lute floated from a corner where off-duty soldiers relaxed.

Ashborn sat beside the central fire, sword laid across his lap, untouched. His eyes reflected the flames, but the green hue beneath never faded. He watched them in silence.

Valyn joined him, slumping down with a dramatic groan and offering a flask. "Watered wine," he said with a bold smile. "Don't get excited. I saved the strong stuff for when we reach your keep." Ashborn took it with a small huff of amusement, sipped, the vintage was sour, cut with river water. Slightly choking, he said, "Tastes like victory."

Valyn snorted. "Tastes like piss." He nodded toward a group of knights laughing over a pot of stew. Then handed it back. "They held up well," he said.

"They did," Valyn agreed. He stared across the camp where a group of knights were laughing, playing dice with a few squires. "Tough old bastards, most of them. Still dreaming of land, titles… legacies."

Ashborn's gaze followed Valyn's.

"They deserve it," he said quietly. "They followed me without any question." "And they'd do it again," Valyn replied. "Not because of your title. Because of you." Ashborn didn't answer. His hand rested on his sword, the metal cool against his palm.

Stars blinked to life across the velvet sky, scattered like shards of shattered glass. The camp had quieted, the fires burning low, and the voices had dwindled to murmurs, and even the blacksmith's hammer had fallen silent. Only the occasional snort of a resting horse or the flapping of canvas in the gentle wind.

Ashborn left Valyn by the fire and stepped into his tent, the flap falling close behind him. It was modest but well-kept, a map laid across a small field table, his spare armour hanging neatly on a rack, a low cot to one side. He unbuckled his cloak, removing his armour piece by piece, setting them aside with practised ease, until he stood in a loose linen tunic and trousers. The room smelled faintly of steel oil, old leather, and the ever-present trace of burnt ash from that morning's battle.

He moved to the centre of the tent and lowered himself onto the floor, his legs crossed, and palms resting on his knees. Closing his eyes, a breath rolled in slowly, calm and steady.

The world has shifted. He could feel it now, more clearly than ever before: the aura around him, faint streams of energy in the air, like invisible currents brushing against his skin. It was no longer just a background noise. It responded to his rhythm, breathing with him.

Within his core, the mystic flame stirred. A coil of heat, not painful but comforting, like warm silk threading through his limbs. It flowed without resistance, circulating through his meridians, his muscles, his bones.

Ashborn's eyes opened, and they glowed faintly green, like embers caught in twilight. He drew in aura slowly, like drawing breath, and held it. Where once it had resisted—wild, unruly, difficult to command—now it obeyed. Like a beast tamed, a force fused to his very blood. He shaped it along his spine, directed it to the tips of his fingers, through his legs, and then back to his heart.

He rose fluidly to his feet. Grabbed the sword and then moved. A step. A turn. A strike.

Sword in hand, he danced in silence, the fabric of his tunic whispering against the air. Each movement flowed into the next, faster, sharper. Strikes fell like rain, controlled yet explosive, his aura surging with each pivot of the heel, each twist of the wrist. There was no hesitation. No wasted motion. No breaks in focus.

His efficiency had nearly doubled. Not just perception, but response time, coordination, and execution. Every breath aligned with motion. Every motion aligned with intent.

He exhaled through his teeth, flicking sweat from his brow, then thrust forward. His aura surged in tandem, lashing out like a whip of green heat, burning faint trails in the air.

"…My control," he murmured. "It's sharper and familiar."

A flick of his fingers, and the aura shimmered around his hand in a tight spiral. He stared at it, the glow reflecting in his eyes.

"I've stepped into the realm of Flow Like Water."

He clenched his palm, and the aura around the fingers shimmered briefly. A clear sign that he had reached the aura flow like water. The threshold of an Intermediate Knight. He sank back onto his knees, letting the flow settle. And in that quiet, he began to sense something else.

The faint tremble at the edge of a breakthrough. The barrier between his current state—a Peak Primary Knight—and the next tier: an Intermediate Knight.

It had always felt like a wall of granite. Hard and unbroken. Something that required months of training and gruelling refinement. But now? It felt like a door. Not yet open, but not locked as well, as if a gentle push will thrust it wide open.

He reached for the journal on his table, flipped to a clean page, and began to write.

Aura efficiency: Increased by at least 40%.Control: Sharper. His movements responded to the aura near-instantly.Perception: He could now feel the aura radiating from others, not just the environment.Breakthrough threshold: Within reach. A few more days of training, perhaps a battle… and he'd step through.

He paused, the pen hovering. This wasn't normal. Most common-born knights took three years of constant drilling just to reach Primary, and that was with a good teacher and decent physique. From there, five more years to claw their way into Intermediate—assuming they didn't break their bodies before then. As for Advanced, that was the domain of lifers, nobles, or the blessed few.

Ashborn's predecessor had been one of those few. A prodigy who started early at ten years old, with noble funding and elite tutors, stepped into the Advanced Realm by nineteen. A feat few knights in a generation could match. Many whispered it was only thanks to wealth and potions, aura crystals and specialised beast cores.

Unfortunately, this Ashborn had none of that. However, he was secretly grateful to be born as a noble. With a world as magical and dangerous as this, death awaits at any step. Only with power can one live comfortably. It would have taken him a year to step back into an intermediate knight, but the flame changed everything.

He stood once more, and the wind brushed through the tent flap. Outside, the stars shimmered over the sleeping camp. He looked at his hand. "I don't know what you are," he whispered, speaking to the green flame coiled inside his soul. "Since you've bound yourself to me. So if we walk this path… we do it together."

The flame pulsed once in response. Almost like a heartbeat. Ashborn smiled. Knowing this little flame has some sort of sentience. Something he hasn't told Valyn or Alde yet. Some things are to be said when the time asks for it.

He extinguished the lantern and lay on the cot-getting ready to sleep while hungering for what lay ahead.

Morning mist clung to the grass, curling around boots and trailing low over the camp like breath over still water. Serfs stirred by the fires, stretching stiff limbs and rubbing sleep from their eyes, while soldiers checked blades and tightened straps. But whispers moved faster than labour: Ashborn was going to spar with Knight Halwen—an Intermediate Knight.

It was a decision made at dawn between Ashborn, Valyn, and Alde. Valyn had sighed at the strange magic of mystic fire, how it could condense years of effort into mere seconds. But this match meant more than just a test of power. It was a declaration—Ashborn was no wilted candle.

The training field lay at the camp's edge, a wide stretch of packed earth framed by sparse spruce and battered practice dummies. A crowd had already gathered by the time Ashborn arrived, bare-armed in a sleeveless tunic that revealed lean, corded muscle. His sword rested loosely in his grip, but his eyes burned—a quiet, smouldering green.

Halwen followed, his greying hair tied back, the lines of his face carved by decades of war. He wore no plate, only chainmail over a padded gambeson, his curved knight's sabre gleaming pale blue in the dawn light. Aura rippled along the blade's edge—steady, fluid, like a river's current.

Their eyes locked. "Lord Ashborn," Halwen said, offering a respectful nod. "It's an honour to cross blades with you. I trust you won't go easy on me." Ashborn inclined his head. "I've heard the stories. The last man standing in every war. Let's see if I can change that."

A smirk tugged at the corner of Halwen's mouth. "Don't mistake age for weakness. This old river still has depth. Valyn stepped forward, raising a hand. "No killing blows. First to disarm or yield." Ashborn shifted into a stance. "Ready when you are."

The wind shifted. Then steel sang. Halwen struck first, low and fast, a feint into a rising arc. Ashborn met it with a parry, pivoting around, to deliver a crippling blow to the ribs. But Halwen moved like water, smooth and fluid. He absorbed the blow and redirected it with grace, his sabre pulsing with aqua-blue aura. It burst outward in a wave, knocking Ashborn back a step.

Cheers erupted from the watching crowd. Halwen was fast, refined and minimalist. His blade moved with the efficiency honed through decades, the technique ingrained into the bones. Ashborn narrowed his eyes, settling back into his stance. The air around him shimmered, his aura rising with threads of crimson spiralling into a deeper shade. The grass at his feet began to burn.

They clashed again. And again. Ashborn's blows were forceful, every strike trailing heat and sparks. But Halwen was a master of space and timing, his blade redirecting fire into steam, pressure into emptiness. Where Ashborn blazed forward like a wildfire, Halwen became the ebbing tide, softening, folding, waiting to strike back.

A brutal clash left Ashborn with a shallow cut on his shoulder. Halwen didn't hesitate—his blade sweeping low, wrapped in freezing mist. Ashborn backflipped, a flash of flame kicking from his heels.

The crowd gasped. He landed softly, steadied himself, and charged again. His aura had changed, burning brighter and heavier. The crimson had darkened into blood-red veins, winding across his arms and sword. The very air around him shimmered, warped by heat.

He moved faster and sharper. Three slashes in a blink, one to Halwen's ribs, another to his shoulder, and a final downward strike.

Halwen blocked two, but the third—

Boom.

It struck like a hammer, the force behind it cracking the earth beneath them. Halwen was thrown back, boots sliding, a trail of scorched soil in his wake. His sabre trembled in his grip. Ashborn paused, his chest heaving, aura flickering wildly. His eyes widened.

Something inside him broke, the fire aura in the surrounding gushed inside of him. A snap like cracking glass. Then came a wave of energy flooding outward, thunderous and hot.

The watching soldiers staggered, feeling the weight of it. Birds scattered. The wind shifted. Ashborn exhaled slowly, and his body straightened. His flame aura condensed—no longer raw, but coiled to discipline and concentration. Valyn stood up from his seat. "He's… he's broken through." Alde narrowed his eyes. "Intermediate Knight… and still climbing."

But the duel wasn't over. Halwen raised his blade again, aura now freezing the air around him. "No retreat, Lord Ashborn," he growled. "You don't get stronger while standing still."

Halwen had come from nothing. A commoner who rose through the ranks through grit and blood. Every advancement is carved through trials. He didn't believe in gifts, only what was earned with a blade. To him, nobles given elixirs and mystic manuals were greenhouse flowers-untested and fragile.

Ashborn nodded. "Agreed." They charged one last time—flame and water colliding with a crack of thunder. Ashborn spun, dipped under a sweeping arc, and slammed his blade into Halwen's sabre with a burst of flame so intense it forced the older knight to release his grip. The sword clattered to the ground, scorched and steaming.

Silence fell.

Ashborn stood with his sword raised, breath heavy, aura flickering like a dying bonfire, but he remained on his feet. Halwen stared at his empty hands. Then slowly, he bowed. "Well fought," he said, then bowed deeply. "You've returned stronger than before, my lord."

Ashborn turned to the soldiers, their eyes wide, their mouths open. He planted his sword into the ground. "I haven't lost," he said, voice firm and low. "Not to time. Not to injury. Not to doubt. I will rise again. Higher than before."

The crowd erupted. Some clapped. Others whooped and cheered. Even the squires thumped their fists against their chests in respect. Valyn grinned widely. "Good," he muttered. "Damn good."

Alde, arms folded, just nodded. "He is not an ordinary noble." Ashborn looked down at his hands, still glowing faintly with flame. He could feel it, the power, the control, the connection to the mystic force that had become part of him. He whispered beneath his breath.

"We've just begun."