Grain Dust

Within the foreign grandeur of Hughingrad, Finnian O'Connell felt like a lost speck of dust. His father, Viscount Grevalt O'Connell, walked several steps ahead, his broad shoulders parting the crowd with an unspoken authority. Beside him, Viscountess Helsa held the tiny hand of Schein, Finnian's two-year-old younger brother, who stared at the towering buildings with eyes full of wonder. For Finnian, that wonder had long faded, replaced by anxiety, an instinct, perhaps, as a human.

This journey was a trade mission to sell seafood from their land in Crustes to the Governor of Zubing Province. But to Finnian, it felt like exile.

"You need to learn to socialize, Finnian," his father had said. "Your academic intelligence means nothing if you can't look a business partner in the eye and convince him."

Those words echoed constantly, reminding Finnian of what he lacked.

"Father, was it really necessary to bring the whole family?" Finnian had asked earlier, back when they were still aboard the ship crossing the Sea of Sapphire.

"Of course," Viscount Grevalt had replied firmly. "Who would you stay with at home? You're bright in academics, but you're weak in interaction. I won't leave you unsupervised."

His father's appearance, around 185 centimeters tall, with blond hair and the same blue eyes as Finnian, only emphasized their contrast. Finnian, barely 170 centimeters with a slightly slouched posture, felt like a paler, less successful version of the man ahead of him.

Now, amid the chaos of Hughingrad, the difference felt absurd. The language here was different, though Finnian recognized some vocabulary as descended from the "Tongue of Thornkind", the root of all languages on the Kaiserthorn Continent. Their accent was sharper and faster, and Finnian suspected that perhaps these people were more advanced than those of the Eastern Cledestine Kingdom.

"Finnian, would you come with me for a moment?" the Viscount asked, pointing to a large hexagonal building made of white sandstone and wrought iron. Unlike the surrounding structures with their ornate baroque architecture, this one appeared functional and blunt, with narrow windows more like fortress slits than proper windows.

"Are we watching a martial arts performance?" Finnian asked, recognizing the emblem of two crossed spears carved above the entrance.

Viscount Grevalt gave a slight smile. "It's more than a performance, son. This is diplomacy."

They entered the building. Inside was a massive training arena surrounded by tiered stands. The air smelled of sweat, weapon oil, and faintly burned Essence. Dozens of men and women of various ages trained on the main floor, some swinging large swords, others practicing with spears, and a few sparring barehanded. Their movements were precise, efficient, and deadly. This was the Allmanship Arena, where the finest martial practitioners of the Zarovgard Republic honed their craft.

His father didn't take them to the public seating. Instead, a staff member led them to a private balcony overlooking the arena. There, a gray-bearded man in an opulent governor's uniform was waiting. Governor Borislav of Zubing Province.

"Viscount O'Connell," Governor Borislav greeted with a thick Zarovgard accent, extending his hand. "An honor."

"The honor is mine, Governor," his father replied, shaking the hand firmly.

Finnian stood awkwardly behind his father, feeling out of place, unworthy of being here. He watched their interaction carefully, slowly recognizing the pattern and hesitantly concluding this was not merely about business. This was a clash of two great powers, disguised as casual talk about swordfish prices and the quality of this season's wheat.

Finnian's attention shifted to the arena below. His eyes locked onto a young woman training alone in one corner. She wore no armor, only a simple black cotton training outfit. Her short black hair clung to her sweat-soaked temples. In her hands was a long spear with a leaf-like tip.

Her movements were a blend of dance and violence. With clear purpose, she spun, thrust, and sliced through the empty air with a speed and precision that took Finnian's breath away. Every motion flowed seamlessly into the next, her body and spear forming a single, fluid entity. Around the spear's tip, a faint red glow of concentrated Essence occasionally flickered.

This was the Allmanship Path. Finnian had read about it in academy books, but seeing it in person was something else entirely. It clearly went beyond mere physical strength or magic. It could be described as total mastery over multiple disciplines, swordplay, spearmanship, hand-to-hand combat, all reinforced and unified by body-enhancing magic and energy shielding. For simplicity's sake, one could call it the art of war.

"She's one of the top graduates here," a voice beside Finnian suddenly said. An elderly man in a trainer's uniform stood there, his gaze also fixed on the woman below. "Her name is Zevanya. Not of noble blood, just a blacksmith's daughter from the northern mountains. But here, names and blood mean nothing. Only skill is valued."

Those words hit Finnian hard. In Eastern Cledestine, the name O'Connell gave him status — it opened doors to academies. Here, in this arena, that name meant nothing. Here, he would be just another awkward young man who couldn't even properly wield a sword.

"What use is noble blood," he thought, a dangerous question beginning to form in his mind, "if it can't help me stand alone on the dueling ground?"

On the balcony, his father's negotiations appeared to have concluded. Governor Borislav laughed and patted Viscount Grevalt's back.

"Three thousand vroval for a six-month supply," the Governor said. "A fine deal."

Three thousand vroval. Finnian quickly tried to convert the amount in his head. In the Republic of Zarovgard, their currency system was different. Ten vroval equaled thirteen bronze slein from his kingdom. So 3000 vroval meant 3900 slein, or roughly 345.55 silver grior, a considerable sum, though he knew his father had hoped for more.

"Of course," his father replied with a diplomatic smile. "As a sign of goodwill, we'll send the first hundred crates next week."

With business concluded, they were invited to lunch at the Allmanship practitioners' mess hall. It was an honor, or rather, a political gesture from the Governor. The mess was a large, plain room filled with long wooden tables. The food was also simple: dense black rye bread, meat stew, and a bitter local ale.

Finnian sat between his father and the old trainer who had spoken to him, Master Josephus. Finnian felt incredibly out of place. Around him, the warriors ate quickly and used the meal to refuel as fast as possible, their conversations full of technical terms like "Serpent Spear Formation" or "Tortoise Shield Technique." One thing was clear: no one here cared about noble table manners or aristocratic etiquette.

"So, young man," said Master Josephus, turning to Finnian. "You look more like a scholar than a Viscount's son. Do you train as well?"

"I-I... I focus more on theoretical Essence studies and history, sir," Finnian replied, cheeks flushing.

Josephus chuckled. "Theory is good for filling your head, but it won't stop a blade from reaching your neck. Here in Zarovgard, we believe everyone, noble or not, should be able to defend themselves. That's the core of the Allmanship Path. Balance between mind and body."

He pointed to a burly young man devouring his meal across the table. "See him? His name's Bornovich. Son of a carpet merchant. Two years ago, he was a fat kid who couldn't run a hundred meters. Now he's one of our best hand-to-hand fighters. No natural talent at all. What he had was the will to train."

This ideology felt alien to Finnian. In Eastern Cledestine, talent and bloodline were everything. You were born an Evolver or not. The idea that power could be forged from nothing through extreme effort was rarely discussed.

After lunch, as they prepared to leave, his father spoke to him privately.

"Look at them, Finnian," said Viscount Grevalt, eyes fixed on the warriors in the arena. "They have no names, no land. Their only asset is their own strength. That's the world beyond our borders, a world that doesn't care about the name O'Connell. You must learn that."

It was the first time his father had spoken to him not as a disappointed parent, but as a mentor.

"I didn't bring you here just for business," he continued. "I brought you here so you could see. So you could understand that this world is bigger and harsher than your academy's library. I won't always be around to protect you. You must learn to stand on your own."

On the way back to their inn, Finnian remained silent. His father's words, his observations of Zevanya and Bornovich, Josephus' remarks, all swirled in his head. He began to question everything. The structure of his world, his role as a noble, the purpose of his education.

He had always believed physical weakness was his fate, something to be accepted. He'd buried his weakness under academic achievements, building a fortress out of books and theory. Now, he realized that fortress was made of paper.

That night, in his luxurious room at the inn, Finnian couldn't sleep. He opened one of the books he'd brought from the academy, a book about the various Evolver Channels. He turned to the chapter on the Allmanship Path, the one he always skipped, thinking it irrelevant to him.

Finnian read about how practitioners of this path didn't rely on a single Essence type — instead, they learned to channel their own life energy to enhance their bodies, sharpen their reflexes, and create momentary energy shields. This wasn't about throwing fireballs or gusts of wind. It was about total self-mastery. This path didn't require rare innate gifts. It required only one thing: the will to endure pain and break past your limits over and over again.

A wild idea, a tiny seed of curiosity, began to grow in his mind.

Could he do it? Could he, Finnian O'Connell, the awkward and timid boy, walk this path?

He stood and walked to the large mirror in his room. He stared at his reflection. A thin young man with hesitant blue eyes. He wasn't Zevanya. He wasn't Bornovich. He wasn't even his father.

He raised his hand, trying to sense the Essence around him, just as he'd been taught in class. Usually, he could only feel a weak, unstable current. But tonight, after everything he'd seen and heard, he tried something different. He attempted a technique he'd never tried before, consolidating the Essence within himself rather than absorbing it from outside.

He focused, trying to replicate what he'd read. He felt a faint warmth in his palm, very weak, almost imperceptible. It was his own Essence, his life energy.

It wasn't much. Maybe enough to light a match. But it was there, and it was his.

For the first time, Finnian didn't see weakness in the mirror. He could feel it, the beginning, his own turning point. This trip to Hughingrad was meant to be a lesson in business and diplomacy. But that was his father's lesson. His own was something else entirely.

He didn't yet know what he would do with this discovery. He had no plan. But one thing was certain: when he returned to Eastern Cledestine Kingdom, he would no longer be the same Finnian. The seed of change had been planted. And in this harsh world, even the smallest seed could grow into something unpredictable, if watered with enough will.