Fusion Ambition

The next morning, Kaelor left the town's edge, ignoring the curious stares from those laboring at the rice fields. Word had clearly spread, about the strange new seedlings, the arcane flames, and the lord who'd once drowned in wine now walking like a man reborn.

He didn't slow his pace.

Instead, he made his way toward the other side of town, an open expanse of flattened earth where six Dreadclaw warriors clashed in pairs, wooden sabers in hand. Their bodies moved with predatory grace, furred limbs blurring as they exchanged brutal strikes.

In this forsaken town, far removed from the gleam of noble steel and the ceremonial longswords of aristocrats, the common blade was a knife. But for these transformed warriors, knives had evolved, grown. The weapon they wielded now was closer to a curved saber, wide-bladed and long-handled. It reminded Kaelor of a katana, but with a broader width, nearly the size of a grown man's palm, crafted more for slashing than finesse.

Hunting devil beasts required force, not elegance. A single, committed slash. A sidestep, then a cleaving blow meant to maim or kill. If you missed, there might be no second swing.

When they spotted him, the six warriors halted, falling into a rigid line. Hound stood before them, a wall of muscle and dominance.

"My Lord!" they said in unison, bowing deeply.

"You may continue," Kaelor said, brushing aside the formalities. "I'm not here to watch. I'm here to train."

Hound turned toward a nearby rack and returned with another oversized wooden saber. He offered it with a smirk, though it held no malice, only a quiet, knowing amusement.

The moment Kaelor gripped the weapon, his body tilted forward. His eyes went wide. The weight wasn't absurd, but it humbled him. Back on Earth, he could carry heavy concrete blocks, haul bricks without pause. But this body… this soft-bodied heir, groomed in brothels and pampered halls, had no such foundation.

His knuckles whitened as he lifted the weapon, muscles trembling.

"You have a long way to go, My Lord," Hound remarked, the smirk widening. It wasn't mockery. It was fact.

Kaelor didn't respond. He simply nodded, sweat already forming on his brow. "Let's begin."

The first few swings were tolerable. The next few burned. After barely a dozen, his shoulders screamed in protest. His lungs heaved. His vision blurred. And then he collapsed, crumpling like wet parchment, arms limp at his sides.

Flat on the ground, Kaelor stared up at the sky, breath ragged. The sounds of sparring reached him once more, thunderous, sharp. The Dreadclaw warriors were back at it, moving like shadows across the dirt, exchanging strikes that split the air with force. Each clash sounded like falling trees. One strike against his bones and they might shatter.

Envy itched in his chest.

They were monsters of strength, towering, deadly, graceful. And he… was just a man. A noble-born exile, stuck in a body unworthy of war.

'I could fuse with a Direwolf,' he thought, his fingers curling into the dirt. 'Make myself like them. End this weakness.'

But his gaze drifted toward the edge of the Devil Forest, its trees whispering secrets on the wind. There were greater beasts out there. Rarer, stronger, more majestic than anything he'd yet seen.

And deep down, he knew, fusing now would be premature. He needed to wait. To train. To bleed and sweat and earn the power that would one day be his.

The better the beast, the better the bond.

He would find a creature worthy of a lord.

And when that day came, his other fusion would bow before his might.

"You need to build your stamina, My Lord," Hound said, his voice low but firm. He held two training sabers with ease, one in each hand, his stance powerful, balanced, and unshakable. The sight of him, bare-chested beneath the morning light, with his furred muscles flexing under every breath, was enough to make Kaelor sigh inwardly.

He nodded without complaint.

After a short rest, Kaelor pushed himself to his feet and started running laps around the field. His legs protested, his lungs burned, but he didn't stop. He couldn't afford to, not anymore.

And so, the days passed.

Each morning, he would rise, drink the strange herbal concoction Mildred prepared for his aching body, and train with single-minded focus. Sweat soaked his clothes. Dirt clung to his boots. But slowly, he felt the fire in his limbs grow steadier, the trembling fade.

A week later, Kaelor crushed the morning dew beneath his boots as he strode toward the town gate, sleeves rolled to his elbows, muscles sore but stronger. He hadn't planned anything new, just another day of drills and saber forms, but something caught his eye.

The rice fields.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

A crowd had gathered, dozens of townsfolk standing ankle-deep in the paddies, gawking at the miracle before them, forty rice stalks, tall and regal, their emerald leaves glinting like gems in the morning sun. In one week, they had grown to what should've taken months.

The people whispered among themselves, unable to tear their eyes away. Murmurs of amazement, hunger, and disbelief swelled.

Kaelor's gaze shifted. Ned was there, walking slowly through the rows like a nobleman inspecting royal crops. His hands were clasped behind his back, his eyes narrowed in calculation.

But the awe of the moment didn't last.

The crowd grew restless. Then rowdy.

Someone stepped into the flooded field. Then another. In a matter of seconds, shouts rang out as people surged forward, wading through the waterlogged earth.

Ned's sons and their cronies rushed to stop them, and just like that, it turned into chaos.

Men slammed into each other. Women threw handfuls of mud. Children cried as grown bodies shoved past. Fists flew. Faces hit the water. The paddies churned underfoot, transforming into a battlefield of flailing limbs, splattered clothes, and shouted curses.

Kaelor stood frozen for a moment, eyes wide. Not in fear, but in realization.

The seed he'd planted, both literal and figurative, had taken root.

And now… it was sprouting quite beautifully.