Hope waited patiently outside the study room.

  He couldn’t deny the nerves crawling under his skin. If they said no—

  The door opened. Gregore stepped out, his face as unreadable as ever.

  He moved with measured steps until he stood before Hope, gaze sharp as steel, cutting into him as though stripping away every veil to reach the marrow beneath.

  What drove this boy? What hunger compelled him to chase strength with such reckless abandon? A talent like he had never seen or heard, yet wielded without the polish of bloodline grace. To demand risk on his own accord—what kind of spirit, or folly, compelled him?

  And then the questions that gnawed deeper: Who was this “friend” of Father’s who had raised him? What origin birthed a child who carried no refinement of court, yet bore the raw force to step beyond limits? Why bring him here, of all places? To this land, to this house? Was the Game of Houses truly the end they sought—or was there something beyond it, hidden, waiting to be claimed?

  Gregore’s stare lingered, unflinching. Hope returned it evenly, expression calm.

  At last, Gregore spoke. His voice was plain, clipped, the same tone with which he issued commands to soldiers.

  “Father has allowed it. You will go with Fiedore, your instructor. You are to remain at his side at all times. The designated hunting ground is the Blackbriar Hollow. You will not cross its borders under any circumstances. If you understand, you may leave at once.”

  Blackbriar Hollow, huh? Sounded better than staring at manor walls all day.

  “Thank you, Sire.” Hope bowed with all the respect the role demanded.

  Gregore drew a sealed scroll from his pocket. Upon the wax, the crest of House Barion gleamed—a rampant stag framed by a ring of thorns.

  He handed it to Hope without pause. “Give this to Fiedore.”

  Hope accepted it, fingers brushing the wax. For a brief moment, his eyes caught the faint weave of an enchantment coiled within the crest, hidden but unmistakable.

  Gregore spoke no further. He turned and strode away, each step ringing against the stone until the sound thinned into silence.

  When he was out of sight, Hope finally let his shoulders ease, drawing a long, steady breath.

  Alright then. A chance to leave the cage.

  He turned on his heel and made for the master-at-arms’ post.

  The old knight was slouched in a wooden chair, back resting against the wall, eyes half closed as though he had been dozing. At the sound of Hope’s steps, one eyelid cracked open. He straightened with a creak of leather and joints, though the movement carried more ease than sharpness.

  “Young sir,” he greeted, voice carrying the formal respect his station demanded, but softened by a note of warmth. In the weeks past, the stiffness of duty had mellowed into something almost familiar, almost fond—as if the boy’s persistence amused him.

  Hope’s grin widened as he stepped forward, offering the sealed scroll.

  The old knight took it with both hands, the wax catching a glint of light. He broke the seal with care, eyes flicking over the contents. As he read, his brows climbed steadily upward. Once. Twice. A third time just to be sure. Then he turned the parchment over and studied the crest again—no mistake. The seal was genuine.

  Was his Lordship not… going overboard?

  Fiedore let out a low sigh and looked up at the boy, who stood there with that wide, shameless grin of his. So much for his break.

  “I suppose this was your idea, young sir?” he said, voice pitched somewhere between weary and amused.

  “Perhaps,” Hope answered, face all mock innocence.

  Fiedore folded the scroll with care, tucking it away inside his surcoat. “Alright then. Ready to leave?”

  Hope nodded.

  “Come on, then. Best we make it before the light fades.”

  They crossed the manor’s courtyard, the last of the sun pouring molten gold over the paving stones. A handful of retainers lingered near the stables, eyes flicking their way but no one daring to comment.

  At the far end, beneath a timbered roof, Hope saw it.

  He slowed, blinking at the sight.

  Wings folded tight against its flanks—leathery and fur-veined, not feathery—each as long as the creature itself. Its head was narrow, muzzle drawn long, with sharp dark eyes. Antler-like ridges curled back from its skull, bone-white and ridged, giving it the look of some half-wild stag stitched to a pair of wings.

  The creature snorted, stamping a clawed hoof against the stone, wings shifting with a leathery rasp.

  Hope stopped outright. “What is…?”

  Fiedore patted the beast’s neck, utterly casual. “A winged antler. Old breed from the northern ranges. Not the prettiest creature in the stables, but she’s carried me longer than you’ve been alive.”

  Hope circled slowly, eyes tracing the lines of its wings, the way the muscles bunched beneath the hide.

  “Don’t fret, lad. She’s gentler than she looks. So long as you don’t grab at her horns.”

  Hope kept staring, half awed, half curious.

  Fiedore chuckled, shaking his head as he tightened the saddle. “Up you go, young sir. First time’s always the worst. After that, you’ll never want to sit a plain horse again.”

  Hope climbed up, the leather creaking under him, hands gripping a little tighter than he wanted to show. The beast shifted its weight, wings twitching, and he felt every muscle coil beneath him.

  Fiedore swung up behind him with the ease of a man who’d done it for decades. “Hold steady. She likes a firm hand.”

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  The beast snorted once, then bolted forward with a sudden burst of power. Hope’s breath punched out of him as the ground dropped away, the air slamming cold into his face.

  His stomach lurched, but the rush—wind tearing at his clothes, the manor shrinking below—felt great!

  He glanced to the side. The creature’s wings shimmered faintly with runes of pale light, each beat threaded with Magika. Air bent and coiled around them, the same kind of hum he felt when he triggered Air Gear—except this was smoother, faster, alive.

  Below, the manor spread out in neat lines: tiled roofs, ordered courtyards, knights pacing their routes, the stone walls, the gardens. Past it, the city stretched—stone streets buzzing with carts, markets, and all manner of colour. Smoke curled from bakeries and forges, blending with the chatter rising like a living haze. Beyond that, farmland rolled out in green and brown squares, stitched together like some giant patchwork quilt.

  He had never flown this high in this world. Partly because they didn’t let him after finding out he could use Air Gear. And the speed… it was far beyond anything he’d ever managed on his own.

  The winged antler screamed, banking hard. Hope’s gut lurched as the ground tilted, wind tearing past him in violent currents. He clung tight, heart hammering. Behind him, Fiedore laughed low, easy as if they were on a lazy ride.

  “She likes to show off. Don’t fight it—flow with her.”

  Hope ground his teeth, forcing his body to loosen, to shift with the beast’s rhythm instead of against it. Slowly, it started to click—the sway, the pull, the wings catching the air. And with that… he found himself grinning, coat whipping behind him, hair stinging his face.

  The smell, the noise, the wild rush of it all—it was damn cool!

  Minutes stretched, the farmland thinning into rougher country, rolling hills broken by darker patches. Soon, the trees thickened into a tangled mass, all shadow and thorn even under the sun.

  The beast dropped lower, wings spread wide as air roared through the gaps, braking hard. Its hooves slammed the dirt in a heavy thump, wings folding tight with a leathery rasp.

  Hope slid down, still grinning like an idiot. He couldn’t help staring at the creature. Now he wanted one of his own.

  Fiedore swung down beside him with a groan, patting the beast’s neck like an old friend. “Not so bad, eh?”

  He lifted his gaze across the horizon, and Hope followed. The trees ahead grew thick, black-barked and close-knit, their crowns knotted like clenched fists. Mist coiled low through the undergrowth, pale against the dark.

  “Welcome to the Blackbriar Hollow, young sir,” Fiedore said.

  Hope’s grin faded as the weight of the place sank in. The air was different here. Heavy. Like the ground itself was breathing slow and deep. He grabbed his spear from his back, the shaft solid and reassuring in his hand.

  “Alright… thanks for the ride,” he said with a nod to the winged antler, giving the beast a rare honest smile before looking back at Fiedore. “Let’s go.”

  The old knight gave the creature a fond pat and a brief nod before turning to Hope. He adjusted the strap across his shoulder, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword with an absent ease.

  “It will wait here for us,” he said, voice calm but edged with that firm weight of habit. Then his gaze flicked to Hope. “Stay close at my side.”

  They stepped into the treeline. Shade swallowed them, damp earth sucking at their boots. Roots clawed across the ground like knotted ropes, and the air carried a tang of rot beneath the greenery.

  It didn’t take long. A rustle ahead, too heavy for wind. Then the earth itself cracked.

  Hope flinched as soil split open and something dragged itself free—a hulking shape, bark and stone fused across its skin. Its limbs twisted, one arm gnarled like a tree trunk, the other clawed and sharp, crumbling dirt falling with each movement.

  What the hell is that?

  It looked like some twisted cross between grass, stone, and an ogre, with mismatched arms jutting out at odd angles, patches of moss clinging to its rocky hide, and a stench of death rolling off it in waves.

  Hope’s eyes narrowed. Was this really just a common variant?

  The creature’s eyes—if those hollow pits even counted as eyes—snapped to him. The air grew colder, the stink heavier, crawling down his throat. No prompt appeared above it, making its Tier painfully obvious.

  “Well, young sir,” Fiedore said evenly, though his fingers had already curled tight around the hilt of his sword, stance loose but ready. “This Mirewretch sits at Level 103. You may give it a try… just be careful.”

  Hope steadied himself, shifting his grip on the spear.

  This world was D-grade. Which meant most creatures in it were the same. So this thing wasn’t just Tier 2—it was also the highest grade he’d ever fought.

  Well… let’s see how this goes.

  The creature loomed, mindless or just slow. It hadn’t moved, not yet. Maybe because of the old knight’s presence, maybe because it wasn’t aggressive by nature.

  Air Gear wrapped him, rushing through his limbs, settling in his bones. His chest rose steady, and with it, the jokes, the smirks, the casual mask—were gone.

  Boots anchored. Eyes narrowed. Every line of the monster carved itself into his focus.

  Then dirt burst behind him. Dash ripped him forward. He flickered to the thing’s flank, spear already driving, all momentum snapping into a thrust—

  CLANG!

  The point rang against stone hide, sparks hissing off moss-crusted rock. His arms jarred with the recoil. The creature groaned—a low, grinding rumble, like boulders rolling in a pit.

  “Too tough—!” Hope spat, twisting away as the thing’s mismatched arm swung. A block of rock and root, crashing sideways like a tree trunk.

  Air Gear flared, boots cutting grooves in the dirt as he slipped back. He flung a Wind Blade at it in a slicing arc.

  The blade screamed through the air, bit deep—moss and bark shredded loose, but the monster hardly flinched.

  Then the ground trembled.

  Hope’s eyes widened as the thing hunched, its hands driving into the soil. Cracks spidered out in jagged lines, and suddenly the earth bulged—stone spikes burst upward, sharp and uneven.

  He cursed and rolled, dirt biting his cheek, the rush of stone slicing the air where his chest had been a heartbeat ago.

  “What the hell—?! Skills on a common variant?!” His pulse thundered as he scrambled upright, spear whipping around, Air Gear snapping fresh wind into his legs.

  He lunged again, feint high, then low, boots kicking off the churned ground. Dash—another blur—and he was behind it, thrusting straight for the gaps in its moss-clotted hide.

  The tip bit. Just barely. Enough to make the creature snarl, a sound like roots tearing out of soil.

  Its mismatched arm swept back blindly, faster than it had any right to.

  Hope ducked under it, wind screaming in his ears, but the sheer force of the swing dragged air with it, pulling him off balance. He staggered, boots slipping, and the stench of rot rolled over him.

  Focus!

  He slashed another Wind Blade across its shoulder. A crack hissed through stone—progress—but then its eyes, glowing faintly green, snapped toward him.

  Cold rolled in. The stench thickened as more spikes erupted beneath his boots.

  Hope darted aside, Dash bursting one after another, Air Gear streaming around him for speed. Even then, it barely bought him a breath, barely carved him an opening.

  Seconds blurred. He broke past a sweeping claw, slipping under the arc, spear thrusting for a gap in its stony hide. The point scraped, sparked—rock proved a cruel counter to his weapon.

  He cursed, boots sliding back across the dirt, then whipped Wind Blades one after the other. Thin slashes of air screamed out, cutting moss, chipping stone. They did more than the spear—but not enough.

  Where’s the weak point? Joints? Already tried. Cracks? Too shallow. The thing was slow, its swings easy to read, but its defense… damn near unbreakable.

  Dash. Air Gear. Wind Blades. Again and again. Each strike drained him, each surge tightening the strain in his head, tugging on his mind like weights hung from his skull.

  This wasn’t sustainable.

  He gritted his teeth, lungs burning as the creature loomed forward, the ground shivering with every step. He had to find another way.

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