The yard was quiet in the morning chill. Frosthold's stones still held the dampness of night, but Aric's body felt warmer than ever. His muscles no longer dragged like before; every step carried more spring, every swing more bite.
He rolled his shoulders, iron sword in hand, and cut through the air. The blade hissed faster, cleaner.
So this is what those stat points did.
He swung again, chaining Sword Slash into a thrust, then snapped into Quickstep, darting to the side. His feet carried him smoother than before—like his body finally listened the first time instead of stumbling over itself.
Aric grinned. Then he lifted his sword, channeled mana, and loosed an Arcane Slash. The air cracked blue, the wave biting into the practice dummy and leaving a shallow scorch across the straw.
[Well, well. Look at you, Host. Muscles, speed, magic. Almost like a real fighter now.]
Aric smirked. Feels better than hacking at dummies with weak arms, that's for sure.
[Don't get cocky. You're still at the wooden-sword stage of life. But credit where it's due—you're improving.]
He steadied his breathing, raising the sword again. His mana didn't crash quite as quickly this time. The training, the point distribution—he could feel the difference.
I want more, he thought. Not just stronger swings. I want better skills. Quickstep and Arcane Slash got me through, but… I'll need more if I want to keep up.
[Finally, ambition! Took you long enough. You've got two empty copy slots, remember? Don't waste them on tricks you'll outgrow tomorrow. Next time you see someone strong—really strong—watch them. Copy something worth keeping.]
Aric lowered the blade, breathing hard. Like Captain Bran? Or maybe someone outside Frosthold?
[Exactly. Bran's got techniques you haven't even noticed yet. And if you're bold enough, knights, mages, mercenaries—you name it. But here's the catch: the stronger the skill, the harder it'll be to train up. And flashing around high-tier moves will turn heads. Think before you show them off.]
Aric nodded slowly. "Then I'll wait. I'll train what I have, get stronger first. When the chance comes, I'll copy something powerful."
[Smart. I almost feel proud. Almost.]
He chuckled and ran another sequence—Slash, Thrust, Quickstep, Arcane Slash—until sweat soaked his shirt and his breath came sharp. His body burned, but his movements flowed smoother with each pass.
The courtyard was quiet by the time Aric sheathed his sword. His arms ached, his shirt clung with sweat, but he could feel the difference. Each strike had been sharper, each step lighter. He had tested his body, tested his new strength, and it had answered.
[Good session, Host. You didn't fall flat on your face this time. Progress.]
Aric smirked faintly. Better than hearing you call me a baby deer again.
[Hey, don't knock the classics. But fine. Today, you've graduated to "slightly less embarrassing deer."]
He shook his head and made for the hall. Inside, the warmth of the fire and the scent of baked bread replaced the cool air of the yard. He found Elara and Lyanna together—his mother seated with an embroidery hoop, his sister sprawled beside her with a book of riddles open across her lap.
"Aric!" Lyanna perked up, bright-eyed. "Did you train again? You look like you wrestled three boars."
"Only two," Aric said, teasing, and dropped into a chair near her.
Elara raised her eyes from her needlework, studying him carefully. "You've been pushing yourself hard these days."
"I need to," he replied. "If I'm going to—" He stopped himself. If I'm going to prove them wrong.
Elara set the hoop aside, her expression soft but firm. "Strength is good. But strength without balance makes for a brittle blade. Promise me you'll take time to sharpen the mind as well."
Lyanna grinned. "Mother means stop swinging sticks and read books sometimes."
Aric leaned over to tap her forehead. "I read."
"Not enough!" she declared, wriggling away. "I'll quiz you tonight."
Elara chuckled, but her gaze lingered on Aric. "She's not entirely wrong. You've always had a sharp mind, Aric. Don't forget to use it."
He nodded, quieter now. "I won't."
The library of Frosthold wasn't grand like the ones in Valemont, but its shelves were filled with enough tomes to last a lifetime. Records of battles, treatises on trade, dusty ledgers, and a scattering of magical texts lay waiting.
Aric ran his fingers along the spines until he pulled one free: An Introduction to Martial Classes. The leather creaked as he opened it. Inside, neat lines described paths he might never have walked without the System—Knight, Duelist, Swordmage, Ranger. Each had strengths, weaknesses, notes on progression.
He traced the section on Swordmage longer than the rest. "Magic woven into steel…" His voice was barely a whisper.
[See? Someone's got good taste. Arcane Slash is just a baby version of this. If you polish it, you'll make that class look outdated.]
Aric flipped the page, absorbing details about mana flow and blade synchronization. He frowned. "This says most Swordmages burn themselves out by trying to force mana through their blades too often. That… sounds familiar."
[Congratulations, you're textbook reckless. But at least you're studying now. Gold star.]
He rolled his eyes but kept reading. When the book mentioned the rarity of Swordmage awakenings, he leaned back in the chair, staring at the page.
"So classes aren't just… given. They're paths. Choices. The right training, the right mindset…"
[And the right System. Don't forget me, Host. You've got a cheat code strapped to your soul. You can pick and choose, copy, grow—while the others are chained to whatever altar spat them out a class.]
Aric closed the book slowly. Then I'll use it. All of it.
He returned the tome and pulled down another: Bloodlines and Inheritance. The words there were heavier, but they spoke of strengths locked in lineage, of powers awakened in tiers. He thought of his own—Human bloodline, common and unremarkable.
But the System whispered differently.
[Don't sulk. Bloodlines are shiny trinkets. Useful, sure, but they don't make the person. You'll get your chances. And when you do, remember—blood is just another thing you can copy.]
Aric's lips curved into the faintest of smiles.
When he finally left the library, the sky was streaked orange with sunset. He carried no book, but his head was full of words—classes, bloodlines, techniques—and beneath it all, a single thought:
He wasn't just training to swing harder or run faster. He was learning how to shape the path ahead.