Corvis Eralith
The afternoon sun, warm and golden, bathed one of the many secluded Castle courtyards, turning the manicured grass into an emerald sea. From my perch on a weathered stone bench, shaded by an old, but solid sprawling oak, I watched.
Berna sat beside me, a mountain of warm hazel fur and quiet vigilance, her massive head resting on her paws, green eyes following the dance of steel and shadow unfolding before us. Her steady, rhythmic breathing was a comforting counterpoint to the sharp clang and hiss of clashing blades.
Tessia moved with a fluid grace I hadn't seen before, a stark contrast to the determined but sometimes clumsy girl who had first awakened her mana core five years ago.
Compared to the Tessia etched in my borrowed memories from the novel—the one who had received a Mourning Pearl to forcibly stabilize her power—my sister was behind in raw core cultivation, still lingering in the solid yellow stage. But her mastery… that was something else entirely.
Where the novel's Tessia had struggled, mine had embraced the Elderwood Guardian's Will with an intuitive understanding that bordered on symbiosis.
She was deep in her second phase, the Integrate Phase. A vibrant, emerald-green aura shimmered around her like living sunlight, clinging to her form and bleeding into the air. With a focused sweep of her hands, she summoned the spell of her own creation Sylvan Shards.
Not vague constructs, but two razor-sharp longswords, forged entirely from solidified, pulsating green energy—extensions of her will and the ancient guardian bound to her. They hummed with contained power, leaves of pure aura swirling faintly around their edges.
Grampa Virion, a pillar of controlled and raw strength opposite her, wasn't just sparring; he was sculpting. His own Integrate Phase manifested differently—a shroud of deep, liquid shadow that flowed over him like living night, sharpening his features, enhancing his speed to near-blurring levels.
He deflected her strikes, not with brute force, but with precise taps and guiding parries, his voice a low murmur—due to the aura coating him—correcting her stance, her footwork, the angle of a thrust.
"Pivot on the ball, Little One, not the heel! Let your spell become an extension of your intent, not just your arm!"
The scene was achingly familiar. It transported me back years, to the sun-dappled training grounds of Zestier Palace.
A younger Corvis, hopeless and often relegated to the sidelines, spending hours watching his twin sister, bright-eyed and determined, learn the dance of combat under Grampa's patient, sometimes gruff, tutelage.
The scent of crushed grass, the rhythmic thwack of practice blades, the shared focus—it was a pocket of pure, uncomplicated belonging I hadn't realized I'd missed so acutely until this moment. A lump formed in my throat, bittersweet.
"You truly wasted your time looking at... these squabbles?" Romulos's voice, a dry rasp in my mind, shattered the nostalgic warmth like a dropped pane of glass. His phantom form leaned against the oak tree, arms crossed, observing the duel with detached, faintly disdainful curiosity.
"Anyway, what are you designing? Scribbling like a possessed clerk."
I looked down at the parchment spread across my lap, the quill hovering over a complex diagram. Berna shifted slightly, her warm flank pressing against my leg, a silent anchor.
Adaptations, I replied mentally, my focus returning to the intricate lines. For the Ineptrunes. If—when—this core manifests… I traced a circuit connecting the stylized forearm tattoo of Against the Tragedy to a newly sketched node representing the hypothetical core location in my solar plexus.
Everything currently works externally, channeling ambient mana. Forcing that flow through a nascent core… I sketched a small, violent explosion near the connection point. It would be catastrophic literally.
The solution unfolding on the parchment was radical. Against the Tragedy wouldn't just reside on my forearm anymore; its matrix needed to expand, becoming a full-body lattice, a secondary circulatory system etched on my skin integrated with my core, designed to regulate, amplify, and safely channel its output—less like the former Ineptrunes, more like Alacryan runes.
For the Catastrophe, the decay engine, posed a different terror. How could a body not born of Basilisk blood withstand its corrosive touch when fueled internally? That answer remained a chilling blank space.
Beyond the Meta and Failsafe, thankfully, seemed stable, their functions independent. Accaron, the resonance manipulator… it needed liberation.
Its offensive potential was too potent to remain shackled to a prosthetic; it needed to become a spell, pure and direct.
"Not bad for a baseline plan," Romulos conceded, his spectral head tilting as he examined the sketch. "Crude, but functional. Shows a glimmer of potential." A rare, almost reluctant compliment.
"Now, what about the Barbarossa? I put a lot of my heart into that monstrosity too, you know. Don't tell me you're abandoning our glorious... mech."
I glanced towards the high castle walls, picturing the massive exoform parked in the dockyard for the Lances and whoever had a flying bond licated in the back of the Castle. Gideon had indeed managed its discreet transport—a minor miracle.
"It's here. Structurally sound from the Lucas… encounter." The memory of the corrupted Wykes writhing flashed, unwanted. "But the runes… Bairon's lightning." I sketched a jagged bolt striking a runic array on the parchment margin. "Severely damaged. Compromised the primary mana conduits and defensive matrices."
A cold realization settled. Note to self: devise comprehensive lightning countermeasures for runic systems. Immediately. The thought of facing a lightning-wielding Scythe or Retainer with a crippled Barbarossa was a special kind of nightmare.
As soon as we can leave this cage, I projected to Romulos, the frustration at my confinement momentarily overriding the core anxiety, we hunt. Specific mana beasts. We need materials resistant to energy discharge, conductive yet insulating substrates…
"Fine enough," Romulos agreed, a predatory gleam flickering in his star-filled eyes at the prospect of the hunt.
"Anyway," he added, gesturing dismissively at my parchment, "the name 'Ineptrunes'… it's becoming obsolete, don't you think? Sounds quaint for integrated core-boosting latticework."
He was right. The name, born from the coreless prince's need to manipulate mana externally, was a relic. If I gained a core, they wouldn't be 'inept' tools; they'd be… something else. Amplifiers. Regulators. Conduits.
A small, genuine smile touched my lips, the first uncomplicated one in days. True. The entire concept behind the name becomes… futile.
"Corvis!" Tessia's voice, sharp with playful indignation, cut through my technical reverie. I looked up, blinking. She stood panting slightly, sweat glistening on her brow, her Sylvan Shards dissolved. Her eyes, bright within the fading emerald aura, were fixed on me, hands on her hips.
"Are you even looking at me? Or just scribbling your weird diagrams?"
I smiled, the warmth returning. Berna let out a soft huff, nudging my arm gently as if to say, She has a point. "Sorry, Tessia," I called back, my voice lighter. "I was thinking. Important… things."
Before Tessia could retort, Grampa materialized behind her, a shadow given form. With a fond chuckle, he lightly tapped the top of her head with the flat of his practice blade. "Stop distracting yourself, Little One," he rumbled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Focus is the warrior's first shield."
The simple, innocent interaction—the teasing, the familiar nickname, Grampa's enduring presence—washed over me like a balm. We stood on the precipice of a war that promised to shatter continents and redefine lives, a conflict I'd foreseen with chilling clarity since childhood.
Fear, responsibility, and the phantom pain in my chest were constant companions. Yet, this moment, this sunlight, this familial bond… it persisted. It wasn't erased by the looming shadow. It was a defiant spark, precious and real. Berna, sensing my shift, rumbled deep in her chest and nuzzled her huge muzzle insistently against my shoulder, demanding attention.
"I didn't forget about you, girl," I murmured, scratching behind her massive ear, the coarse fur warm under my fingers. Her contented sigh vibrated through the bench. "I could never."
Tessia grinned, shaking off Grampa's tap, and reactivated her second phase. The emerald aura flared back to life, more intense this time. Grampa mirrored her, his shadow shroud deepening, becoming almost impenetrable. They launched back into their dance, blades a blur of light and dark.
"Your sister," Romulos observed, his voice losing its earlier edge, taking on a more analytical tone as he watched Tessia flow with her Beast Will, "relies too heavily on that borrowed power. It's impressive, granted, this symbiosis. But it makes her vulnerable. What happens when she faces something that disrupts the bond? Or drains her too fast to maintain the phase? Or simply fights in an environment anathema to the spirit?"
I tensed slightly. He wasn't wrong. Tessia moved with the Elderwood Guardian's will, not just using it. It was beautiful, powerful, but… potentially limiting.
"Beast Wills," Romulos continued, his gaze shifting to Grampa, who moved with lethal economy within his shadow, "are potent crutches for lessers. Powerful, yes, but often they induce stagnation. The wielder focuses so intently on mastering the gift, they neglect mastering the self. The core stagnates, feeding the Beast Will instead of being honed alongside it."
A strange note entered his voice – not disdain, but something softer, almost… regretful? His spectral eyes lingered on Gramoa.
"Take him, for example. Virion Eralith. Formidable with his Beast Will. But if he hadn't poured decades primarily into integrating that spirit…" Romulos paused, a flicker of something complex crossing his ethereal features. "...he might have reached white core through his own strength, without even needing Grandfather's artifacts. Instead he stagnated at silver core."
The observation hung in the air, heavy with implication. It spoke of potential unfulfilled, paths not taken.
You… what was your relationship with my Grampa? I asked silently, studying Romulos's unusually pensive expression. The raw vulnerability he'd shown moments ago was gone, replaced by a deep, melancholic contemplation.
"I…" he began, his voice lower, less sure than I'd ever heard it. "I was sent with Windsom and General Aldir. Officially, to aid Dicathen against my Dad… though I didn't know his identity then."
He looked away, his form seeming to dim slightly. "I was… a field medic. Primarily. Using aether arts to knit flesh and bone, to soothe burns, to mend shattered soldiers brought back from the front lines against the Alacryan legions."
The image was staggering. Romulos? Healing soldiers? The entity who'd cheered my ruthless efficiency as Outis, who'd scoffed at sentiment, who embodied a cold, ancient intellect… a medic?
Sorry, but I can't imagine the person who cheered me while I slaughtered bandit camps as Outis to be a… medic, I replied, unable to keep the disbelief from my mental tone.
"People change, Corvis," he said simply, the words heavy with unspoken history. His gaze drifted back to Grampa, a profound sadness etching lines onto his phantom face.
"Virion… he was a beacon. Fierce, unyielding, yet deeply respected by his people… and by Aldir too. A true leader. When Dicathen fell… when the last resistance crumbled…" His voice hitched, a sound like tearing silk.
"And Grandfather… Kezess… sent Taci…" He stopped abruptly, the name 'Taci' spat out like poison. The phantom light within him flickered violently.
"I—" He cut himself off, turning his face away completely. The sadness solidified into something harder, colder. "It's a story from a reality you will never know, Corvis. A ghost story. And it doesn't matter. Not anymore. It can't matter."
The raw pain, the aborted confession, the dismissal—it was a glimpse into a chasm of loss and betrayal I couldn't fully fathom. The vulnerable Romulos was back, but this time shrouded in grief and a bitterness so deep it felt ancient. I didn't press. Some wounds were too old, too profound, to be prodded.
Instead, I returned my focus to the courtyard, to the immediate concern. Tessia lunged, her Sylvan Shards a streak of emerald light. Grampa flowed around it, his shadow-blade tapping her wrist with impossible speed. Her Sylvan Shard dissolved, and she stumbled back, disarmed.
"Grampa!" she whined, rubbing her wrist, but a grin fought its way onto her face.
Grampa chuckled, the deep sound resonating in the quiet courtyard. He deactivated his own second phase, the shadows receding like ink in water. He ruffled her sweat-dampened hair.
"You still have a long way ahead of you, Little One," he said, his voice warm but firm. "A long, long way. Power is a tool, Tessia. Never forget the hand that wields it."
His eyes, sharp and knowing, met mine briefly across the distance, as if the advice was meant for both of us. For the coreless prince facing a wanted/unwanted core, and the sister mastering a power that could master her.
The sun dipped lower, casting long, poignant shadows across the training ground, a silent reminder that peace, like the afternoon light, was fleeting, but the bonds forged within it could endure the coming storm.