My first sensation upon waking was a dull, throbbing ache that seemed to emanate from every fiber of my being. It felt like I'd been used as a practice dummy by a Lawachurl. My eyes fluttered open to the sight of a high, vaulted ceiling painted with frescoes of Anemo Archon Barbatos. The clean, antiseptic smell of Wolfhook and medicinal herbs confirmed my location: the infirmary in the Favonius Cathedral.
"He's awake!"
The voice was Jean's. I turned my head, wincing at the pull in my neck muscles, and saw her sitting by my bedside. Her eyes were red and puffy, but they lit up with immense relief. My parents, Gunther and Elara, rushed to my other side, their faces etched with a mixture of terror and pride that only a parent whose child just blew up a monster could muster.
"Arthur," my father said, his voice thick with emotion. He placed a heavy, calloused hand on my forehead. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I tried to arm-wrestle a Stonehide Lawachurl," I croaked, my throat dry.
My mother handed me a cup of water, her hands trembling slightly. "The healers said you suffered severe muscle tearing in your arms and extreme elemental exhaustion. They said... they've never seen anything like it. A boy with no Vision, unleashing such power."
The door opened and Seamus Gunnhildr entered, followed by a tall man with a commanding presence and an easy-going smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. I recognized him instantly from game lore and Mondstadt gossip. Varka, the current Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius. The Knight of Boreas.
This was serious. They'd called in the big boss.
Varka pulled up a chair. "Arthur Aethel. You've caused quite a stir. The patrol knights said you saved Jean's life and single-handedly disabled a Mitachurl with a... well, they described it as an 'explosion of golden light'."
I shifted uncomfortably. Lying to my parents was one thing, but lying to the Grand Master of the Knights was another level entirely. I needed a plausible cover story. "I... don't really know what happened, sir. I saw the monster charging at Jean, and something just... snapped. It was like a dam breaking inside me. There was heat, and light, and then pain."
It wasn't even really a lie.
Varka stroked his chin, studying me intently. "A spontaneous elemental awakening. It's rare, but not unheard of. Usually, it's followed by the appearance of a Vision, a sign of a god's favor. But you have no Vision."
He glanced at my parents, then back at me. "Your family has served Mondstadt honorably for centuries, son. And what you did yesterday, protecting your friend in the face of overwhelming odds... that is the truest spirit of a Knight of Favonius. However," his tone grew stern, "that power is wild and untrained. Until we understand it, and until you can control it, you are forbidden from using it again. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Grand Master," I said, relieved. They'd bought it. They'd chalked it up to a freak occurrence, a mystery to be shelved. It was the perfect outcome.
After more fussing from my parents and a tearful, grateful hug from Jean that made my aching ribs complain, they finally left me to rest. Alone in the quiet of the infirmary, I closed my eyes and focused inward.
System booting... Running diagnostics.
Host sustained moderate physical trauma. Mana reserves at 2%.
Analyzing combat data from Mitachurl encounter...
Life-threatening situation detected. Host pushed core template beyond established limits.
Reward protocol initiated. Granting significant boost to Synchronization Rate.
A new, cleaner interface faded into view. The cumbersome table was gone, replaced by a more dynamic, summary-style display.
STATUS UPDATE
Name: Arthur Aethel
Synchronization Rate: 11.45% (+11.44%)
Core Template: [Arthur Pendragon (Prototype)]
SKILL PROGRESS
Instinct [Rank A]: 15.60% (+12.10%)
Note: Combat precognition vastly improved under duress.
Mana Burst [Rank A]: 12.80% (+10.05%)
Note: Output control protocols established. Risk of physical backlash reduced.
Riding [Rank B]: 1.25% (+0.75%)
Magic Resistance [Rank A]: 0.50% (+0.50%)
Note: Minor resistance to ambient elemental energies detected.
The numbers were staggering. I'd gained more progress in those thirty seconds of terror than in ten years of crawling, walking, and playing. It was a brutal lesson: real growth came from real risk.
Then, a new notification chimed, this one far more exciting.
Synchronization Rate has surpassed 10%.
[Inheritance System: Knights of the Round Table] is now UNLOCKED.
The screen flickered, displaying a magnificent, stylized round table with thirteen seats. One seat, the King's seat, was brightly lit. The others were dark, but the silhouette of a knight shimmered faintly in each. One of the silhouettes began to glow.
First Knight Awakened: Sir Bedivere
The Loyal Steward, The One-Armed Knight
The legend of the knight who served his king faithfully unto the very end, tasked with returning Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake.
Inheritance Skill Unlocked:
Tactics [Rank C]
The subconscious knowledge of battlefield strategy and situational assessment. Provides bonuses to analyzing enemy movements and formulating countermeasures.
Next inheritance available at 20% Synchronization Rate.
Bedivere. Not a powerhouse like Lancelot or Gawain, but steadfast, loyal, and intelligent. And his Tactics skill... it was perfect. It wasn't a flashy superpower that would draw attention. It was a passive, mental enhancement that would make me a better fighter, a better strategist. It was a skill that would help me control the wild power of Mana Burst and understand my enemies without having to rely on raw, destructive force. The System, or whatever God designed it, had given me exactly what I needed.
My recovery took two weeks. Two weeks of bland Cathedral porridge and endless check-ups from the healers. When I was finally discharged, my life had changed. I was no longer just Arthur Aethel, the son of a retired knight. I was "The Prodigy of the Gate," the kid who fought a Mitachurl and won. The other children looked at me with a mixture of awe and fear. My father, under strict orders from Varka, intensified my training, focusing on discipline and control above all else.
Jean stuck to me like glue, a quiet determination in her eyes. The incident had forged a new bond between us. It wasn't just friendship anymore; it was the trust of comrades who had faced death together.
It was during one of these grueling training sessions, about a year later, that I first saw her. I was eleven, and my father had me running drills in the main training yard of the Knights' headquarters. I was practicing a defensive stance when my newly honed Tactics skill pinged a detail in my peripheral vision.
Across the yard, far from the other trainees who practiced in boisterous groups, a small figure trained alone. She looked about eight or nine years old, with hair the color of pale blue ice, tied back in a practical but elegant manner. She moved with a fluid grace that was utterly captivating, her wooden sword carving arcs through the air in a style that was part dance, part combat. It was beautiful, precise, and yet... lonely.
Then I heard the whispers from a pair of older trainees nearby.
"Look, it's the Lawrence girl."
"Shh, don't let her hear you. They say her family practices black magic."
"Her? A Knight of Favonius? Her family tried to enslave all of Mondstadt. She's probably just here to spy."
My eyes narrowed. Eula Lawrence. The Spindrift Knight. I knew her story well. Scion of a disgraced and hated noble clan, ostracized by everyone, who would one day carve her own path of "vengeance" by becoming one of Mondstadt's most dedicated protectors.
Right now, though, she was just a little girl, bearing the weight of sins that weren't her own.
My father called for a break, and while the other kids gathered around the water barrel, I walked across the yard. Eula didn't seem to notice me, her entire focus on a complex footwork drill. My Tactics skill analyzed her movements instantly. Impressive form. Light on her feet. But she over-commits on her lunges, leaving her back exposed for a critical half-second.
I stopped a respectful distance away. "Your form is like the winter wind," I said, my voice clear. "Fast and sharp."
She froze mid-lunge, whirling to face me. Her cyan eyes, as cold and clear as her hair, narrowed with suspicion. She held her wooden sword in a defensive posture, her knuckles white. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice clipped and wary.
"Nothing," I said honestly, holding my hands up in a placating gesture. "I'm Arthur. I train here too. I was just admiring your style. It's not the Favonius standard."
"It's the Lawrence 'Dance of Frost'," she stated, the name of her family sounding like both a point of pride and a curse on her tongue. "And I don't need your admiration."
The whispers from the other side of the yard grew louder. Eula's jaw tightened.
"They're wrong, you know," I said quietly.
Her eyes widened slightly. "What?"
"The sins of the father are not the sins of the child," I said, quoting a phrase from my old world that felt appropriate here. "Your name doesn't decide who you are. Your sword does."
She stared at me, her defensive posture faltering for a moment. No one had ever said anything like that to her. They either scorned her, pitied her, or ignored her. This direct, judgment-free acknowledgement was something entirely new.
"You... you're that boy," she said, recognition dawning. "The one who fought the Mitachurl."
"That's me," I admitted with a small smile. I pointed my chin towards her stance. "You're leaving yourself open, by the way. After a lunge, your balance is shifted too far forward. A quick opponent could sidestep and strike your back before you recover." My observation was pure Tactics.
Her first instinct was to be offended, but my critique was too specific, too technical to be a simple insult. She thought about it, replaying her own movements in her mind. A flicker of understanding crossed her face.
"Hmph," she scoffed, trying to regain her prickly composure. "As if any of the louts here are fast enough to exploit it. But mark my words, Arthur Aethel. For this unsolicited advice, vengeance will be mine!"
The declaration was fierce, but it lacked the practiced bite it would have in the future. Right now, it sounded more like a child's stubborn promise than a real threat.
I just grinned. "I look forward to it."
I gave her a nod and walked away, leaving her standing there, looking at me with a complicated expression of suspicion, indignation, and a tiny, almost imperceptible spark of something else.
That day was the beginning of an unlikely and unspoken routine. I never intruded on her solitary training, but I'd offer a nod of acknowledgement across the yard. Sometimes, I'd leave a small waterskin near her training spot when she looked tired. Once, when a group of older boys started taunting her more aggressively, I just walked over and stood beside her, not saying a word. My reputation since the Mitachurl incident was enough to make them disperse.
I never asked for thanks, and she never offered any. But a silent understanding began to grow.
A few years later, the training yard looked different. I was fourteen, my Synchronization Rate a steady 18%. My control over Mana Burst was refined, allowing me to use it for short, sharp bursts of speed and power that looked like exceptional skill rather than outright magic. My Instinct and Tactics skills made me a terrifyingly analytical sparring partner.
Jean, also fourteen, was the very model of a future knight. Her swordsmanship was flawless, her dedication unwavering. She was the golden child of the trainees, respected by all.
And Eula, now a fiercely talented twelve-year-old, was our permanent, unofficial third member. She was still an outcast to most, but in the space of the training ring, she had found a strange sort of belonging with us. Her "vengeance" had become a running joke between us, a promise she'd yell before every spar.
"Today, Artorius, my vengeance will be swift and absolute!" Eula declared, pointing her blunted steel practice sword at me.
"Same thing you said yesterday, Eula," I replied, settling into my stance. Jean stood off to the side, acting as referee.
"Yesterday was a tactical retreat! Today is an all-out assault!"
She came at me in a flurry of motion, her blade a blur. Her style was even more refined now, a whirlwind of graceful dodges and lightning-fast thrusts. But I could see it all. My mind, enhanced by Tactics, broke down her "dance" into simple, predictable variables.
Feint high, thrust low. Parry, sidestep left. She will follow with a spinning slash. Duck under it.
I moved before she did, my body reacting to the data my mind was feeding it. I ducked under her elegant spin, my own blade tapping her lightly on the back. "You're still over-committing on your spins," I said calmly.
She let out a frustrated groan, jumping back. "How do you always know what I'm going to do?!"
"A knight has to have his secrets," I said, repeating the same line I'd used on Jean years ago.
We continued our spar, a whirlwind of steel and banter. We were perfectly matched—her raw talent and speed against my strategic mind and explosive power. In the end, I disarmed her not with overwhelming force, but by feinting an attack to her left, causing her to instinctively shift her balance, and then simply hooking her sword hand with the crossguard of my own blade. Her sword clattered to the ground.
"Yield," I said, a smile playing on my lips.
Eula stared at her empty hand, then at me, her chest heaving. "Unacceptable! This only delays my vengeance! I demand a rematch tomorrow!"
"Of course," I said, offering her back her sword.
She snatched it from my hand, but her glare was missing its usual heat.
Later, the three of us sat on the edge of the training grounds, looking out over the walls as the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. The wind, carrying the scent of freedom and wine, rustled through our hair.
"You two are getting too good," Jean said with a smile, wiping her brow with a cloth. "I'll have to work twice as hard to keep up."
"You're already the top of our class, Jean," I pointed out. "You'll be a knight before either of us."
"Hmph. The title of knight is merely a stepping stone," Eula added, trying to sound aloof, though she couldn't hide the hopeful glint in her eyes. "A means to an end."
"A means to what end?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"To show them all," she said, her voice dropping to a serious tone. "To show all of Mondstadt that a Lawrence can be its greatest protector. That will be my true vengeance."
I looked at them. Jean Gunnhildr, the Shield of Mondstadt. Eula Lawrence, the Icy Sword of Retribution. And me, Arthur Aethel, the impossible wild card. We were a strange, mismatched trio, bound by a shared dream. Looking at them, a feeling of profound rightness settled over me. This was my life now. These were my people.
As if on cue, a familiar, silent chime echoed in my mind.
Notice: Host's body is maturing. Compatibility with external elemental resonance is now possible.
Analyzing ambient elemental energies of Mondstadt...
High compatibility with [Anemo] detected.
Secondary compatibility with [Cryo] detected due to prolonged social interaction with a dominant Cryo-aspirant.
[Vision] acquisition probability is now... actively fluctuating.
I smiled to myself. The game, it seemed, was about to get a lot more interesting.