Three days.
That was all it took for the wounds of a B-Rank Lycan to vanish from Rush's skin.
To any normal healer, this recovery speed was unnatural. To Rush, standing in the center of the Ryanheart training grounds, it felt like the monster he had devoured was knitting him back together, cell by impatient cell.
The morning mist hung low over the courtyard, obscuring the stone walls.
Lord Ryanheart stood under the eaves of the armory, arms crossed, his dark coat blending into the shadows. He watched silently. He wasn't there to cheer; he was there to ensure his son didn't kill himself.
"Again," Rush commanded.
Opposite him stood Kael, a senior apprentice. He was sixteen, broad-shouldered, and wielding twin steel daggers. He looked exhausted.
"Young Master," Kael panted, wiping sweat from his brow. "Lord Ryanheart strictly forbade you from using mana. Your core—"
"I'm not using mana," Rush said calmly. He drew his own weapon from his belt–a sleek, dark-grey blade. "Come at me."
Kael hesitated, then lunged.
It was a descending thrust—aiming to drive both blades downward into the collarbone, reinforced with a low-level wind enchantment for speed. To a normal eye, it was a blur.
To Rush, it looked like Kael was moving through water.
Rush didn't just see the daggers; the Lycan's eyesight dissected the movement. He saw the shift in Kael's weight. He saw the tension in the forearm muscles. He saw the strike coming three seconds before it arrived.
Rush didn't block. He simply stepped to the side.
The steel blades whistled past his ear, missing by a millimeter. Rush tapped Kael's exposed ribs with the hilt of his own dagger.
Too slow, Rush thought. Even without mana, he is too slow.
He looked at the other apprentices watching from the sidelines.
"You two," Rush pointed at two other seniors. "Join him."
Kael blinked. "Young Master? That's a three-on-one."
"I know how to count, Kael. Come."
The three apprentices glanced at each other, shrugged, and surrounded him. They were trained assassins; they didn't fight fair. They attacked simultaneously—one from the front, two from the flanks.
Rush exhaled.
Flash Step.
He didn't use magic. He simply kicked the ground with the explosive power of his mutated muscle fibers.
The stone beneath his boot cracked. Rush vanished.
He appeared behind the left attacker before the boy had even finished his swing. Rush tapped his neck. Dead.
He ducked under a sweep from the right, moving with a fluidity that defied physics, his body contorting like water. He tapped the second boy's kidney. Dead.
He was untouchable. Five years of hellish training had given him the technique, but the Lycan's power had given him the engine to execute it flawlessly.
Kael, the last one standing, roared and thrust his dagger toward Rush's chest.
Rush sidestepped, raising his dagger to counter.
And that was his mistake.
Five years of muscle memory took over. In the Ryanheart style, you never strike without power. As his arm moved to deliver the finishing blow, his body instinctively tried to do what it had always done.
Reinforce.
He pulled on his Core.
"STOP!" Beelzebub screamed in his mind.
It felt like a lightning bolt had struck him from the inside.
"ARGH!"
Rush dropped his dagger. He fell to his knees, clutching his chest, a strangled cry tearing from his throat. The pain was blinding—white-hot agony radiating from his sternum, feeling as if his veins were being filled with molten lead.
The apprentices froze, their weapons dropping.
"Young Master!" Kael shouted, rushing forward.
A blur of shadow moved across the courtyard. Lord Ryanheart was there in an instant, his hand already gripping Rush's shoulder, stabilizing him.
"Breathe, Rush!" his father commanded, his voice sharp. "Cut the flow! Stop cycling the mana!"
"I… I can't!" Rush gasped, his teeth gritted so hard he thought they would crack. The mana wasn't flowing; it was rampaging. It was trying to escape his broken core and had nowhere to go.
"Core Stability at 10%," Beelzebub warned, his voice urgent. "The pressure is building. If you do not vent this energy, your vascular system will rupture."
Vent it? How?
"Release an Omni-directional blast. Clear the blockage."
No, Rush thought, seeing Kael and the others hovering just feet away. It will kill them. I can't hurt them.
"Then you will die," Beelzebub stated coldly.
No. I won't.
Rush's eyes, glowing with a faint, chaotic violet light, snapped to the fallen dagger on the stones.
It wasn't standard steel. It was Hartsteel.
A rare, incredibly dense metal found only in the mines beneath the Ryanheart estate. It was known for being the most perfect mana conductor in the kingdom. If any metal could hold this nightmare, it was this one.
"Father… step back!" Rush choked out.
Lord Ryanheart, sensing the shift in the air, didn't argue. He flashed backward, dragging Kael with him.
Rush grabbed the Hartsteel hilt.
Take it, he screamed internally. Take it all!
He didn't try to reinforce the blade gently. He shoved the rampaging mana down his arm, forcing the chaotic flood out of his body and into the hartsteel conduit.
The pain in his arm was excruciating, like his bones were being ground to dust, but the pressure in his chest eased.
The dagger began to scream.
Any other blade would have shattered instantly. But the Hartsteel held. It turned a violent, blinding purple. It vibrated so hard it blurred in his hand. The metal was melting, unable to contain the raw, unfiltered mana.
With the last ounce of his strength, Rush whipped his arm forward.
He threw the glowing blade toward the empty far wall of the training yard.
It flew like a streak of violet lightning.
BOOM.
The courtyard shook.
The dagger didn't just hit the wall; it detonated.
An explosion of mana and shrapnel blew a crater into the stone fortifications. Dust and rock rained down. A shockwave rippled through the courtyard, knocking the weapon racks over.
Silence followed.
Rush slumped forward, his hands trembling, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.
Haa… haa… haa…
The pain was gone, replaced by a hollow exhaustion.
Footsteps crunched on the stone. Lord Ryanheart walked past the stunned apprentices, his eyes fixed on the smoking crater in the wall. He looked at the destruction, then down at his son.
"I told you," his father said, his voice low but not angry, "no mana."
Rush looked up, wiping a trickle of blood from his nose.
"I… forgot," Rush whispered.
Lord Ryanheart knelt, checking Rush's pulse with two fingers.
"Your instincts are excellent, Rush. But your body is a trap." He pulled Rush to his feet. "That was quick thinking with the dagger. But you cannot carry an armory of daggers just to keep yourself from exploding."
Rush looked at his empty hand. He was stronger than ever, yet more fragile than glass.
His father said nothing further. He didn't need to—his gaze on the crater in the far wall carried every warning.
They dismissed the apprentices and left the yard. Behind them, the cracked stone and toppled weapon racks remained as evidence of the cost of a single mistake.
Time blurred as the day moved on.
The castle was quiet at twilight in a way that only stone fortresses could be—the air thick with discipline, time measured by the rhythmic footfall of guards on marble.
Rush walked down the East Wing, heading toward the dining hall. As he passed his mother's solar, he paused.
The heavy oak door was cracked open. Firelight pulsed from within, casting long, dancing shadows across the hallway floor.
Rush didn't mean to spy. But his new Predator Instincts picked up the sound of ragged breathing.
He stepped closer to the gap in the door.
Lady Elsa stood by the hearth. She wasn't alone; she was holding an envelope. The parchment was thick, expensive, and sealed with blue wax.
Rush narrowed his eyes. The Lycan's eyesight magnified the seal, bringing it into sharp focus.
An Eagle with spread wings, clutching a sword.
House Aetos, Rush realized, his breath hitching.
He had read about them in the war archives. They were the Iron Wings. The family that produced the kingdom's strongest knights and commanded the Northern Legions. They were military royalty.
The Ryanhearts are assassins. The Aetos are knights. We don't mix.
Elsa didn't open the envelope. She stared at the eagle seal with a look Rush had never seen on her face before. It wasn't fear.
It was pure, unadulterated resentment.
She didn't tear it. She didn't read it. She threw it into the roaring fireplace as if the paper itself were poisonous.
She watched the blue wax melt and the paper curl into black ash.
"Interesting," Beelzebub hummed in Rush's mind. "That seal radiates a high-density mana signature. Whoever sent that is powerful. And your mother just burned it."
Rush pushed the door open, stepping into the room.
"Mom?"
Elsa spun around instantly.
In the span of a single heartbeat, the mask of hatred vanished. Her face softened, her eyes crinkling into the warm, maternal look Rush knew so well. It was a transformation so perfect it was almost terrifying.
"Rush!" she exclaimed, smoothing her skirts. "You're early."
His eyes drifted past her, toward the fireplace. The letter was already gone, nothing but a scrap of grey ash floating up the chimney.
He said nothing.
Elsa stepped closer. She reached out, straightening his collar and brushing a speck of imaginary dust from his shoulder. Her hands were steady, but Rush could hear her heart—it was beating fast.
"Come," she said, offering a bright smile. "The chef has prepared roast duck. Let's have dinner."
Rush looked once more at the fire, then back at his mother.
He smiled back. It was the same fake smile she was wearing.
"I'm starving," he lied.
He followed her out of the room, playing the part of the oblivious son. But as they walked down the corridor, the question burned in his mind hotter than the fireplace.
Why is the high House of Aetos sending letters to my mother?