On his first weekend Danir already spent at the House of Granger, he still had not chosen his jobclass. Seeing the leaves and flowers started to fall as his decision still weighing heavily on his mind.
That afternoon, under the chill of an autumn breeze, the family gathered at the training grounds beyond the mansion. The place stood near the base of a mountainside, its tundra-like surroundings stretching wide and empty, far from the bustle of Pearl-Shire Town. The air was crisp, and each breath carried the scent of cold earth and pine.
This was where Jared trained his sons.
The legendary Black-Horseman stood at the center of the field, cloak swaying behind him as he sparred with his children one by one. From the youngest to the eldest, each stepped forward to test their strength against their father.
Since Danir was still new to the family, he was exempted from sparring. Instead, he was told to remain at the sidelines and simply observe.
Ulfzar, the youngest among those sparring, stepped forward first. Despite his cheerful nature, his expression hardened as he faced their father. He wasted no time, charging in with everything he had.
With a sharp gesture, he cast illusion magic, splitting his image into shifting afterimages meant to confuse and distract. For a brief moment, the air shimmered with false movements—but the effort was futile. Jared did not even flinch. His eyes followed the real Ulfzar effortlessly, years of battlefield experience rendering such low-level tricks meaningless.
Realizing his illusion had failed, Ulfzar growled and drew upon the blood within him.
As a half-human, half-Ursaine—one of the beast-blessed races said to carry the favor of the Goddess of Beasts—his body surged with power. From a five-foot boy, his form expanded violently, bones reshaping and muscles swelling as thick fur burst across his skin. In seconds, he became a massive, juvenile bear, towering nearly six feet tall.
His roar tore through the cold air. Ulfzar lunged, claws flashing and strikes heavy enough to shake the ground. Each blow carried raw strength, fueled by instinct and youthful ferocity. Yet Jared remained calm. He did not counterattack. He simply moved—sidestepping, redirecting, evading with precise efficiency—allowing the storm to exhaust itself.
The fight continued for just over three minutes.
Then Ulfzar faltered.
His movements slowed, his roar weakened, and the bear form dissolved into light as his mana was depleted. He dropped to one knee, breathing hard, sweat soaking his clothes.
Despite the loss, it was a good showing.
For someone so young, holding a beast form for that long was no small feat.
From the sidelines, Danir watched silently, eyes fixed on the battlefield. Strength, magic, discipline—every second of the fight carved itself into his memory. "So this is what it means to fight…" he whispered.
Caspi, the fifth son, stepped forward next. His mother was of the duskborn—an elven race believed to be blessed by the Goddess of Shadow—and even at his young age, he had already mastered two advanced shadow arts: Shadow Blink-Step and Shadow Swap-Step.
The moment the signal was given, Caspi vanished.
In a flicker of darkness, he reappeared several steps away, his body slipping through shadows as though space itself bent to his will. He struck immediately, aiming for his father's blind spot, his blade flashing with precise intent.
But Jared had already seen it coming.
Steel rang as Jared raised his shield just in time, blocking the strike without so much as a stagger. Caspi disappeared again—blink—reappearing from another angle, then another, chaining short-distance teleports in rapid succession.
Each attack was sharp. Each attempt was clever.
None of them landed.
From the sidelines, Danir could barely breathe.
"This world is incredible…" he whispered, eyes wide with awe. "These people—my family—they're like myths from my former world."
His heart pounded as he watched shadow and steel dance before him. The impossible was unfolding right before his eyes. "I'll become strong like them someday… he vowed silently. But how? Maybe… maybe I just have to train harder than anyone else."
Caspi didn't stop there.
With fluid motion, he leapt into the trees, his figure melting into the shadows of the branches. From above, he dropped—
—and at the last instant, activated Shadow Swap-Step.
Space twisted.
Caspi and Jared exchanged positions.
Suddenly, Caspi stood firmly on the ground, while Jared was the one falling from the tree.
For a heartbeat, it looked like victory.
But Jared was no ordinary warrior.
In midair, he twisted, catching a branch with one hand. With remarkable speed and balance, he swung himself down, landing cleanly on his feet just as Caspi lunged forward to capitalize.
The shield came up again.
"Clang!"
The impact echoed through the training ground. Caspi staggered back, his momentum broken, breath sharp and uneven.
Jared stepped forward once—firm, controlled—and Caspi finally yielded.
Silence followed.
Though he had lost, Caspi's performance drew quiet admiration from everyone watching.
Jared rested a hand on his son's shoulder. "You've improved greatly." he said with a proud nod. "Keep it up."
From the sidelines, Danir clenched his fists. Not in jealousy. But in resolve.
Next was the fourth son—Nezcar.
Within the family, he was known as the Dwarven Sniper. His presence carried a quiet lethality. Precision was his weapon. Accuracy was his pride.
In his hand rested a polished six-bullet revolver, its barrel engraved with fine runic lines. He exhaled slowly, activating his buff magic—Dead Eye. A faint glow sharpened his pupils, narrowing the world into measurable distances and predictable trajectories.
Because Nezcar specialized in ranged combat, Jared did not spar with him directly.
Instead, Jared pointed toward an apple hanging from a tree roughly fifty feet away. "Hit it."
Nezcar did not hesitate.
"BANG!"
The gunshot cracked through the cold air. The apple exploded into fragments, scattering violently as the bullet pierced straight through its core.
Without praise or celebration, Jared lifted his gaze to the sky. A flock of wild ducks flew high above—at least a hundred and fifty meters in the air.
"You have five bullets left." Jared said calmly.
Nezcar adjusted his stance. The wind direction. The elevation. The speed of the flock.
Then— "BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!"
Five shots rang out in steady rhythm.
Four ducks dropped from the sky.
The fifth shot missed—its range falling just short as the flock ascended higher beyond the revolver's effective distance.
Silence lingered for a moment before Jared nodded in approval. "Now we have dinner. Good shooting, son. Five out of six."
Nezcar spun the revolver once before holstering it at his side, a smug expression crossing his face.
Then his sharp eyes turned toward Danir, who had been watching from the sidelines.
"Hey, sideliner." Nezcar called out rudely. "Go collect the hunt before someone else gets it first. Hurry up!"
Danir stiffened at the tone but said nothing.
He ran toward the field where the ducks had fallen, the cold wind brushing against his face as he gathered them one by one.
As he held the still-warm bodies in his hands, his thoughts churned. "Even at that distance… he barely missed."
"My brothers were monsters in their own ways.
And me? Who still hadn't even chosen a jobclass." The weight of that reality pressed on him harder than the ducks in his arms.
Then it was Alec's turn.
A vampire.
Their kind had once been a branch of the elven race, believed to be blessed by the Goddess of the Moon. Unlike ordinary elves, vampires possessed overwhelming physical gifts—extraordinary strength, unnatural speed, and heightened senses sharp enough to hear a heartbeat from several meters away.
At night, those abilities were amplified even further.
But what truly set them apart was their unique power: Blood Art.
Alec's Blood Art allowed him to manipulate blood in midair as if it were an extension of his own body. With a flick of his fingers, liquid crimson would twist and solidify into weapons—daggers, razor-sharp shards like glass, even spears formed from hardened blood. Anything lethal. Anything precise.
Among the brothers, Alec was known as the prodigy.
He could match Jared's strength.
He could keep up with Jared's speed.
Few could say the same.
Yet despite his natural talent, Alec always lost.
Because what he lacked was not power. It was experience. Strategy. Patience.
He fought recklessly—driven by pride, attacking head-on without reading the flow of battle. He relied too heavily on his overwhelming abilities, believing raw power would be enough.
Jared had told him countless times:
"Power without thought is just wasted strength."
But patience was Alec's enemy. Critical thinking was something he despised in the heat of combat. He preferred domination, not calculation. And that arrogance was exactly why he kept losing their sparring matches, as Jared beat him up badly. Still, when Alec stepped forward into the field, the air itself felt heavier. Because prodigy or not— He was dangerous.
And then there was Zebion. Jared's centaur son. If raw strength alone decided battles, Zebion would have already surpassed them all.
His towering equine body thundered against the earth with every step. Steel armor covered both his human torso and his powerful horse frame, the plates clanking heavily as he moved. In his grip rested a massive warhammer—its head thick and brutal, forged purely for crushing force rather than elegance.
When Zebion charged, the ground trembled.
Unlike the others, he did not rely on magic tricks or clever techniques. He relied on power.
Each swing of his warhammer forced Jared to give ground, boots digging into the soil to absorb the shock.
The sheer weight behind Zebion's attacks made even Jared cautious. A direct hit would not be something to shrug off.
Among the brothers, Zebion was the only one who could physically push their father backward. But strength alone was not enough.
Zebion lacked refinement—his movements were straightforward, predictable. He fought like a battering ram, not a seasoned warrior.
And Jared, with years of real battlefield experience, exploited that weakness.
He sidestepped at the perfect moment.
He redirected force instead of clashing head-on. He waited for exhaustion. And just like the others—Zebion fell short.
Breathing heavily, warhammer resting against the ground, the centaur clenched his jaw in frustration.
Power he had. But mastery? That was something Jared still possessed above them all, and the thing he was trying to teach them.
And lastly—The eldest son, Zeke.
His mother came from the Lycan race—warriors blessed with the spirit of the wolf. Lycans could shift into wolves at will, and even in their human form they possessed enhanced strength, speed, and senses far beyond ordinary beings.
But what made Zeke different from the others was his discipline. He did not rely solely on his bloodline. He trained and chose the role of a marksman as his jobclass.
A reinforced crossbow rested in his hands—custom-built to withstand the force of his enhanced strength. While others charged recklessly, Zeke preferred distance, calculation, and control.
When he stepped into the field, he did not transform immediately. He circled Jared carefully, boots steady against the dirt.
Then—Thwick! The first bolt flew.
Jared tilted his head slightly; the bolt grazed past his ear and embedded into a wooden post behind him.
Zeke was not aiming to hit. He was testing.
A second bolt came lower—forcing Jared to sidestep. A third targeted the knee. Jared deflected it with the flat of his blade.
Zeke moved constantly while reloading, never staying in one position long. He used footwork learned from both hunter and warrior traditions, trying to control the rhythm of the battlefield. But Jared closed the distance. Fast. Too fast. The moment Jared entered close range, Zeke abandoned the crossbow and leapt backward, eyes glowing faintly gold.
"Fine…" he muttered.
Mana surged through his veins. His bones shifted. Muscles expanded. Fur burst from his skin as he transformed into a large grey wolf, taller and broader than any natural beast.
Now he went all out. The wolf blurred across the field—faster than before.
He lunged from Jared's blind spots, claws slashing with precision. One swipe tore through Jared's sleeve. Another forced Jared to pivot sharply to avoid being tackled.
Zeke did not attack wildly.
Even in beast form, he retained tactical thinking—circling, feinting, forcing Jared to guard high before striking low.
For a brief moment— He almost overwhelmed him. But lycan transformation demanded immense mana. Minutes passed. Zeke's movements grew slightly slower.
His breathing heavier. The glow in his eyes flickered. Jared noticed like he always did. With perfect timing, Jared baited a lunge, stepped aside at the last possible second, and struck the wolf's flank with a controlled but decisive blow—enough to destabilize without causing real harm. Zeke stumbled. The wolf form flickered. And then—He reverted back to human form, dropping to one knee, chest rising and falling rapidly.
Mana depletion.
Exhaustion.
Defeat.
Jared stood before him, calm as ever. "Well done." he complimented quietly. "But you still rely on your last card too early."
Zeke clenched his fist but gave a small nod.
Among all the brothers, he came the closest to defeating their father. And yet— Even he could not surpass him.
"Alright. That will be all for today," Jared said, lowering his shield. "Let's head back and clean ourselves up."
The tension of the training grounds faded as they returned to town, where the family soaked their tired bodies in the hot springs. Steam rose into the cool autumn air, washing away sweat and fatigue while laughter echoed softly among the stone pools. Back at the mansion, the knights prepared dinner using the wild ducks Nezcar had shot earlier.
That night, the dining table was filled with warmth and aroma. Two dishes were served—perfectly roasted duck with crisp skin, and a rich duck curry simmered with spices. A separate bowl of freshly prepared raw duck blood was placed discreetly at Alec's seat, as vampires consumed only raw animal blood.
They ate until not a single bite was left.
"Yuri, your curry is so good!" Ulfzar exclaimed with his mouth still full—only to choke on his food a second later. The entire table burst into laughter as he hurriedly gulped down water, coughing until he recovered.
Yuri watched him with a smile. "Young Master Ulfzar always says that." he thought fondly. "This big kid really does loves to eat."
After dinner, they gathered once more in the forum hall beneath the glowing crystal chandelier. Jared stood at the head of the room, his expression firm but proud.
"I want you all to know this." he began. "You've made great improvements."
He turned his gaze to each son in turn. "Caspi, your growth surprised me. Nezcar—excellent shots. Nearly perfect."
"Zeke, Zebion, Ulfzar—you must learn to conserve your mana better, but your fights were commendable."
Then his eyes settled on Alec. "Alec… you have extraordinary talent. But strength and speed alone are not enough. I want to see you fight with strategy next time—like Caspi did."
Alec clenched his jaw but said nothing.
Finally, Jared looked at Danir. "And you, Danir. Soon, you'll be heading to the Adventurer's Academy with your brothers. I expect to see progress when you return."
The words lingered heavily in the air. Zeke, Zebion, and Ulfzar felt a renewed fire ignite in their eyes. They needed to work harder—far harder than before.
Caspi remained quiet, as always, but a faint smile appeared on his lips. His father's recognition had reached him.
Nezcar felt little emotion—only the looming exhaustion of academy life ahead. Praise was nothing new to him. He had never disappointed their father with his gun.
Alec, however, felt frustration burn in his chest. His father had acknowledged his flaws, not his power. And deep down, he knew the truth he refused to face—that he had ignored the lesson being taught.
As autumn faded and winter drew near, fate steadily approached.
Soon, Danir would walk alongside his brothers into the Adventurer's Academy at Scalebound Citadel, located far to the west of the eastern continent, at the edge of the Blossomdale Kingdom.