Chapter Thirteen — Weight
Azeroth stepped into the empty corridor, the echo of his footsteps filling the silence.
The dagger he had devoured—now nothing more than a memory—hummed faintly within him. Its essence dispersed, sinking into bone, muscle, and thought, settling as quiet and undeniable strength.
He flexed his fingers.
The sensation struck him a heartbeat later—like being hit by a speeding carriage.
He hadn't noticed it immediately. Maybe because his mother had interrupted too quickly, or maybe because his body had adapted too soon.
But a fourfold increase in physique was not subtle.
—Not in the least bit.
Every movement felt sharper. Lighter. Alive. The corridor itself seemed sluggish by comparison, as though the world was failing to keep pace with him—in the same way it always had.
He drew in a breath.
Stone beneath his feet. Iron from the rails lining the walls. Even the dust carried faint impressions, brushing the edges of his awareness.
'…I wonder how strong I am exactly.' He mused.
The thought barely formed before it hardened into intent.
Without hesitation, Azeroth turned and continued towards the eastern wing—towards the private training ground reserved for the family.
Along the way, the feeling returned.
Once near the armory.
Once as he passed the relic hall.
A faint tug. A subtle pull. Not forceful—just… there. Like something of an instinct.
He ignored it.
He wasn't about to go around accidentally destroying half the artifacts in the mansion. Besides, his father had already promised him cores. There was no need to be reckless.
Testing came first.
By the time he reached the training ground, his excitement had settled into focus.
The heavy doors opened with a push.
Inside lay a wide circular chamber reinforced with layered stone and metals of the common rank. Weapon racks lined the walls. Training dummies—some mundane, others enchanted—stood in silent rows.
At the center rose a raised portion of earth, shaped into a fighting ring.
But none of that held Azeroth's attention.
Instead, he made a beeline for the rack where weighted training weapons hung from reinforced hooks.
"Let's see…" he muttered.
He selected a familiar one.
A dull, stone-bladed black sword—smooth, reflective, its surface etched with markings somehow pristine despite years of use.
It was the same weapon he had trained with for as long as he could remember.
Only now, it felt wrong in his hands.
Too light.
He remembered a time his younger self struggled just to lift it—teeth clenched, arms shaking from sheer exertion—barely able to hold it upright.
Over the years, he had grown accustomed to its weight. Lifting it had taken effort, but it had been manageable.
Now?
He wondered if he was actually holding it at all.
As if responding to the thought, the dull etchings along the blade flickered.
Then ignited.
The weight surged—sharp and sudden.
Azeroth's grip tightened instinctively as pressure drove down into his arms, forcing him to brace with both hands.
When the etchings finally dulled, the weight remained.
He swung the blade a few times through the air, adjusting, reacquainting himself with its altered balance.
The stone blade cut through the air with a deep, heavy whoosh.
Azeroth paused.
The sound itself was different—denser, layered, as though the air resisted the swing more than it used to.
A testament to the weight it now bore.
"…Okay," he murmured. "That's new."
Then he turned toward the training dummies.
Most were standard unranked wooden frames meant for unevolved beings. Their weapons varied—swords, axes, shields—but he passed them without slowing.
His gaze settled on the ones standing farther back.
One of them, slightly larger than the rest, its frame was draped in dark metallic armor. A spear wielder.
The shaft was forged from the same dark metal, its blunt tip heavy, runes carved along its length to simulate reach, leverage, and impact. It was designed to punish sloppy footwork—an instructor's favorite when training against opponents with superior range.
Azeroth stopped a few paces away.
"…Perfect."
He stepped forward and rested a palm against the dummy's cold breastplate.
"…Activate."
The runes flared.
The dummy came alive.
Azeroth moved back into the ring and gave a second command.
"…Attack."
The spear struck.
No flourish. No hesitation.
A clean thrust, fast and direct.
Azeroth reacted without thinking.
Stone met metal as his blade deflected the shaft. The impact sent a sharp jolt up his arms, his footing sliding half a step—not from force, but surprise.
Heavy.
One of the functions of the dummies was their ability to match the stats of whoever sparred with them.
While the wooden versions capped at peak unevolved levels, this one was meant for common-ranked evolvers.
The dummy didn't pause.
The spear withdrew and struck again—low, then high—probing, relentless.
Azeroth adjusted.
His grip tightened. His stance sank.
The next thrust met his blade head-on.
The air cracked.
The spear shuddered as the sword stopped it dead. Force transferred through the shaft and into the dummy's frame, its feet carving shallow grooves into the stone floor as it was pushed back a fraction of an inch.
Azeroth blinked.
Then he smiled.
He stepped in.
The sword moved—not fast, but precise. Each swing carried real weight now, enough that the air resisted him. He didn't overextend. Didn't rush.
A deflection.
A pivot.
A short, controlled strike to the shaft.
The spear was knocked aside, leaving the dummy open.
That was all he needed.
The blade came around in a brutal, compact arc.
Crack.
It struck the dummy at the neck—a fatal blow to any being.
Yet the armor remained unmarred.
Still, that ended the spar.
The runes flickered as the dummy recalibrated, then shut down entirely, collapsing back into its inert state.
Silence reclaimed the chamber.
Azeroth stood there, chest rising and falling, the sword resting loosely at his side.
Exhaustion tugged at him—but a sharp, unrepentant grin split his face as his mind replayed the exchange. The speed. The strength. And the pleasure of it all.
"…So this is four times," he murmured.
His gaze drifted back to the fallen dummy.
For a moment, the earlier tug surfaced again—that faint, right-there pull. This time, unmistakably from within its frame.
Its core, he realized.
His expression sobered.
Undead King…
The thought surfaced unbidden.
He wondered what kind of person the Undead King had been. What his trait was. What similarity it shared with his own.
Still, he doubted they were truly the same.
It was only a feeling—but he trusted it.
One that told him that no one had a trait like his.
No one ever would.
With that, he turned away, returning to his training—testing, adjusting, learning.
Tomorrow, when the core arrived…
He could barely contain his anticipation.