Two years slipped by, quiet but merciless. The training grounds of the outer estate, once crowded with dozens of children swinging wooden blades with trembling hands, had emptied out little by little.
Some were carried away injured. Some were sent home in disgrace. Some simply vanished from the schedule, their names never spoken again.
In the end, only one remained—Jude Avernus, the youngest.
The sharp crack of wooden swords filled the hall. Jude's breath came slow and controlled, misting faintly in the cool air as he swung.
The Head Guardian met every strike with a calm steadiness that bordered on boredom.
Jude's wooden sword blurred through the air—overhand cuts, upward arcs, low sweeps—and every single one was blocked with a single hand, a casual twist of the wrist, or the faintest shift of stance.
The man's expression never changed, not even when Jude footwork darted forward with a sudden burst of acceleration.
The Head Guardian parried it like it was nothing.
Jude gritted his teeth, boots scraping against the stone floor as he pushed forward again. Sweat ran down the side of his face, stinging his eyes, but he didn't blink.
He fought the way one fought to stay alive—sharp, desperate, and disciplined.
The Guardian flicked Jude's wrist aside with a motion so smooth it looked like a dance. "Your guard is slipping."
Jude didn't answer. Words wasted breath. Breath weakened movement. Instead, he launched himself forward again, body dropping low into a sprint.
His muscles burned, but he welcomed the pain. It sharpened him.
He pivoted on his back foot, channeling every ounce of force he had left into one final strike. His wooden blade carved a clean arc through the air, fast enough to whistle.
The Guardian's eyes narrowed a fraction—his first reaction in the entire match.
The impact rang out like metal on metal.
The Guardian stepped back. Only half a step, but it was enough to widen Jude's eyes. A faint chip had appeared on the Guardian's wooden sword, like a small bite taken out of the side.
The man stared at the chip for a moment, then at Jude. His thoughts flickered behind a calm mask: To have grown this skilled, this quickly… even among the Patriarch's children, the youngest is by far the most gifted.
"That is enough," the Guardian finally said.
Jude lowered his sword, chest rising and falling steadily.
"You will be returning to the main estate in a few days, young master."
Jude blinked. "Young master?"
The Head Guardian nodded once, expression firm but respectful. "Since your time here is over, I must address you properly.
Preparations have already begun. Your personal maid will arrive soon to accompany you back to the main house."
A surprising calm settled in Jude's chest. Each child of House Avernus was assigned a personal maid from birth—someone who raised them, guided them, and served them until adulthood.
For Jude, that person had always been Brenna.
In his past life, Brenna had stood at his side longer than anyone. She had supported him through every humiliation, every struggle, every desperate moment… until the day he was cast out. Jude felt a strange, tight warmth in his chest at the thought of her.
From his shadow, Abaddon's voice drifted out lazily. "Finally. We're getting out of this godforsaken place."
The Guardian walked away, leaving Jude alone in the training hall. Silence settled in the room, broken only by Jude's slow footsteps as he crossed the floor.
Shadows spread beneath him, stretching like ripples on water. With a single step, he slipped into them.
Darkness swallowed him—and a heartbeat later he emerged inside his room.
"Tch." Abaddon clicked his tongue. "You really shouldn't be using Shadow Walk that casually. You're still not strong enough to stay submerged for long."
Jude shrugged. "I remember everything you taught me."
Two years ago, they had made a bet. Jude had reached 4-Star mage, just as he claimed he would, and Abaddon was forced to honor his end—teaching him the fundamentals of shadow traversal.
Jude sat on the edge of his bed, letting the darkness gather faintly around his fingertips.
The Core Concept: The Ocean Analogy
Abaddon's voice drifted like a lecture delivered a hundred times.
"Imagine the physical world as a thin sheet of ice floating above a vast, dark ocean. Every shadow is a crack or hole leading into those depths."
On that sheet of ice, a Blink and a Travel weren't separate spells—they were different depths of the same descent.
Shallow Step — Blink / Combat Mode
A Shallow Step skimmed the very top of the ocean. You didn't break through the ice; you only bent it. Shadows within sight stretched toward one another for an instant. You dipped into Shadow A, slid across the thin veil of darkness, and burst from Shadow B with the force of a slingshot.
Fast. Violent. Perfect for combat.
It granted no recovery—no breath, no mana, no rest. It was movement through danger, not escape from it.
Deep Dive — Travel / Sub-Space
A Deep Dive shattered the ice entirely.
You plunged into the true ocean, sinking until the physical world above became a dim smear of grey. In that place, movement warped—one step could shift entire distances in reality. You could wander for seconds and emerge miles away.
But the realm gnawed at everything: mana, sanity, sense of direction. Stay too long and you might resurface inside stone… or not resurface at all.
Abaddon sighed. "Good. At least you remember the theory. I only hope you don't make me regret teaching you this early."
"You worry too much," Jude muttered.
He leaned back onto the bed. Soon, he would return to the lion's den—the main estate of House Avernus. The place where fortunes were made or crushed… where he once lost everything.
This time, he felt no fear.
Only readiness.