On the scroll, he could see three bold words brushed in an archaic script: Thunder Punishing Fist.
A skill. Skills like this, especially elemental combat skills, were as rare as phoenix feathers. They possessed incredible destructive force and were considered surefire trump cards.
Arthur's face lit up as he held the scroll, its metallic parchment cool against his skin. He carefully rolled it back up and tucked it safely inside his worn tunic, alongside the other scrolls he'd acquired. He looked up again, scanning the dispersing crowd, but as usual, Maelon Virestone had vanished as if he were never there.
"I will thank him properly next time I see him," Arthur made a mental note, a sense of gratitude warming him despite the lingering mysteries. He quickened his pace, joining the flow of students heading away from the forest entrance.
It had been a long, exhausting week, and all he wanted to do was go home, eat a proper meal, and rest. The walk itself was swift. He was already on the outskirts of Eldermoor and managed to skirt the main city bustle, soon finding himself standing at the familiar, creaking door of his family's dilapidated mansion.
As his hand reached for the weathered wooden door, he paused, only for a moment. Thoughts raced through his head – Ezriel, the Candidate status, the disappearing mark, the Imperial Fate Academy tournament, the strange coin, and now this powerful new skill. His life had taken a sharp, unexpected turn. How much should he reveal? How much could he even understand himself?
Before he could dwell on it further, he heard a booming laugh from inside. The door creaked open.
"You're back! Haha! How was it, son?" Garron rushed forward, his large hand landing on Arthur's shoulder in a welcoming, if slightly jarring, clap. His father's eyes were bright with curiosity and a touch of underlying concern.
Arthur managed a tired smile. "It was… uneventful, Dad. Long. Lots of walking. Got a few beast cores, learned a bit." He kept his voice carefully neutral, downplaying everything. He wasn't ready to talk about the Mauler, the cave, Ezriel, or the monumental pronouncements at the reward ceremony. Not yet.
Garron looked him over, searching his face. "Uneventful, huh? You look like you've been through more than just 'lots of walking'." But he didn't press. "Well, your mother's been worried. Go on up, get cleaned. Supper will be ready soon."
"Thanks, Dad." Arthur nodded, relieved, and headed up the grand, dusty staircase towards his room.
Once inside his sparsely furnished room – a simple bed, a worn desk, a rickety bookshelf – Arthur locked the door. He needed solitude. He needed to think.
First, he pulled out the old-looking coin Ezriel had left behind. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he turned it over and over in his fingers. It was heavier than it looked, made of some dark, unidentifiable metal. The carvings were indeed ancient, unlike any script he'd seen in academy texts. The symbols on one face, surrounding the perfect cube, seemed to shift slightly in the dim light of his room, almost alive. He traced them with a fingertip. They felt like runes, imbued with a faint, dormant power. The tiny scribbles on the other side were even more baffling, a dense tapestry of miniature lines and dots that defied easy comprehension. It was a puzzle, another piece of the mystery Ezriel had dropped into his life. With a sigh, he carefully placed the coin in a small wooden box where he kept his few personal treasures.
Then, his attention turned to the new scroll: Thunder Punishing Fist.
He unrolled it carefully on his desk. The metallic parchment felt strangely resilient. The script was old, but the diagrams depicting stances and mana flows were surprisingly clear. It wasn't just a list of instructions; it was a complex treatise on how to draw upon the volatile power of lightning, to channel it through one's own body and unleash it through a devastating strike.
Arthur's heart began to beat faster. This was leagues beyond the simple mana reinforcement techniques taught at the academy. This was raw, elemental power.
He sat down, cross-legged, on the floor, the scroll spread before him. He read through it once, then twice, then a third time, committing the intricate details to memory. The theory was complex. It spoke of specific pathways within the body, meridians for mana to flow, of attuning one's internal energy to the wild, untamed nature of a thunderstorm.
It described how to gather ambient mana, refine it, and then imbue it with the essence of lightning – a process fraught with danger if done incorrectly. One misstep in the mana circulation could lead to internal injuries, or at best, a spectacular failure.
For hours, Arthur sat there, lost to the world. He began by trying to sense the specific mana pathways described in the scroll. He closed his eyes, focusing inward, trying to guide his own mana along these new, unfamiliar routes. At first, it was like trying to force water uphill. His mana felt sluggish, resistant to leaving its usual, well-worn channels.
He remembered the diagrams, the way the energy was supposed to coil in the dantian – his core – before surging outwards. He focused, his brow furrowed in concentration. He pushed. Nothing. Just a dull ache from the mental exertion.
Frustration began to creep in. He took a deep breath.
He tried again, this time focusing on the initial stage: drawing in ambient mana and attempting to imbue it with the feeling of lightning – sharp, sudden, overwhelmingly powerful. The scroll described it as capturing a spark of the storm itself within one's spirit.
He imagined a thunderstorm, the crackle of energy in the air, the blinding flash, the deafening roar. He reached out with his senses, trying to pull that imaginary energy into himself. His palms tingled, a faint warmth spreading up his arms. Hope surged.
But then, just as he felt he was getting somewhere, the sensation vanished. The mana he'd gathered dispersed, leaving him feeling drained and a little foolish.
He gritted his teeth. This was harder than any physical training he'd ever endured. This was a battle of will, of focus, of an almost intuitive understanding he didn't yet possess.
He spent what felt like an eternity cycling through the initial steps. Draw in mana. Try to shape it. Feel it slip away. Repeat. His muscles ached from holding the meditative posture. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The room grew dark as night fell outside, but he barely noticed, his entire being consumed by the task.
He focused again. This time, he didn't try to force it. He let his mana flow more naturally, gently guiding it towards the pathways described in the scroll, coaxing it, persuading it. He visualized the energy not as a raging storm, but as a single, contained spark, waiting to be born.
He channeled his mana into his right fist, as the scroll instructed for the initial manifestation. He pictured the energy concentrating there, becoming denser, hotter. He held his breath, every fiber of his being focused on that single point.
Nothing.
He let out a frustrated sigh, slumping slightly. Maybe he wasn't ready. Maybe this skill was too advanced for him.
But then, as he was about to give up for the night, he tried one last time. He poured all his focus, all his will, into his fist. He didn't think about failure. He didn't think about success. He just… became the intent.
A faint warmth prickled his knuckles. He held his breath. The warmth intensified, becoming a distinct, sharp tingle.
And then, for the briefest of moments, so quick he almost missed it, a tiny, almost invisible blue spark crackled between his knuckles, accompanied by the faintest scent of ozone.
It was gone in an instant.
Arthur stared at his hand, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. It was small, almost nothing. But it was there.
A slow smile spread across his exhausted face. A spark. The first spark.