The walk to his new quarters took twenty minutes through corridors that screamed wealth with every tapestry and carved column. Avian followed the steward in silence, still wearing clothes stiff with dried blood and mountain filth. Servants they passed either stared or carefully didn't, depending on their station and curiosity.
"The heir wing is through here, young master," the steward said, stopping before doors that belonged on a cathedral rather than a residence. Oak and iron, carved with the Veritas family's history in painstaking detail. "Your quarters are the third suite. The Patriarch had them prepared upon... receiving word of your success."
Meaning he had them ready before I even reached the summit. Confident bastard.
The doors swung open on oiled hinges, revealing a hallway wider than his entire previous room. Marble floors polished to mirror brightness. Walls hung with paintings of past heirs who'd either risen to greatness or died trying. Light came from crystals embedded in the ceiling, steady and warm without smoke or heat.
"The first suite belongs to young master Thane," the steward continued, professional despite the awkwardness of the situation. "The second to mistress Clarissa. Yours is here."
Another set of doors, smaller but still impressive. The steward produced a key that looked more ceremonial than functional — all elaborate scrollwork and precious metal.
"Only you and your designated staff can enter without permission," he explained, offering the key with a slight bow. "The wards are... comprehensive. Previous heirs have valued their privacy."
Previous heirs who probably didn't survive to graduation.
Avian accepted the key, its weight surprising for something so ornate. "Thank you. I can manage from here."
"Of course. Your staff awaits within." The steward bowed again and retreated, footsteps echoing in the vast hallway.
The key turned smoothly, wards recognizing his aura signature with a subtle pulse of warmth. The doors opened, and Avian's first thought was that someone had made a mistake.
This wasn't a room. It was a small estate that happened to be indoors.
The entrance hall alone dwarfed his previous quarters. Polished wood floors that gleamed like honey under more crystal lighting. A ceiling that soared upward, painted with a fresco depicting Saint Vaerin's ascension — because of course it was. Weapons displayed on the walls, each one probably worth more than most families saw in a lifetime.
"Welcome home, young master."
A small army of servants stood in perfect formation, and at their head —
"Elira?" He couldn't hide his surprise.
She wore the more elaborate uniform of a head maid now, but her smile was the same gentle expression he remembered. "The Patriarch felt continuity would serve you well during this transition. I hope you don't mind."
"Mind? You're the only sane point in this insanity." The honest relief in his voice made several servants blink. "How did you—"
"When word came of your elevation, I was offered the position." Her eyes sparkled with something like pride. "It seems serving the 'mad training cousin' for six months was considered adequate preparation for managing an heir's household."
"I wasn't that bad."
"You bled on every surface in your room at least once. I've become quite expert at removing bloodstains from unexpected places."
A few servants coughed, covering what might have been laughter. Avian felt his lips twitch despite everything.
"Fair point. Though I promise to bleed on more expensive things now. Maintain standards and all that."
"How reassuring." Elira gestured to the assembled staff. "Shall I introduce everyone?"
The introductions blurred together — butler, under-butlers, maids for various specific purposes, a cook who looked personally offended by how thin he was. Twenty people whose entire purpose was maintaining his comfort. It felt excessive to the point of parody.
"Perhaps a tour?" the head butler suggested. His name was Marcus — not the same Marcus who'd beaten him six months ago, thankfully. This one had silver hair and the kind of dignified bearing that suggested he'd been managing noble brats since before Avian was born.
The tour revealed the full scope of noble excess. Each room was larger than the last, decorated with the kind of casual wealth that had stopped making sense several fortunes ago.
The sitting room could host a small party, furnished with chairs that probably cost more than most people's houses. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with volumes that ranged from history to sword techniques to what looked suspiciously like romance novels.
"The previous heir's collection," Marcus noted, following his gaze. "We can have them removed if you prefer."
"Leave them. Never know when I might need to know about... 'The Passionate Pirate's Problematic Promise'?"
"A classic of the genre, I'm told."
The study was more practical — a massive desk, good lighting, and more books, though these focused on strategy, economics, and governance. The kind of things an heir was expected to know. Maps covered one wall, showing the empire and its neighbors in exhaustive detail.
The bedroom stopped just short of being obscene. The bed could sleep six comfortably, draped in fabrics that felt like condensed clouds. Windows overlooked the compound's gardens, currently silver-washed by moonlight. An attached dressing room held enough clothes to outfit a small army, all in his measurements.
"How did they know my size?"
"The Patriarch is thorough," Marcus replied, which wasn't really an answer.
The bathroom featured a tub large enough to swim laps and hot water that came from some magical system involving runes and what might have been a trapped fire spirit. The kitchen was fully stocked despite him having never cooked anything more complex than travel rations.
And then they showed him the training room.
"Fuck me," slipped out before he could catch it.
The servants pretended not to hear, though Elira's lips definitely twitched.
It was everything six months of desperate training had made him crave. A full weapon rack covering one wall — swords of every size and style, spears, axes, things he couldn't even name. Training dummies that didn't look like they'd collapse after one serious hit. Most importantly, space. Enough room to move, to really push, without worrying about putting a sword through a wall.
"The room is warded," Marcus explained, moving to a panel near the door. "Observe."
He touched a rune, and the air shimmered. Suddenly the training room felt... denser. More real. Like reality had decided to pay closer attention to this particular space.
"Sound-proof and reinforced to Grandmaster level impacts," Marcus continued. "The previous heir was... enthusiastic in his training. These modifications were made after he accidentally destroyed the east wall during a particularly intense session."
Grandmaster reinforcement. I could actually cut loose in here.
"The wards can be adjusted," Marcus demonstrated, touching different runes. "For different levels of protection and privacy. This setting—" another touch, "—prevents any spiritual sensing from outside. Useful for developing techniques one prefers to keep... proprietary."
"You mean secret."
"I mean proprietary." Marcus's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes suggested he knew exactly what kinds of secrets an heir might want to keep. "Will the facilities be sufficient?"
"More than sufficient. Excessive, even."
"Nonsense," the butler replied smoothly. "An heir of your newly demonstrated potential requires appropriate resources. Speaking of which — dinner can be served whenever you're ready. Chef Henri is eager to address what he calls your 'tragic nutritional state.'"
Avian's stomach chose that moment to remind him he'd eaten nothing since dawn except fear and adrenaline. "Maybe after I've washed off today's... adventures."
"Of course. Elira can assist with anything you require." Marcus bowed precisely. "Welcome to your new home, young master. We are at your service."
The staff filed out with choreographed efficiency, leaving only Elira. She studied him with the critical eye of someone who'd been cleaning up his messes for months.
"Bath first," she decided. "Then food. Then you can do whatever secret training you're planning with that." She nodded at his pack, where the Aether Star Stone's weight made itself known.
"Am I that obvious?"
"Only to someone who's watched you push past reasonable limits for six months. The others see an elevated heir. I see someone who won't rest until he's wrung every drop of power from that stone."
Too perceptive by half.
"I'll try not to destroy the new training room on my first night," he offered.
"That would be appreciated. Blood is one thing, but structural damage requires paperwork."
She left him to his bath, which turned into its own challenge. The tub was basically a small pool, with enough knobs and controls to pilot a ship. He settled for 'hot' and 'full,' sinking into water that seemed to pull exhaustion from his bones.
The blood and grime of the trial washed away, leaving him feeling almost human. Almost. The memories remained — chimera claws and climbing through corpses and Balefire's recognition. His hands were clean, but they remembered the weight of violence.
First trial complete. Four more to go. Then what?
Then heir, presumably. Access to everything the family had hidden. The restricted archives Seren had mentioned. Answers about Vaerin, about the Spirit Kings, about why saving the world had made him its monster.
But first, power. The Star Stone waited, patient as gravity.
He dried himself and dressed in training clothes from the wardrobe — simple but well-made, fitting perfectly despite no one having measured him. The dining room had been set while he bathed, enough food for five people arranged with artistic precision.
"I can't eat all this."
"Chef Henri disagrees," Elira said, appearing with tea. "He used words like 'malnourished' and 'tragic' and something in French that sounded deeply offensive."
"Tell him I'll do my best."
He ate what he could — which was more than expected once he started. Real food after a day of murder and climbing apparently triggered previously unknown hunger. The cook knew his business too. Every dish perfectly seasoned, balanced between nutrition and actual taste.
"Better," Elira approved, clearing plates. "Shall I tell the staff you're not to be disturbed?"
"Please. I need to... acclimate to the new quarters."
"Of course." Her expression suggested she knew exactly what kind of acclimating he planned. "I'll ensure your privacy. Try not to acclimate too enthusiastically."
After she left, Avian headed straight for the training room. The door sealed with a satisfying click — heavy wood reinforced with enough metal to stop a charging bull. He activated the privacy wards, feeling reality thicken around the space.
Finally. Alone with power waiting to be claimed.
He drew Fargrim first, laying the blade across his knees as he sat in the center of the room. Even rust-covered, the sword hummed with anticipation. It knew what was coming — could taste the potential in the air.
The Aether Star Stone came out of his pack like a small sun. Up close, its power was almost overwhelming. Layers of compressed mana and aether swirling in patterns that predated human understanding. Most people would spend months preparing to use something like this. Careful rituals, measured absorption, making it last.
Fuck that. I've waited long enough.
He gripped the stone with both hands and shattered it like an egg.
Power exploded outward in a wave that would have killed anyone unprepared. Raw, unfiltered, centuries of accumulated energy released in an instant. The room's wards flared, containing the explosion, but barely.
Dex caught the erupting streams with will alone, separating mana from aether through pure intent. The mana river he directed to Fargrim, pouring it into the blade like water into a desert.
The sword's response was immediate and violent.
Rust didn't flake away — it burst off in sheets, revealing what lay beneath like a snake shedding dead skin. The blade itself was midnight given edge, so dark it seemed to eat light rather than reflect it. The fuller ran its length like a valley carved from shadow, and within it, runes crawled. Not etched but part of the metal itself, spelling out promises in languages that made modern tongues seem like babbling.
The guard had been reforged into something between thorns and teeth, organic curves that suggested growth rather than crafting. The grip... the grip moved. Not obviously, but in the way of something dreaming, leather that breathed with its own rhythm.
Beautiful. Terrible. Mine.
But the true change was deeper. Avian felt the connection snap back into place — the bond between blade and wielder that made Fargrim more than just sharp metal. Its ability, dormant for so long, surged back to life.
The Blooddrinker aspect. Every wound dealt could heal wounds received. The more damage inflicted, the more vitality returned. It was vampiric, parasitic, fundamentally wrong by every moral standard.
It was also the reason he'd been able to kill the Demon King.
That final battle had been a grinding war of attrition. The Demon King had been faster, stronger, better in every measurable way. But every wound Dex landed — every drop of divine ichor spilled — had healed his own failing body. Where the Demon King weakened with each exchange, Dex grew stronger. The sword had turned an impossible fight into merely improbable.
It had saved his life more times than he could count.
"Welcome back," he whispered.
The blade didn't just pulse — it hummed, a deep thrumming that resonated in his bones. Relief poured through their connection, the sword's joy at reuniting with its true master after five centuries of abandonment. It was like a loyal dog finally seeing its owner return, if dogs were made of midnight and drank life through steel.
Missed you too, you bloodthirsty bastard.
But the stone's bounty wasn't exhausted. The aether portion remained, dense and pure and waiting. Avian set Fargrim carefully aside — the blade was sated, almost drowsy with feeding — and turned his attention inward.
His Aether Core sat at Fifth Tier, pushed there through six months of relentless cultivation. Respectable for his age. Pathetic compared to what he'd been. But the perfect Mana Heart Aedric had sensed was about to prove its worth.
He drew the aether in, not in careful sips but in great drowning gulps.
Pain hit immediately. His core, used to gradual growth, suddenly faced expansion that should take years happening in minutes. Spiritual channels screamed protest as power forced them wider. His Mana Heart raced, pumping energy through pathways that creaked under the strain.
Fifth Tier cracked like ice in spring.
The breakthrough to Sixth brought a moment of relief — like joints popping back into place. But the aether kept coming, and his core kept drinking, and the pain shifted from sharp to deep. This was foundational change, the kind that killed cultivators who pushed too far too fast.
Good thing I've had practice dying.
Sixth Tier held for almost a minute before the pressure became unbearable. The breakthrough to Seventh felt like rebirth — every channel reforged, every pathway widened, his entire spiritual architecture rebuilding itself to accommodate power that shouldn't exist in a twelve-year-old frame.
And then—
Something slammed down on him. Not physically, but spiritually — a weight that pressed against his very existence. His ascending core hit an invisible wall and bounced back like a bird striking glass.
"What the fuck—"
The Seventh Tier shattered. Not from failure, but from something external forcing it back. His core compressed, power folding in on itself, settling firmly into Sixth Tier despite the excess energy still swirling through his channels.
He could feel it — all that unused aether, ready to push him higher. But something had locked his progression, capped his advancement like a lid screwed tight on a jar. The energy had nowhere to go, cycling uselessly through channels that couldn't expand further.
This isn't natural. Someone or something just forced me back down.
When the spiritual pressure finally lifted, Avian lay on the training room floor, gasping like a landed fish. Everything hurt. Everything hummed with potential that couldn't be realized. He'd compressed decades of cultivation into minutes, reached the peak, and been shoved back down by... what? Who?
Slowly, carefully, he sat up. Power thrummed through him like a second heartbeat, but contained now. Sixth Tier Aether Core — still unprecedented for his age, but not the Seventh he'd achieved. His aura responded to thought, Grandmaster rank flowing easily despite the forced limitation.
Someone's playing games. Someone with enough power to cap advancement remotely.
He stood, testing his new limits. The excess energy made control tricky — like trying to hold too much water in cupped hands. A casual aura pulse cracked the reinforced floor, hairline fractures spreading from where he stood. He reined it in quickly, but the damage was done.
So much for not destroying things on the first night. Though whoever just cock-blocked my cultivation can pay for repairs.
A knock at the door made him freeze. Had someone sensed—
"Young master?" Elira's voice, carefully level. "A message has arrived from the Patriarch. It's marked urgent."
He quickly sheathed Fargrim — now obviously a weapon of terrible significance rather than rusty garbage — and checked his appearance. Sweaty but not blood-covered. Good enough.
The door opened to reveal Elira holding a silver tray with a sealed letter. Because apparently normal delivery wasn't fancy enough for heirs.
"Thank you." He broke the seal, reading quickly.
*Tomorrow evening. Formal dinner. Five who claimed vault prizes will attend. Don't embarrass yourself or me. Wear something without bloodstains.
Aedric*
P.S. - Thirty reached the summit from sixty who started. Draw your own conclusions about the rest.
Short, informative, and slightly insulting. He was starting to appreciate his father's communication style.
"Shall I prepare formal attire?" Elira asked, reading his expression with practiced ease.
"Something that says 'I belong at this table' without trying too hard."
"The midnight blue with silver trim, then. Formal but not ostentatious." She paused, studying him. "If I may say, young master, you seem... different."
Because I just jumped two Tiers and my sword remembers how to drink life from wounds.
"It's been an educational day," he said instead.
"Indeed. Will there be anything else?"
"Just privacy until morning. I need to... adjust to the changes."
"Of course." She bowed and turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and young master? The training room floor wasn't quite designed for Near Transcendent-level impacts. Shall I arrange for repairs?"
Too perceptive by half.
"Please. And perhaps... reinforcement to a higher standard?"
"I'll see what can be done. Sleep well, young master."
After she left, Avian stood in his absurdly luxurious quarters, taking stock of his transformation.
Physical: Exhausted but intact, pushed past limits but not broken.
Spiritual: Sixth Tier Aether Core (forcibly capped from Seventh), stable but containing excess energy. Grandmaster aura rank, youngest in recorded history. Mana development lagging at Third Circle approaching Fourth — neglected but hideable given the family's warrior focus.
Equipment: Fargrim restored to Second Stage, Blooddrinker ability active. Fed and content and ready to carve life from enemies.
Status: From forgotten third son to vault-claiming heir in one bloody day.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges. Political games at dinner with the other successful candidates. Meeting whoever else had proven themselves worth the family's investment. And always, burning beneath everything else, the question of why.
Why did you kill me, Vaerin? What truth was worth tears and arrows? And who the fuck just capped my cultivation?