Over the next few days, I began assisting Master Lysandra in treating the prickly fortress lord. Sinnett's condition was strange, a mixture of multiple, severe symptoms, but the healer seemed more than confident she could treat him. Her demeanor was that of an experienced professional, and each day, she had me working to prepare various treatments to ease his condition.

Yet, as time passed, I realized something. Master Lysandra had downplayed the fire mage's condition.

At first, she had implied to me that he was in poor health but far from death. It was the sort of state where he might see another few years, maybe even another decade, with some luck. But the truth was Sinnett was dying, and we could do little to stop that.

Sinnett's condition centered around his lungs. He could not take a full breath, and whenever he tried, he tended to break into harsh, racking coughs. Fluid had filled his lungs, and with that came tightness, pain, and dizziness whenever he exerted himself.

Worse, he tended to run a high fever with constant, severe fatigue and loss of appetite, and this, in turn, led to difficulty eating and remaining active.

A number of possible diseases fit the description, which Master Lysandra began eliminating one by one. Every day, she had the man imbibe different remedies to treat each symptom and stabilize his condition. She used teas to relax his lungs and ease his breathing. Elixirs reduced his fever and expelled fluid, reducing his coughing fits.

However, the relief was fleeting at best. His symptoms worsened just a little more each day, and it was clear he was not long for this world. Of course, I did not get a chance to see any of this, but Master Lysandra was nothing if not detail-oriented.

I did not much care about his condition, in truth. It was somewhat interesting from a scholarly perspective, and I could tell Lysandra was simultaneously curious and frustrated, but I found myself with little to no sympathy for his suffering. He had struck me as a cruel, arrogant man, and a few polite questions around the fortress had confirmed as much.

None of the guards would speak about the man in anything but fawning terms. They would talk of his lauded reputation as a war mage and how he would weave great firestorms with the rest of his squad, leaving miles of char and ash in his wake. They would recite battles won, enemies felled, and titles earned, and they would talk, as best they could, about his magical achievements.

This, more than anything, was why he had earned himself a cadre of followers. Each of the six fire mages by his side had come to serve as his attendants, but it was not hard to gauge their true goals. They wanted to steal some of his renown and power for themselves, like leeches.

I assisted Master Lysandra however I could and asked questions often, but there was only so much I could do. So, I kept busy in other ways. Namely, thinking up how best to progress faster.

My core sat about half full, and my modified gathering technique improved with every day. I estimated that I could reach Fog within a year's time, which would put me at just under three years to bridge four stages of mana development. While that was certainly fast, even for a noble, it was not fast enough. Elden had reached the liquid stages before twenty, and I had no reason to assume my past self had been any slower than that.

I had to find ways to shorten the time between stages or exert strength beyond my stage. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. The simple truth was that such tricks tended to either come with dangerous side effects or stringent requirements that I did not fit. That, or they were hidden, protected by the powerful to maintain their positions.

Rather than dwell on one problem, I focused on other things. If I could not grow fast enough in raw power, I could progress my skills instead.

I stood on the ship's deck, dressed in light clothes with my swordstaff in one hand and my shielding vambrace on the opposite arm. It was brighter out than I expected, thanks to the nearly full moon and shining stars overhead and the flickering lanterns mounted across the deck.

The deck was empty, the crew either asleep for the night or at the fortress proper for socializing with the guards and servants. More than one had invited me up, unaware of my unspoken order from Master Lysandra to remain on the ship as much as possible, and I was almost disappointed I had to turn them down. Almost.

Mana flowed through my body with each breath, the looping patterns easier to hold than ever. I could now move it through three separate spells at once with focus, one for my Traveler's Armor, a second for my Arcane Body spell, and the third flowing through my legs. That last part was my latest addition, one I hoped would one day become the next improvement over Force Step.

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

I took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and moved into the first stance of the first staff form I ever learned. It was a simple thrust aimed to crush the windpipe of an opponent, but thousands of repetitions and my magically strengthened body turned the move effortless. Not quite flawless, though, as I had to make a few tiny adjustments before stepping into the next strike, but it was close.

One by one, I moved through each step, each strike, each block, and counterstrike, and soon, my mind returned to my musings about martial combat. Sig's style was excellent. It had formed the bedrock of my skills for a year and a half, but it was...not flawed, but wrong. Unsuited for who I was and what kind of mage I might become.

Sig used hard, rooted stances to maximize strength and leverage. He had to because he was a natural human bound by the laws of physics and either would not or could not use magic anymore. Furthermore, his size meant the style worked for him. It fit his body and natural talents.

But I was a mage. I might not match Sig in size, but I had magic on my side. Once I mastered force magic, I could create my own leverage. Why should I bother with restrictive, rooted stances, particularly when they limited my options in battle?

Rather than move into the typical next motion, I shifted. Instead of a low thrust meant to skewer my foe through the gut, I stepped to the side, sweeping my weapon horizontally at neck level.

It was an awkward attempt. My unfamiliarity with the transition and the disunity between the two styles made the movement awkward, but I did not dwell on that. Instead, I reset and practiced the same modification again and again, all the while trying to grind away that halting catch that turned what should have been a smooth, flowing motion clumsy.

I could see in my mind's eye an opponent, one with a sword in one hand and brilliant violet hair. My weapon's reach had pushed him back, and I stepped in for a low thrust, just as I had learned to do. The swordsman slipped to one side, already drawing his blade up to turn my attack aside, but in doing so, made a fatal mistake. Rather than stepping in, I moved with him to one side. And my feinting thrust turned, the edge of my blade flicking up and over his guard to slice open his throat.

Quick and easy, smooth and flowing. No wasted energy, just as I would prefer.

It was a beautiful fantasy, but it was also just that. Fantastical. I could see the mountain of work required to make it a reality. Since arriving at the Academy, I had learned two—no, three styles between Sig's staff and spear forms, traditional Ferren swordsmanship, and the shield-focused techniques favored by the various guards and mundane soldiers across the kingdom.

Merging all three into one would take years. I would have to carefully go through each, pulling out the parts that fit my body, magic, and intended style. Then, I would need to practice each move and each transition, learning to flow from one to another without issue.

At least I had a few overarching principles to follow. Versatility and adaptability were key, which meant the footwork from typical Ferren swordplay was best. And since I intended to be more of an aggressive combatant, a good chunk of shield combat techniques would likely prove non-viable.

I was considering how best to get a head start on that when I heard a voice.

"Well, now, isn't this an interesting sight?"

I turned, expecting to see one of the sailors returning to the ship to sleep. Instead, I froze, my mind skidding to a halt.

A man stood at the top of the ramp onto the ship. He wore dark, elaborate combat robes of the type a mage might wear on the battlefield, and his face was broad, with a carefully trimmed beard covering his jaw. I did not recognize him in particular, but his clothes and the fire mana streaming off his body made it an easy puzzle to solve.

"My apologies, my lord," I said, tucking my swordstaff against my side and bowing, "I did not see you there."

"I can tell," the man chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, "But there's no need to apologize. I was taking an evening walk to clear my head when I thought I saw someone moving around down here. I was being entirely too nosy for my own good, so it's my own fault for sneaking up on you."

I nodded, not entirely sure how best to respond to that. The fire mage stared for a few seconds, then cleared his throat, "I also must apologize for our lord's...unwelcome welcoming. He has been unwell, as I'm sure you've learned since, and his patience has faded in recent months."

While I wanted to reject the apology, both because it was unneeded and because it meant nothing come from this man, that would be rude. So, I smiled and inclined my head, "Thank you. At the risk of sounding nosy myself, I never learned your name. Do you mind...?"

"Oh," the man tapped the side of his head, "Slipped my mind entirely. You may call me Niccolo, sixth attendant to Lord Sinnett and his most recent apprentice. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," I replied. It had escaped my notice, thanks to the relative darkness and his facial hair, but now that I took a closer look, I realized Niccolo was not much older than me.

Once more, the ship grew almost awkward until Nicco broke the silence again, "So...are you a spearman?"

"Of a sort," I nodded, holding up my swordstaff, "This is not quite a spear, but it is close enough."

"Fascinating. May I?"

"Be my guest."

Niccolo took my swordstaff in his hands, adjusting it in his grip before trying for a stab. It was godawful, slow enough that I could have written a letter and still had time to dodge, and I had to hide a wince. I suspected he caught my expression anyway, and his friendly smile grew almost embarrassed as he handed the weapon back to me.

"Sorry about that. Never saw much point in learning to use a weapon, but it certainly looked impressive. Do you just like it, or is it a part of your magic?"

"A...bit of both, I would say. I enjoy the exercise and feeling like I am improving, but there is utility in knowing to fight with a weapon."

"I suppose, but don't you think it's a little impractical?" Niccolo asked, "For a mage, I mean."

Even though Niccolo struck me as friendly, I did not appreciate his prying. It struck me as nosy and not in an altogether innocent way. So, I smiled and shrugged, "As I said, I enjoy the exercise."

"Right, right," Niccolo folded his arms over his chest, tapping his foot on the deck. Seconds passed, and we fell into an awkward silence for a third time. I remained quiet, hoping that the man would take the unspoken hint.

Finally, after at least fifteen seconds, Niccolo cleared his throat, "Well, I suppose I should finish my walk and return to my quarters. Early day tomorrow, you know? Pleasure meeting you formally."

He held out one hand, and I shook it, smiling as I replied, "Likewise. Have a good evening, my lord."

Niccolo walked down the ramp, disappearing into the gloomy darkness after just a handful of steps. I watched him go, my smile fading as he vanished from sight.

It could have been a coincidence or an honest case of an overly nosy mage. Hell, I might have done the same had I seen the fire mage practicing his magic at night. But I was in a strange fortress under the auspices of a man who clearly hated common-born mages. Could I trust that one of his apprentices and attendants had innocently wandered by so late at night?

The answer came in seconds, and I sighed as I returned to my quarters. It seemed I was doomed for another late night spent studying rather than getting anything productive done, thanks to factors outside of my control. Oh, joy of joys.