Vic showed up the next morning at Ninth Bell, a long, heavy bag slung over one shoulder.

“Alas!” His grin was as merciless as it was bright. “From your expressions you seem foolishly intent on going through with this needless form of suffering. Your last chance, Harry-boy and Lady Head Maid; we could put an end to this nonsense and set forth in search of the perfect brunch.”

Harald, still winded and worn out from his morning run, rose from the kitchen table and tossed the rag with which he’d been wiping his face aside. “We’re ready to take this seriously if you are.”

“Oh, I’ll take it seriously once we begin.” Vic unshouldered his bag and lowered it carefully to the floor. “But I’ve one last piece of information with which to dissuade you. Did you not find it suspicious that I left last night before garnering something to eat?”

“Yes?” Harald glanced uncertainly at Sam. “I thought you were just rushing home so as to plan out the week in detail.”

“Ha,” said Vic. “Humor! Essential in these dark days. No, I paid a friend at the Free Company a visit, and convinced her to go through the files in search of some crucial data.” He drew a crumpled sheet of paper from his doublet. “Information that I then copied out, and have here.”

“Yeoric’s window,” said Harald, reaching for it.

“Ah-ah!” Vic drew it back. “Where are your manners, Harry? First you say thank you. You have no idea what torments I endured in order to persuade my informant to acquire this for us.”

Sam snorted.

Harald snatched the paper and spread it out on the table, Sam crowding in around him. Written in neat, black letters, were the following:

Name: Yeoric Bronzel

Soul Nature: Fury Sentinel

Soul Rank: Uncommon

Soul Ability: Barricade

Class: Iron Vanguard 3

Class Actives: Set in Stone, Thunderstrike, First to the Fray

Class Passives: Revitalization, Shrug it Off

Endowments: None

Strength: 13

Dexterity: 12

Constitution: 14

Ego: 8

Presence: 8

Thrones: 1/7 (Throne of Harmony)

Spirit Scales: 13,202/100,000

Artifacts: None

Servitors: None

“It’s not as bad as I’d feared, to be honest,” said Vic, crossing his arms and leaning his hip against the table. “Though to be honest, I’m surprised you were able to hire him.” Vic frowned down at the text. “Not exactly a push-over.”

“Wait,” said Sam, running from the room. “I’ll get the Brixman’s!”

“She’s gone mad?” asked Vic hopefully.

Harald was trying to process his emotions. How could one feel relief and terror at the same time? Relief that his foe wasn’t Level 4 or higher, that he hadn’t Ascended to his second Throne, and that he’d no Artifacts or Servitors.

Terror, however, at the scope of his Actives and Passives, and the fact that his physical stats were nearly double his own.

“Brixman’s Guide to Dungeon Classes,” said Harald, coming back to the moment. “Dad owned the 788 edition.”

“Hmm.” Vic cast around, then pushed off the table to prowl over to the pots where some breakfast porridge was leftover. “Fascinating.”

A moment later Sam was back, clutching the thick book. She set it beside the parchment and quickly checked the index for Iron Vanguard.

“Page 47,” she muttered, turning and quickly finding the entry. “Here. I knew I recognized it. It’s actually pretty common. Let’s see: The Iron Vanguard class, renowned for its indomitable presence on the battlefield, epitomizes the pinnacle of martial prowess and strategic defense. Characterized by their unmatched endurance and their ability to wield heavy armor and shields as extensions of their own bodies, Iron Vanguards serve as the bulwarks against which enemy assaults break. Their expertise lies in absorbing and deflecting attacks, controlling enemy movements, and creating opportunities for their comrades to strike. With a deep understanding of armor enchantments and defensive tactics, the Iron Vanguard excels in sustaining sieges, leading charges, and safeguarding key positions. The path of the Iron Vanguard is for those who embrace the creed of strength through resilience, making them the unassailable foundation upon which victories are built.”

Harald pulled out a chair and sat. “Great.”

“And here are the most common skills associated with the class.”

Harald followed her finger as it ran down the list, stopping at each entry from Yeoric’s sheet.

Set in Stone: This skill transforms the Iron Vanguard into an immovable force, significantly increasing their defense and resistance to knockbacks or any form of displacement for a short duration. While active, the Iron Vanguard can anchor themselves to the ground, turning their stance into a bastion against which enemy attacks falter, providing critical protection for allies behind them.

Thunderstrike: Thunderstrike allows the Iron Vanguard to channel the raw energy of the storm into their weapon, unleashing a devastating area-of-effect attack around them. This skill not only deals significant damage but also temporarily disorients enemies caught in the blast, reducing their speed and making them more susceptible to follow-up attacks.

First to the Fray: Empowering the Iron Vanguard with increased movement speed and the first strike advantage, this skill propels them into the heart of battle. Upon activation, the Iron Vanguard gains temporary immunity to crowd control effects, ensuring they can breach enemy lines and disrupt formations, setting the stage for an allied assault.

Revitalization: Revitalization is a testament to the Iron Vanguard's enduring spirit, granting them gradual health regeneration over time. This passive skill is enhanced when the Iron Vanguard successfully blocks or absorbs damage, turning defense into a source of strength and enabling them to sustain their presence on the battlefield for extended periods.

Shrug it Off: This skill embodies the Iron Vanguard's resilience, reducing the duration of negative status effects and mitigating a percentage of incoming damage. "Shrug it Off" ensures that what would cripple others merely slows the Iron Vanguard, allowing them to maintain their defensive posture and protect their allies against overwhelming odds.

Sam glanced worriedly at Harald, who fought to keep his spirits from slumping. Instead, he glanced over to Vic, who was rummaging through the pantry in search of something.

“So? What do you think? He’s only Level 3, right? And while his stats are good, he’s only got the one Ascended Throne, meaning he can’t fund his Actives or keep all his Passives running at the same time.”

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“Hmm?” Vic looked back at Harald, momentarily confused. “Oh. No, you’re dead meat.”

“Vic!” Sam’s tone was sharp. “Be serious.”

“But darling, I am.” Vic drew out a small dark bottle and held it up to the light. “Hmm. Is this syrup? I can’t stand to eat porridge without it being smothered in berries, syrup, and candied walnuts. But yes. Yeoric.” He pointed at the sheet. “You’re right. His sole Active Throne means his Actives and Passives will be relatively brief and weak, but given where you’re at? That’s an academic argument.”

Harald took a deep breath and lowered his head. His body ached, ached in a profound way that he’d never experienced before. It had been only a couple of days since he’d started pushing himself, and no part of him was ready for this kind of strain.

But the real ache was spiritual.

Mental.

“Look.” Vic stepped over and placed a friendly hand on Harald’s shoulder. “I would normally never say this, but I’m… well. I’m impressed. It’s not often that I see someone decide to throw their life away based on misguided principles. You have other recourses. We can still assassinate this lout in a back alley, make it so that him and all your other problems disappear.”

Vic lowered his face to try and meet Harald’s gaze. “If you want, we can even go through with this charade of training you for an entire week. It might show you how unprepared you are to go up against Yeoric. But it’s good that you start facing reality and realize that this duel will at best set you back another Horizon atop the one you already lost, and at worst, well. I don’t want to lose one of the few people in this world who still think I have a few redeeming qualities.”

Harald could feel Sam’s seething frustration, her growing anger with Vic, the tide that was about to burst and wash the other man away with insults and defiance.

So he raised a hand to forestall her. “Give me a moment, all right? I’m going to… I’m going to think on this.”

And he took up the parchment and left the kitchen. Walked out into the back garden, and crossed the wild lawn to sit pensively on the swing bench before the emerald pond.

For awhile he didn’t think. Didn’t attempt to reason or figure out a position. Instead, he just sat with the truth.

Yeoric was a Level 3 Iron Vanguard. His physical stats were double Harald’s, and he could, at will, render himself an immovable object, unleashing a thunderous blow, move forward with unnatural speed, all the while healing himself continuously and shrugging off damage and negative status effects.

There was no way around it. From where Harald was standing, Yeoric was an unbeatable threat.

“Damn it,” he hissed, and screwed up the parchment in his fist.

He’d wanted this so badly. It had made sense in the moment: to use Yeoric as a target, a goal to strive toward. A lethal lash with which to goad himself to impossible heights.

But this? He didn’t even have a class. He didn’t have any Actives or Passives at all. He was almost 10,000 Scales away from Ascending his Throne, and had been celebrating raising his Strength from 6 to 7.

Vic was right.

He was dead meat.

And yet.

Harald glared at the point in the wild grass where he remembered standing as he’d boasted to his mother.

“Mom! That’s what I want to be. The strongest hero that ever lived. So when the biggest danger in the world shows up, I’ll be the only one who can stop it!”

If that had been his dream, how could he flinch from a Level 3 bully?

Two months.

He raised his gaze to stare pensively at the far garden wall and the trees that rose beyond it. Two months. Could he close the distance? Yeoric would spend that time doing the occasional dungeon delve with his crew and celebrating at the Burnished Goose.

Could Harald push himself hard enough to gain a class, to Ascend his Throne, to raise his physical stats?

Despite all reason, despite Vic’s experience, despite his own common sense, something told him that he could.

His Insatiable Void.

Morose, he opened his window and studied the description:

Insatiable Void: You are the aching heart of ambition, the howling hunger that yearns to consume the world. A child of darkness, you will always seek the light, but will destroy all that you pursue.

He smirked. That rang true, at least. It didn’t matter that Yeoric was miles ahead of him. He still wanted to catch up. He still wanted to prove himself. He wanted to face down the sadistic bully and force him to concede, to admit he was wrong, to pay him back what had been stolen.

A fierce resolve crackled to life in his heart.

Two months. If he trained three times as hard as anyone else, he could get six months’ benefit out of that same amount of time.

If his mind could force him to exceed his body’s natural guardrails, then perhaps he could do it.

And, perhaps, the Demon Seed would make that possible.

Harald reached up to touch his brow. Could he bet on Vorakhar’s Endowment? Would it lift him past what was humanly possible? And if so, what would that make him? What price would he be paying for such advancement?

He saw again Yeoric’s flat stare as the man pinned him to the ground. The contemptuous way Yeoric had squeezed his shoulder as he’d mocked Harald to his face.

Damn it.

He wanted to try.

No.

He was going to do more than try.

He was going to accomplish the impossible.

Resolved, Harald stood and marched back up to the patio and entered the kitchen once more. Vic was happily spooning a mess of porridge and toppings into his mouth, chair propped on its rear two legs, boots crossed on the table. Sam was glaring at him with hate in her eyes.

“I’ve reached a decision,” Harald said, tossing the paper on the tabletop. “I want to continue as planned.”

Vic raised an eyebrow. “Are you mad?”

“Possibly.” Harald grinned, the expression uncomfortably feral. “But I still want to try and win.”

Sam crossed her arms. “I’ll help you train no matter what this oaf says.”

“Hmm.” Vic carefully licked his spoon, considered it, then tapped his bare chin with it. “Well, good.”

Harald frowned. “Good?”

“If you could be so easily dissuaded by a little discouragement, then we’d have no business getting started. But half the battle is refusing to give up, and that, dear Harry-boy, you have overcome.”

Harald felt a jolt of hope. “So you think I have a chance?”

Vic snorted. “Absolutely not. But now at least I’m willing to sacrifice precious cavorting time with training you instead. A week, I believe we agreed? Or was it a day?”

“A week,” said Sam, tone flinty.

“Alas. Still, we might as well begin.” Vic dropped his feet off the table and stood. “Carry my bag, you two. Let’s go out into the backyard. You might as well be humiliated in the fresh air.”

And with that, still eating from his bowl, Vic left the kitchen.

“This is going to be torture,” said Sam.

“Probably. But if he really is a Rapier Regent that’s equal to Yeoric’s level? It’s our best bet.”

Sam sighed and hefted Vic’s bag. It was easily over a yard long, and contained what were probably swords.

“Oh,” Vic called over his shoulder. “There’s another bag in the entrance hall.”

Harald jogged out and saw a large potato sack bulging with objects. This he hefted, finding it awkward to hold, and carried out into the sunlight of the back yard.

As he and Sam deposited the bags on the grass by the base of the patio steps, they shared a look and grinned.

She seemed to share Harald’s own excitement; despite her irritation with Vic, she’d spent as many years as Harald—if not more—wishing to learn the use of a weapon.

Now here they were, about to learn for the very first time.

Harald felt his exhaustion and aches fall away. The world felt brighter, the colors more vivid, the distant bird song more beautiful.

There was nowhere else he’d rather be.

Vic came over, unbuckled his long bag, and drew forth a slender rapier in a black scabbard. Still munching his mouthful of porridge, he drew the blade with casual ease and tossed the scabbard aside as he moved to stand before them.

“A week. That’s how long I have to test if you’re worthy of suckling at my teat of knowledge.”

“By the angels,” muttered Sam.

Vic considered the long, bright blade. It was slender as a needle, but had an edge; the hilt was swirling mass of steel beams that formed a basket that encased his hand.

“I’ve thought about how to approach this week for an entire half hour.” He smiled at them. “That’s how long the ride here took from my garret. And no, Sam, you can’t come visit me there. That wouldn’t be professional, now that I’m you’re maestro.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged as she rolled her eyes.

“I am a Rapier Regent, the most sophisticated and sublime of all the martial classes. That’s not an opinion, that’s a fact. A Rapier Regent marries wit and devastatingly good looks with deadly speed, frighteningly fast reflexes, and the ability to snuff out another’s life at a whim.”

Vic raised his arm so that the rapier extended before him, slightly angled upward, its length glinting in the sun. “To fight with a rapier requires control, speed, incredible reflexes, and a surprising amount of stamina.”

With this he sank into a strange, forward leaning crouch. He took a half-dozen rapid steps forward, his rapier never wavering, feet crossing before each other, then lunged so deeply that his back leg was almost parallel to the floor, his front bent deeply at the knee. But in that lunge the point of his blade leaped forth another yard almost instantly.

He recovered smoothly, not lingering, and quickly executed a series of cuts and thrusts, flowing seamlessly from one posture to another, always steady, always in control, his blade flickering forth like a tongue of flame.

“Even a thirty second fight can be taxing,” said Vic, rising at last to stand tall, blade resting on his shoulder. “Your arm is constantly extended, and the full weight of the blade, while insignificant at first, constantly draws down upon your shoulder. Your thighs burn as you lunge and recover, as you parry and seek openings. Always you must keep yourself fully in control, ready to dart forward like a striking snake.”

Harald tried not to look intimidated.

“Which,” said Vic with a lazy smile, “is why I am not going to bother teaching you the rapier. Sam I could see profiting from this instruction, but you, Harry-boy? It would just be embarrassing.”

Harald’s cheeks burned. “Then what do you suggest?”

“I was going to suggest a shovel, so that you can begin your duel by pro-actively digging your own grave, but I thought that might sound morbid. So, instead, we’re going to use this.”

And he strode over to the long bag, set his rapier down, and drew forth a large and magnificent looking sword, its hilt twice as long as the rapier’s, its blade broad and tapering at the very end to a diamond point.

“This is a weapon fit for any brute, callow idiot, or out-of-shape noble’s son.” Vic raised the blade and considered it, holding the hilt with both hands. Then he glanced past it at Sam and Harald both. “Behold, my dears, the fucking longsword.”