The world narrowed down to Vic.

Smiling, lethal Vic, his wastrel friend turned deadly swordsmen. Their blades gleamed in the morning sunlight, and the air had never felt more fresh, tasted more sweet.

His pulse pounding in his ears, Harald slashed down with his blade.

Only for Vic to slide forward, confident, at ease, and parry the blow cold.

Steel rang on steel, but Harald felt off kilter, weak, uncertain.

“Terrible,” said Vic, his voice grave with disappointment. “Look at your arms.”

Harald glanced down. They were extended before him, almost locked out.

“That was the tiniest step I’ve ever seen a grown man take,” said Vic, disengaging and stepping back. “A quarter step. The rest you swung with your arms, as if you feared to get close. Come at me, Harald!”

Harald stepped back, nervous and shook up. In the last second he’d frozen, hesitated, not wanted to get in close. It was if natural instincts to avoid steel had taken over.

A deep breath and he settled back in to the stance. Sword up. He rippled his fingers on the hilt, firming his grip.

“Elbow in,” said Vic.

What? Oh, his elbow was pointing right at Vic. Harald pressed it in close.

“Exaggerate your stance. Wider, deeper.”

Harald did so.

“Now, are you ready?” Vic’s eyes gleamed. “Cut!”

Harald lunged forward and swung.

Again their blades crashed, but this time Vic shoved Harald’s sword away with ease. “What are you cutting at, Harry-boy? Hmm? You here to slash at the air? Cut at me! My body, my face, at me! Not the air! If I’d not moved you’ve have stumbled over yourself and missed me by inches.”

“Right, right,” said Harald, flushing and returning to his spot. He didn’t dare glance at Sam, who would no doubt be watching him in sympathy.

“Deepen your stance! Need I repeat myself till I go mad?”

Harald grimaced and did so. Checked his elbow, puffed out his chest, squared his shoulders.

“Cut!”

Again Harald stepped in and slashed, but this time Vic wasn’t there—he smacked the flat of his blade against Harald’s knee as he sidestepped.

The pain was sharp, a flare of white in the dark.

“Your leg is gone.” Vic shook his head in disgust. “Lead with your blade! You stepped forward, drew your sword back like an ax. Weren’t you listening?”

And though was Vic was right, anger started to kindle in Harald’s chest. Flickers of curdled rage. The pain smarted in his leg, sweat had broken out across his brow, and Vic had been right, it felt as if he’d just run a mile.

And after only three swings?

“Enter your Tower guard!” snapped Vic, smoothly entering his. “And see if you can avoid making the same mistake twice. Deep stance! Back straight, chest out, come on Harry, puff it out like the rooster you’ve never been. Shoulders back, elbow tucked! Are we awake yet? Do you think this is all in jest? Yeoric will tear you apart, Harald, he’ll joint you like a butcher does a poulet. Eyes on me! Are your ready? Cut!”

Harald jerked forward, his blade flashing forward.

Vic’s sword parried his own, both clanging brightly in the morning air.

“Better! And by better, I mean what I’d expect from a mildly competent ten year old girl. Back!”

Harald shook out his arm, returned to his posture. His anger was growing. He gripped the longsword tightly, then, abruptly, relaxed his grip just a little. He kept his pinky and ring fingers tight, but relaxed his pointer. He didn’t know why. It just felt right.

Deep breath.

Nothing but Vic.

He wanted Harald to slash at his body?

All right. He’d get that.

“Cut!”

Anger fueled his movements. His aches, his pains, his weariness and bone-deep fatigue were gone. He felt limber and flush with heat, his muscles responsive, his wits keen.

Harald thrust the blade forward as if flinging it from him, and followed after. The longsword swung around and down sharply, and this time Harald kept his posture, his shoulders back, his chest out, his stance wide.

Their blades rang out, but there was a different tenor to the clash. Now it sounded fierce.

“There we go, he’s not asleep after all!” Vic stepped in close, their blades rising up between them, and then shoved. Harald stumbled back, arms and blade windmilling.

“Again. What are you waiting for? Guard position! Cut!”

Harald barely had time to settle, but now an intuitive sense of how to move, how to flow seemed to enter him. His blade leaped forward, eager, and swung powerfully at Vic, who laughed and stepped in at an oblique line to parry.

Again the sound of their blades meeting was different, a righteous clamor.

“Well, well, well,” said Vic, disengaging and stepping back. “It looks like the pup has little teeth after all. What’s wrong, Harald? You look upset. Surely a little drilling hasn’t gotten under your skin?”

Harald fought to catch his breath. His shoulders wanted to heave, but what he really wanted was to swing again, but more, to know what to do after that. How to follow up on that cut, how to pursue Vic, how to keep pressing him.

He wanted to fight.

The sound of metallic stars ringing out against the void filled his mind:

The Demon Seed Has Stirred

Your Dexterity has risen from 6 to 7

Harald paused, the words hovering before him in the air.

“What?” asked Vic. “Did you just go in your pants?”

“Stat raise.” Harald rested his blunt blade on his shoulder and looked to Sam. “Dexterity just rose to 7.”

“You’re serious?” Sam’s concern was obvious.

“Cause for celebration!” Vic lowered his blade and grinned. “And proof that I am the world’s best longsword instructor. Even I’m surprised at my own talent.”

“No, it’s that…” Harald considered explaining, but something held him back. “It’s just unexpected.”

“Harry-boy, your statistics are so low that should you manage to wipe your own arse successfully I’m sure the Fallen Angel would reward you. Any stat raise is good, but…” Vic winced and shrugged. “A 7 isn’t really all that amazing.”

“Stop being such an ass,” said Sam. “I know that might be impossible, but you’re supposed to be his friend. Harald’s giving this his all. He needs our support.”

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“What Harald needs,” said Vic dryly, “is to be committed to a sanitorium. Barring that, he needs his friends to provide him with a reality check. Which is what this week shall prove. My goal, dear friends, is to live off your largesse, earn my scales, and convince Harald to approve of my assassination plan.”

“Not going to happen,” said Harald.

“You say that now. But we’re just getting started.” Vic glanced at the sky, checking the position of the sun. “Let’s have you both practice that strike against each other till Tenth Bell. Stances!”

Vic berated and belittled them for the remaining duration of the bell, and though Harald sought to tap that anger, he couldn’t manifest it against Sam. Instead they repeated the strike over and over, stepping and striking and taking turns calling out ‘cut’. By the time the bell rang, Harald’s wrist, arm, and shoulder were weak with exhaustion, and the three pound blade had begun to feel like it was ten times as heavy.

“Finally! Phew. I’m exhausted.” Vic blew out his cheeks. “Well, time for a snack, and then I’m going to drink a bottle of wine and go to sleep. You all continue with your weights. Follow my routine, yes? I’ll hopefully be awake for some form-work this evening.”

Harald glanced at Sam, then gave a nod, sweat dripping from his chin. “Right.”

“Bring the bags inside. Sam? Hurry up and make that snack for me. One does not keep a Blade Mentor waiting.”

Sam clenched her jaw but bent to hoist the bag.

“No,” said Harald. “I’ve got this.”

She nodded, wiped sweat from her own brow, then jogged ahead to begin preparing their food.

Harald followed slowly after. First his Constitution, then his Strength, then his Dexterity. All within a few days of each other.

All during moments of extreme effort, yes, but also determination. Moments of anger.

How far could this Demon Seed take him? At this rate he’d hit epic levels of physical prowess by the time he faced Yeoric. Would a stat continue to rise every day? Surely not. Or was that dependent on his will, his ambition, his ability to stay fiercely, voraciously focused?

Harald opened his window to admire the new number, then considered the description for his Nature once more:

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’d yearned for mastery before. To become deadly and respected by all in Flutic. To fill his father’s boots. But his best attempts had been half-hearted and short lived.

Never had he tapped such depths of resolve before. Already he’d accomplished more in three days by sustaining this new level of intensity than he’d ever done in his whole life.

Was that the Demon Seed’s doing? No, it felt organic to his very being, his own nature. It was him that fought on when his body yearned for a break. It was his will that got him out of bed in the morning when the old Harald would have turned away to sleep another bell or two.

Wasn’t it?

Uneasy, uncertain, he entered the manor, dumped the gear, then joined the other two in the kitchen. Vic was regaling Sam with tales of his exploits, and seemed to derive all the more amusement the less interest she showed.

But Harald remained sunken in his thoughts. To his surprise his appetite was fierce, but Vic stopped him from eating too much.

“You’re not a bear preparing for winter,” his friend said, pulling his plate away. “Now go digest somewhere for ten minutes than head downstairs to suffer.”

Harald napped in the second parlor, only to be awoken by Vic. “Bestir yourself, you cumbersome lout!”

“Nobody says ‘cumbersome lout’,” protested Harald, rubbing his eyes.

“All fashionable trends begin somewhere,” said Vic with easy equanimity. “Show me this gymnasium of your father’s. I’m curious.”

The trio descended, and Vic was impressed. He studied Gustav the segmented mannequin, the weights, the acrobatics equipment, and turned to Harald. “Your father wasn’t joking around in here, was he? We’ll make use of these dummies at a later date. But for now, get to it. I’m going to the wine cellar.”

When he was gone, Sam stepped in a little closer. “You doing all right?”

“Me?” Harald frowned. “Sure. Why?”

Sam studied him. “I know what’s in your window. And I know you. These past few days, you’ve been…”

Harald raised an eyebrow. “Impressive?”

“Beyond driven. The Harald I knew had big dreams, but he wouldn’t have been able—no, he wouldn’t have wanted to push himself this hard.”

“What are you saying, Sam?”

“I’m… I’m growing nervous about your Endowment. Maybe we should speak to an authority. The Seraphites, perhaps. Someone who can tell us what’s happening to you.”

“Someone who’ll lock me away in a cell or decide to simplify matters by burning me alive?”

Sam scowled. “There has to be someone more intelligent and learned than that. Harald, you’re…” Again she hesitated. “I’ve always considered myself a driven person, and I’ve always taken my training seriously, but you’re…”

“What?” Harald felt a flicker of annoyance. “I’m finally taking my life seriously? I’m finally trying to make up for lost ground?”

“You’re attacking these exercises like a man possessed. I don’t mean to upset you. I’m just worried.”

Harald buried his anger and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look. I’m sorry. I’m excited by these new developments, but I’m also scared. You’re right.” He dropped his hand. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. But right now it’s giving me what I want. And, to be brutally honest, without Vorakhar, I’d be dead. The manor would be up for sale, and your oath with it.”

Sam paled.

“My point being,” said Harald, pushing on. “That this, as far as I can tell thus far? This second chance, it’s a good thing. You’re free. I’m on the path of vengeance against Yeoric, and maybe even to greater things. This Endowment is giving me power. But I get to decide what I do with it. There’s no evil voice whispering corruption in my mind. It’s just me and my new Soul Nature. My desire to grow stronger, to be better, to no longer lie or hide behind excuses.”

Sam rubbed her upper arm, clearly disturbed, but nodded. “Sure. I can see that. Can you… look, you don’t owe me anything, but can you promise to let me know if anything else changes in your window?” Her expression was guilty and concerned. “You’re like a brother to me, Harald. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“Well.” Harald grinned ruefully. “I already got in trouble in the dungeon, and have to fight a Level 3 Iron Vanguard in seven weeks, so it’s a little late for that. But yes, I understand what you’re saying. I promise I’ll tell you, all right?”

“Good.” Sam took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Speaking of which, shall we get to it?”

Harald rubbed at his face. The nap, instead of restoring him, had only made his exhaustion feel more immediate. “Yes. Sure. What’s on the agenda for today?”

Sam’s smile turned wicked. “Nothing awful. I’m not Vic. Let’s warm up with some weights. Put some pebbles in the bucket. Then we can go to sandbag carries, maybe some ladder work, then finish up with some club swings?”

“Delightful,” muttered Harald. “Lead the way, oh gracious one.”

The day proved to be endless. What little initial reserves he’d had when he’d first started up two days ago were gone by now, so that he almost immediately felt as if he were scraping the bottom of the barrel. He labored on shaky legs, and at the end of the sandbag work he vomited up the snack from before.

Only to wave off Sam’s concern, and, shaking and sweating, attempt the ladder work. His body just wasn’t up to it, and he spent more time climbing up to the ladder than working his way along the rungs. He did his best with the club swings, but collapsed gratefully when Sam finally declared the workout over.

She left him to catch his breath on the mat, and when he finally climbed upstairs he found his lunch cold and covered with a hand towel on the kitchen table. He ate alone, forcing himself to devour the meal, then limped into the parlor to fall on the divan and pass out amidst the ornamental cushions.

Sam awoke him for their walk a second later.

“You don’t have to go,” she said. “Vic’s in the attic, I think, singing and exploring what’s in the chests. You should sleep more.”

“No,” protested Harald. “A walk’s easy. I won’t skip it.”

It wasn’t easy. His knees ached. His ankles ached. His head ached. Sam forced him to drink copious amounts of water, but he rarely had to use the public park bathroom. He struggled to just keep moving, wincing and gasping as he labored around the park, and couldn’t even fault the children who ran away screaming from him when he lurched into view from behind some trees, laboring for breath and gasping.

He collapsed in an entrance hall chair when they got home, and Sam had to haul him up and push him into the reception room so that he could lie down on a couch there.

He slept.

Only to awaken again when Vic prodded him with the scabbarded point of his sword. “You dead, Harald? I say, are you dead, Harry-boy?”

“Not dead,” muttered Harald, pushing the scabbard away. “Just dying.”

“Assuredly. You look like shit. That’s my professional, medical opinion.”

“Great.” Harald wanted nothing more than to pull a cushion over his head. To turn his face toward the back of the couch, to tell the drunken Vic that the deal was off, and that he just wanted to quietly die.

For a long, agonizing second he just lay there, struggling.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Vic, voice growing gentle as he sat beside Harald. “Let me ask Sam to make you some hot soup. The body’s not meant to be abused like this. You take the rest of the evening off. We’ll do something light, some reading perhaps. You rest, have a hot bath, then sleep for twelve bells. We’ll start again tomorrow, with you alert and ready to learn.”

Harald swiveled his eyes up to study Vic.

Vic’s face was grave, sober, concerned.

Hot soup. A hot bath. Ah, that would feel amazing on his aching bones. His knees. His everything. To rest. To fall into his bed, freshly bathed, and to find oblivion.

Vic didn’t even seem to mind.

His body begged for him to stop. His thoughts were dazed. Everything hurt.

“You’ve still got a little under two months to go,” said Vic kindly. “What’s one hour? Best you rest up. Come on. Give me the word and I’ll tell Sam. You really don’t look good, Harry-boy.”

Harald closed his eyes. He pressed his brow into the stiff couch cushion. It was so reasonable. All he had to say was yes.

And he could rest, bathe, eat, sleep.

All sane, good things.

For a long moment everything hung in the balance.

Then he sighed, and with extreme reluctance and maximum effort, levered himself up to sitting.

“Fuck that,” he slurred. “Let’s keep training.”

Vic’s eyes glittered. “You sure?”

“Yes. I hate it, but yes. What did you say we had to do? Forms? Get Sam. Let’s get it done.”

Vic slid off the couch to crouch before him, expression suddenly curious, inscrutable, piercing. “I must admit surprise, old friend. This isn’t like you.”

“I’ve changed.” Harald palmed his eye. “Am changing.”

“So I see. If Evernessa had been willing to bet on it, I’d have wagered a Horizon’s Whisper that you’d have begged off tonight.”

“Good thing she’s not here.”

But Vic continued to stare at him, his expression sharp and probing despite the smell of wine about him. “Something’s amiss. But I’m impressed. You passed my test.”

Harald looked up as Vic stood. “Test?”

“Oh yes.” Vic smiled without humor. “If you’d agreed to soup and cuddles, I’d have tended to your every need, tucked you into bed myself, then gathered my belongings and left for good. But you chose to struggle on. Bravo. So the week continues apace. Now get up. I’m eager to see just how far I can push you.”