A few more days passed, and Alaric's siblings continued to pry into his business. The thin veneer of concern was starting to wear off, and their true tones—ones of disdain and superiority—were slowly resurfacing.
One morning, as Alaric was in his workshop, a knock came at the door. He groaned, knowing who it was.
"Yes?" he called out, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
"It's us again, Alaric," Damian said as he opened the door without waiting for an invitation. Eliza followed closely behind.
Alaric didn't even look up from his work. "What do you want this time?"
Eliza walked over to his workbench, her eyes scanning the various parts and blueprints scattered around. "We were just wondering how your... projects are coming along."
"Yeah, we're curious to see what you've been up to," Damian added, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk.
Alaric sighed, finally looking up. "It's going fine. And as I've told you before, it's none of your business."
Eliza picked up a small metal part, turning it over in her hands. "You know, Alaric, you don't have to be so secretive. We're your family."
Alaric snatched the part from her hand. "Funny how you only remember that when it suits you."
Damian stepped forward, his smirk fading. "We're just trying to help. Father is concerned, you know."
"Father is concerned about his reputation, not about me," Alaric shot back. "And you two are only here because you're curious or because you want to find something to use against me."
Eliza sighed dramatically. "Oh, Alaric, why do you always have to be so difficult?"
"Why do you always have to be so nosy?" he retorted. "Just leave me alone."
Damian shook his head. "You're going to have to face reality someday, Alaric. You can't keep hiding away in here."
Alaric glared at him. "I'm not hiding. I'm working. Something you wouldn't understand."
Eliza rolled her eyes. "We're just trying to look out for you. But fine, if you want to be like this, we'll leave."
As they turned to go, Alaric felt a surge of anger. "Good. Maybe then I can actually get something done."
They left, closing the door behind them with a bit more force than necessary. Alaric took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. They wouldn't give up, but he wouldn't let them distract him. He had work to do, and he was determined to see it through.
"One day they'll understand," he muttered to himself, returning to his workbench. "One day they'll see what I'm capable of."
With renewed focus, he continued his work, his siblings' intrusions fading into the background as he lost himself in his designs.
Despite the constant annoyance from his siblings, Alaric kept practicing diligently. Each day, he devoted hours to mastering the art of dual-wielding his pistols, Reaver and Emberblast. The feel of the weapons in his hands, the precision required to aim and fire accurately, and the thrill of channeling his limited mana into devastating attacks—all of it was exhilarating.
He knew he couldn't afford to get rusty. In the isolated training room, he set up various targets, practicing his speed and accuracy. He imagined himself in different scenarios, anticipating attacks from every direction.
"Faster," he muttered to himself, firing off a rapid series of shots at the moving targets. "You have to be faster, Alaric."
The training was grueling, but it was necessary. He couldn't rely on his minimal magical abilities alone. His skill with the pistols was his only edge, and he intended to sharpen it to perfection.
Meanwhile, his nighttime excursions continued. Under the cover of darkness, Alaric would slip out of the estate, often with Geralt's reluctant assistance, and venture into the woods or along the roads frequented by bandits. His reputation among the bandits grew, but not in a good way. Stories of a young man with terrifyingly effective firearms began to circulate, and many bandits now feared the mysterious figure.
One night, while tracking a particularly notorious group, Alaric found himself surrounded. He smirked, feeling the familiar adrenaline rush.
"Time to see if all this practice pays off," he whispered to himself.
The bandits attacked, but Alaric was ready. He moved with a fluid grace, firing Reaver with one hand while using Emberblast to launch waves of fire with the other. The bandits, caught off guard by his dual-wielding technique, fell quickly.
"Looks like you picked the wrong night to mess with me," Alaric said, standing over the fallen bandits.
After ensuring there were no survivors who could report back, he searched their camp. He found valuable loot—gold, weapons, and more—but what caught his attention was a map detailing other bandit camps and their routes.
"Interesting," he mused, tucking the map into his coat. "This might come in handy."
He continued his life of working by day and pillaging bandits by night. His siblings' constant prying and the nobles' dismissive attitudes no longer bothered him as much. Every night out in the field was a reminder of his true purpose, a testament to his growing strength and skills.
Back in his room, after a particularly long night, Alaric reflected on his progress.
"I've come a long way," he thought, cleaning and reassembling his pistols. "But this is just the beginning. There's still so much more to do."
His determination hardened. No matter the obstacles, he would prove his worth. He would make them all see.
With that thought, he holstered his pistols and lay down, already planning his next move as sleep overtook him. The path ahead was fraught with danger, but Alaric was ready for it. He would carve out his destiny, one bandit at a time.
The next day, Alaric was called to the training grounds by his father. As he approached, he noticed several knights standing alongside Count Vargas. The air was thick with tension and curiosity.
"What's all this about?" Alaric asked, his tone dripping with snark. "A welcoming committee for your prodigal son?"
Count Vargas frowned, clearly unimpressed with Alaric's attitude. "You're here to demonstrate your combat abilities," he said sternly. "Against these knights."
Alaric's eyes widened slightly, then he let out a laugh. "You can't be serious, Father. Unlike a spell or a sword, there's no way to restrain these pistols."
"I'm very serious," Count Vargas replied, his gaze cold and unyielding. "You've been making quite a name for yourself, and I need to see exactly what you're capable of. This isn't a request."
Alaric clenched his fists, feeling the familiar rush of defiance. "I refuse," he said firmly. "I'm not here to put on a show for your amusement or to serve as a spectacle for these knights. My weapons aren't for parlor tricks."
The knights shifted uncomfortably, sensing the brewing confrontation. One of them, a burly man with a scar across his face, stepped forward. "With all due respect, Count Vargas," he said, "if the young master is concerned about safety, perhaps we should reconsider—"
"No," Count Vargas interrupted sharply. "This demonstration will happen. Alaric, you will fight."
Alaric's jaw tightened. "And what if I accidentally kill one of your precious knights?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "Will that satisfy your curiosity, Father?"
Count Vargas's eyes flashed with anger. "Enough of this insolence! You will do as you're told."
Alaric took a deep breath, his mind racing. He knew his father was testing him, pushing him to see how far he would go. But there was also a part of him that wanted to prove himself, to show everyone what he was capable of. He glanced at the knights, seeing a mix of anticipation and wariness in their eyes.
"Fine," he said at last, his voice cold. "But remember, you asked for this."
He drew both Reaver and Emberblast, feeling the weight of the pistols in his hands. The knights readied their weapons, forming a semi-circle around him. Alaric took a deep breath, focusing his mind. This wasn't just about showing off his skills; it was about survival.
Count Vargas raised his hand. "Begin!"
The knights charged at Alaric, their swords and shields gleaming in the sunlight. Alaric moved swiftly, his pistols firing in rapid succession. Reaver's shots were precise, aimed at disarming and incapacitating rather than killing. Emberblast unleashed waves of fire, forcing the knights to scatter and break their formation.
One knight managed to get close, swinging his sword with a fierce determination. Alaric sidestepped, firing Reaver at the knight's knee. The man cried out, collapsing to the ground. Another knight came at him from behind, but Alaric spun around, using Emberblast to send a torrent of flames in his direction. The knight barely managed to raise his shield in time, the heat singeing his armor.
"Is this what you wanted, Father?" Alaric shouted, his voice echoing across the training grounds. "To see your son fight like a cornered animal?"
Count Vargas watched silently, his expression unreadable. The remaining knights hesitated, unsure whether to continue the assault. Alaric stood in the center of the training grounds, breathing heavily, his pistols still raised.
"Enough!" Count Vargas finally commanded. The knights lowered their weapons, backing away. Alaric's eyes locked onto his father's, the unspoken challenge clear between them.
"You've proven your point, Alaric," Count Vargas said, his voice icy. "But remember, this isn't over. There will be more tests, more challenges. I expect you to be ready."
Alaric holstered his pistols, his heart still pounding. "I'll always be ready, Father," he replied, his voice equally cold. "You can count on that."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the training grounds behind. He knew this was only the beginning. His father's tests would continue, and he would have to be prepared for whatever came next. But for now, he had shown them all a glimpse of his power. And that was enough.