As the eve of Ron's tenth nameday approached, the foot traffic within the castle walls surged. Ron, being the eldest son and heir of House Duston, was destined to inherit all that came with the title. Naturally, his special day would be celebrated with no expenses spared.
For me, it presented the perfect opportunity to escape the clutches of Duston Viscounty. My time within these walls had been tolerable, but I had exhausted all potential gains. I had already surpassed Darris in my knowledge of magic, obtaining mastery over nearly every known magic circle within my family's library. The only reason I had remained was to acquire skills in martial arts, but despite my rigorous physical training since the tender age of six, and three years of enduring it, I still failed to manifest an aura. It was disheartening, for even common folk could summon such power after just a few years of training, yet Ron had accomplished it after a mere month.
The concept of aura remained elusive, preventing me from utilizing my past knowledge. Unlike magic, where a mage's understanding of scientific principles determined the efficacy and efficient use of mana in spellcasting, aura was a far more nebulous entity.
With my plan of escape from Duston Viscounty already formed, it was clear to me that I would not be allowed to attend Ron's name day celebrations due to my bastard status. Instead, I intended to join a hunting party comprised of guards, venturing into a nearby region abundant in potent mana. It would be there, amidst the lush wilderness, that I would fabricate my own demise.
My feigned loyalty to Ron and Maester Darwin had granted me the privilege of accompanying hunting parties, delving into areas with robust mana activity. With my divine sight, detecting mana beasts came with ease, rendering me a valuable scout for the hunting groups. At times, I even had the privilege of leading the way. To these guards, I appeared as an intermediate mage with elven ancestry, renowned for their heightened senses of hearing, smell, and sight. My age of nine and prepubescent stature further concealed any suspicions regarding my participation.
Of course, I could simply flee without staging my own death, but doing so would undoubtedly provoke a relentless pursuit from my so-called family. Legally, I was not a slave, but the Dustons had nurtured and instructed me in the arcane arts, using their services as a debt to be repaid. I knew they did not require the law on their side, for within their domain, they were the law. Hence, feigning my demise would fool them into believing that their valuable commodity had been destroyed by an act of the gods, rather than my escape without presenting payment for all they had given me.
My current location was Duston Viscounty, a part of the Duchy of Northumbria. My destination was the illustrious capital city of the united kingdoms, situated nearly eight thousand miles to the south from these castle walls.
There were two compelling reasons urging me to make my way to the capital. The first, and perhaps most pressing, was my burning desire to explore and unravel the true nature of my divine sight. Though I possessed a modicum of knowledge regarding this mystical ability, such as its association with grace, I remained ignorant of its origins and purpose. Grace, as legend would have it, was an inherent skill that either ran through the veins of select bloodlines or bestowed its favor upon chosen individuals. Among the precious few known examples of such grace were the revered God's Hand and the revered Dragon's Heart.
The Dragon's Heart grace was said to be inherited solely by the royal bloodline of the United Kingdoms, while the destiny of God's Hand shifted upon the death of its previous wielder. Whomever bore this revered talisman ascended to the papacy and became the Pope, heading the Holy Empire situated on the eastern continent. Alas, given my limited means and resources, I had no way of contacting or reaching the current pontiff. Nevertheless, I harbored a cunning scheme to connect with a member of House Vincere, part of the royal family, who possessed the coveted grace of the Dragon's Heart.
The second stimulating motive behind my journey involved the fabled Tower of Trials, a structure nestled within the eminent Dawn Academy. Reminiscent of the captivating tales found within hunter novels I devoured in a previous life, this enigmatic tower promised the fulfillment of any climber's dearest wish. Skeptical as I may have been of the veracity of these folktales, given that no one had ever conquered all the floors, the tower's puzzles and tests endured unsolved for over five millennia. Contrary to popular belief, the challenge for triumph did not lie in a scarcity of strength, for many contenders proved themselves formidable. Instead, the tower's perpetually unattained conquest could be attributed to the stringent age restrictions, allowing entrants below the threshold of twenty summers alone. Such a requirement posed quite the predicament, as even prodigious individuals like myself, such as the esteemed Ron, accomplished only the status of an intermediate mage at the tender age of ten. It appeared a formidable feat to discover anyone capable of ascending to the tower's highest echelons at such a youthful stage.
However, fate smiled upon me, for I possessed the wondrous advantage of my cheat ability, the divine sight, coupled with my prodigious mana reserve. This confluence, paired with fragments of scientific knowledge acquired during my tenure as a twelfth-grade student back on Earth (granted, I shall refrain from exaggerating its significance), endowed me with the prowess of an overpowered mage. Consequently, there remained a glimmer of hope that I, too, may ascend the tower's formidable heights and, perchance, unlock the means to return to Earth, all while satiating my deepest desires.