Cire's days were filled with sweat, blood, and near-death experiences hunting. He always hunted wolves; their movements and skills were familiar to him, giving him a small safety net against those lockless Sigils. Even though he had just turned twelve, Cire hadn't celebrated—he didn't have the time, nor was he in the mood. Instead, he stuck to his rigorous routine: washing himself at the waterfall, cultivating Virtus, and striving to make its flow through his body more efficient. But before that came the most dreaded part of his day—waiting for Praesul to appear at the least expected moment.
Today, however, was different. The masked man had warned Cire the night before that they would have a sparring session. Cire couldn't decide if he was more nervous or eager. Fear and excitement clashed in his chest, yet one thought kept him motivated: 'I'll use this opportunity to let out all my anger for him. He's been making my life a cycle of sweat, tears, and blood. Maybe today, I can hurt him back.'
The thought brought a grin to Cire's face, the first in a while.
"Boy, why are you smiling at the wall? You, indeed, are a fool," came Praesul's raspy voice from the shadows of the dark, eerie temple.
Cire jumped slightly. 'Why does he always catch me like this? No matter. Your tyranny ends today, masked man.' He steeled himself.
"Grab your dagger," Praesul commanded in his usual pressed tone.
Cire hesitated, unsure. Was he really supposed to use a real dagger against Praesul? Surely, this couldn't be part of the training.
"Don't think you'll train with a wooden toy. You must be ready to kill—or be killed. This world is cruel." Praesul paused, his glowing purple eyes narrowing behind the mask. "And I am sure you already know that."
Cire's heart tightened thinking of his family, but he didn't let fear overtake him. Instead, he gripped the dagger tightly, determination flaring in his chest. 'I don't care how powerful this man is. I'll use him to grow stronger. I'll use him to get my vengeance.'
He crouched into the stance engraved into his body by weeks of grueling training. His left hand held the dagger level with his nose; his legs spread apart, the left one slightly in front of the other. His breathing was steady; his gaze locked onto Praesul's relaxed, nonchalant posture.
"I'm ready. Let's do this," Cire said, his fear warring with his excitement.
Praesul stepped forward, his tone sharp. "The rules are simple. Land a single hit on me. Come, boy."
Cire grinned inwardly. 'One hit? I can do this. I'll go all in.' Virtus surged through his body, coursing faster than ever. He enhanced his senses and fortified his muscles, directing the remaining Virtus to strengthen his legs and arms further. Over the past weeks, he had discovered he could strengthen his whole body and allocate Virtus to specific parts of his body, a skill he was eager to test in combat.
Dust kicked up as Cire shot forward faster than he had ever moved before. He knew Praesul was stronger, more experienced, and better in every way—but Cire thought he could use the man's arrogance against him. He feinted, slashing toward Praesul's upper body with his dagger. Praesul dodged easily, but Cire smiled inwardly. 'Just as planned.'
Cire pivoted and launched a kick aimed at Praesul's torso. He felt a brief moment of triumph—before a powerful punch to his stomach sent him spiraling backward. The force knocked the wind out of him, and he crashed to the ground, gasping for air.
'Blast! I miscalculated his reach. I thought he'd just evade!'
Praesul stood over him, unimpressed. He grunted—a sound that could have been approval or disapproval. "Boy, as I said, it's kill or be killed. That wasn't a bad idea, but did you really think I'd simply evade? Combats between Key Masters are always life-or-death. Remember that. Be cunning, be dishonest if need be—but always win. You're a Governor; you can't afford defeat."
Cire growled, his frustration fueling him. He pushed himself back to his feet and attacked again. For five grueling hours, Cire tried to land a single hit. His body was drenched in sweat, his reserves of Virtus nearly depleted. Every slash, kick, and maneuver was met with Praesul's effortless dodges or brutal counterattacks. The masked man seemed to predict his every move, always staying one step ahead.
Finally, Cire fell to his knees, his body trembling with exhaustion. Rage filled his mind. 'Blast it! How is he so fast? So untouchable? it's like he reads like he knows my every intention!'
"Enough," Praesul said. His voice was calm but commanding. "Rest for an hour. Cultivate Virtus to recover faster, then go outside and hunt for dinner. We'll spar again tomorrow."
Cire didn't respond. He was too angry, too disappointed in himself. He knew Praesul was a Key Master, someone who had unlocked at least one Key, but the difference in their abilities was staggering. It felt like an insurmountable wall.
As he stumbled back to his room, his mind replayed the fight, analyzing every mistake. He sat down, forcing himself to gather Virtus despite his frustration. Minutes passed, his breathing slowly steadying, when a faint vibration interrupted him.
Turning, Cire saw the egg. It was trembling on its stand, faint cracks forming on its surface.
'It's finally happening.'