Chapter 128.5: Interlude Devon 2

Devon awoke before dawn in the near-total darkness of his small room. For a moment, he lay there, motionless except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.The aches all over his body were almost enough for him to go back under the covers. Tiny twinges of pain in his shoulders, arms, and legs made a compelling case for one more hour of rest, but the knowledge that he was no longer in his parents' home, that he was in Alluria, and that he had responsibilities spurred him to action.

Any indulgence in laziness after finally making it here would feel like spitting on all the effort he’d put in to arrive.

He pushed himself upright, pressing both hands to his face and blinking to adjust to the darkness. The spartan quarters provided him little help in that regard, as he had not been given a single candle.

In fact, the single small window near the ceiling was boarded from the outside, allowing in, at best, a feeble glow. But then, that was precisely what his new mentor had intended.

“Get used to the dark,” Grandmaster Xander Wolfram had said. “A swordsman shouldn’t need to see the hilt of his weapon to wield it.”

Devon didn’t particularly appreciate the rigors of such a lifestyle, but he told himself that soon enough, he’d get used to it.

He stood, rubbing the stiffness from his neck, then fumbled for clothes. The corridor outside his door offered a hint of dull light, enough to make out the silhouette of garments folded neatly on a low table.

Sonya must have placed them there before dawn. They were freshly washed, so spotless that Devon wondered if she’d stayed awake all night to do them.

He grabbed them and dressed solely by touch—another one of Xander’s demands that Devon “learn to function by feel.”

A whisper of mana swirled around his feet, ensuring his steps remained silent. The old man was likely already awake, but the less noise he made, the more time he’d have with Sonya.

Devon had learned that the house had once belonged to a wealthy merchant, and signs of this were evident in the bas-reliefs carved into the walls, featuring swirling leaves and mythical creatures, but they now appeared hollow and sad, as the colors and gold plate had been removed. The result was a building with the bones of opulence yet stripped of all extravagance.

He descended, hoping the old man would take his sweet time. At the foot of the stairs, a faint glow spilled from the kitchen.

They rarely used artificial light in this house, so Sonya rose early to prepare breakfast, harnessing the pale dawn light through a half-open shutter. He paused at the threshold, steeling his nerves.

“Good morning,” he murmured, stepping into the kitchen. A ray of sunlight filtered through the open window, hitting Sonya’s silhouette and outlining it in a golden glow.

She was breathtaking, even though she wore only a simple white dress and tied her dark hair in a neat bun to keep it out of the way while cooking, which made her bright green eyes pop.

She turned, favoring him with a bright smile. “Good morning, Devon.” Her voice was soft, like a gentle breeze. “You’re up early again.”

Devon cleared his throat, resisting a grin at the approval in her tone. “I can’t afford to sleep in. Master Wolfram would scold me.” The rush of blood in his cheeks threatened to betray him, so he kept his tone as calm as possible.

Sonya moved to the small table where she had set out the morning meal: a fillet of freshly grilled fish with pickled vegetables, slices of bread still warm from the oven, a mug of fragrant tea, and a handful of ripe plums from her garden. The aroma teased Devon’s nose, causing a rumble in his stomach. He dipped his head in thanks, taking a seat.

“Everything looks great,” he offered quietly.

Since arriving in Alluria, developing a mature, disciplined persona had been crucial if he wanted to be taken seriously. A part of him longed to banter, to relax, but he suppressed it, aware that “frivolity” was one of the traits Master Wolfram disapproved of.

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In a way, it was a positive. Devon had no more expectations on his shoulders than any other apprentice, and Alluria was full of them.

Sonya smiled prettily, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Eat while it’s hot.” Then she settled across the table, ready to help if he needed anything. “I’m going to tend the vegetable garden once I’m done with the cleaning,” she offered softly. “Seems we might get a good harvest of tomatoes next week. I still haven’t gotten the skill, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.”

Devon offered a polite nod between bites, carefully controlling his expression. It was a lot more than she’d offered at first, and the fact that it had taken only a few days to make her open up made him giddy. “That’s, uh… good. The garden’s the best part of the house, so you should be close. I know kids in Floria usually get it after helping for a season.”

He’d been afraid she might take offense at any comment about the austerity enforced by the old man, but Sonya simply giggled, shaking her head. “Yes, well, Master Wolfram said I could keep growing what I like as long as it doesn’t clutter the training grounds, so it’s taking me a while longer, especially because my class is only tangentially related to it.” Her eyes darted around the kitchen, stopping on the bare white walls. “He’s not exactly the homely type, is he?” she mused with a gentle teasing tone.

Devon suppressed a grin, quickly swallowing the mouthful of grilled fish. “No, not at all. But I guess it means fewer distractions for training.” He tried not to stammer or sound too forced, fighting the old impulse to slip into casual flattery. It was still too early, and he’d only scare her away. “At least the food here is good,” he managed, nodding at the plate.

Sonya laughed softly, illuminating the dim space more than any candle could. “Thank you. I’ve been getting fewer complaints since I got to Proficient.” She lowered her gaze and brushed away imaginary crumbs from the table.

The moment threatened to stretch into an awkward silence, as both were uncertain how to continue. But footsteps in the hall broke the stillness.

Instantly, Devon sprang to his feet, not wanting to appear as if he were lounging or too relaxed. Sonya rose as well, adopting a deferential posture.

The Grandmaster stepped into the kitchen, his spine straight and gaze focused. He was an older man with dark gray hair cut short and a practical beard. His features were sharp and angular, as if chiseled from marble. Wolfram wore simple leather training gear—nothing more than a fitted vest and trousers reinforced with strategically placed straps. The absence of a real sword on his belt puzzled Devon when he first arrived, but the man quickly demonstrated that he required no blade to be deadly.

His gaze flicked to Sonya, then to Devon, and back to Sonya. He gave them both a curt nod, a greeting devoid of smiles or warmth.

Sonya promptly moved to serve him, setting out a portion of grilled fish and bread along with a mug of the same tea. Devon and the maid stood silently, allowing him to eat in peace. The old swordsman chewed with methodical slowness, his eyes half-closed.

After finishing half the meal, he placed a hand on the table, exhaling softly. “Sonya, take care of the eastern wing. After, you may work in the garden,” he ordered. “Make sure that the drawing room is ready to receive guests.”

She bowed, murmuring compliance, and quietly left the kitchen to continue her morning chores. Devon longed to chat with her more, but Wolfram’s presence banished any notion of small talk.

The older man straightened, fixing his gaze on Devon. “Today,” he rumbled, voice resonant, “you will learn the true meaning of swordsmanship.” He wiped his lips with a napkin, pushing the empty dishes aside. “Be ready.”

Devon swallowed. “Yes, Master,” he said, fighting down both excitement and a trickle of apprehension. So far, the routine involved intense form practice, footwork, and no sparring.he manor's wall hid most things, but the tallest spires, half-floating platforms and flying couriers darted between the towering buildings. The hustle and bustle of a real city called to him, far grander than Floria’s quiet streets.

He longed to explore and see Alluria’s famed markets, but each time he asked, Wolfram only tightened the training schedule further, saying that he would only be allowed to leave once he knew he could handle himself.

, Devon scolded himself, forcibly pulling his gaze back to Wolfram. The master paced slowly, scrutinizing him with a hawk’s eye. The slightest slip—like letting his attention wander—would result in an immediate scolding or punishment session. He braced, adopting a neutral expression.

Wolfram stopped several paces away. “Devon Crowley,” he said quietly, “what does it mean to be a swordsman?”

The question was a simple one, but in this context, and coming from Wolfram, it had to be more than a rhetorical test. He swallowed a sigh, striving to answer with due seriousness. “A swordsman… is one who dedicates himself to mastering the sword and has reached a proficiency high enough to be recognized for it,” He replied carefully, already suspecting that wouldn’t be enough.

Wolfram’s eyes narrowed, but not in outright disapproval. “Not wrong,” he allowed, “yet incomplete. Shallow.”

Xander rarely gave acknowledgment without reproach. This almost counted as praise. He suppressed a flicker of pride.

“Some of my apprentices mistakenly believed they could enhance their abilities by straying from the sword’s Path and mixing it with elemental magic. You will not make that mistake.”

Without giving him time to respond, Wolfram raised an empty hand, shaping it as if gripping an invisible hilt. He marched over to one of the enchanted dummies, bending his knees. Devon recognized the stance: a classical overhead cut, the same technique his father had taught him. Slowly, Wolfram’s body coiled, and then he swung downward.

Devon blinked in shock as the training dummy split with a clean slash, the top half sliding neatly off, leaving a diagonal cut. The separation was as if a blade of the keenest steel had traced an invisible line. He’d known Wolfram was powerful, but seeing it so casually executed—with an empty hand—left him gaping.

The older swordsman turned, not betraying a hint of pride. “A swordsman is not one who merely holds a blade,” he murmured. “A swordsman is a blade. He needs not anything else.”

Devon swallowed, speechless.

“That,” Wolfram declared, tone dry as dust, “is what I’ll teach you, boy—even if I have to beat it into you.”

Devon nodded, adrenaline stirring in his veins. He might be away from home, uncertain about the future, but a part of him felt a thrill. He had come to Alluria for exactly this—a teacher who’d push him beyond the conventional, forging him into something unstoppable.

He squared his shoulders, gaze steady despite the excitement and apprehension in his gut. , he thought, stepping forward to meet his master’s eyes.