Paragon of Skills

Felisia takes position near the edge of the practice flat, feet shoulder-width apart, one boot resting lightly on the shimmer of summoned water.

"Again?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder. Her tone is steady, but I can hear the edge underneath it—determination, laced with something else. Maybe pressure.

I nod. "Again."

She dashes. A thin line of water coils under her soles like a living trail, and she glides forward—fast, graceful, mostly balanced. But not flawless.

Not even close.

The moment she stops, I look at the Grimoire.

[Water Dash – Gold Rank Mobility Skill]

Grimoire Extraordinaire: Water Dash Lv. 18 contains 19 distinct flaws.

Good. Better than I expected. That's a number I can work with.

"Grimoire," I murmur, shifting slightly away from Felisia, "organize the flaws by compounding impact. Sort them into an optimal training sequence. Prioritize anything affecting stability, acceleration, or loss of momentum in curves."

A moment passes. Then the list reorganizes itself.

Top 3 Impact Flaws:

Vein Route Conflict – Current routing favors the Wave Veins in the calves, leading to unstable energy release during directional shifts. Recommend rerouting through the Echo Stream Veins located in the outer thighs.

Weight Distribution Drift – Momentum is lost due to rear-foot bias. Correction requires rebalancing posture mid-cast to center of gravity just behind navel.

Micro-fracture Casting Delay – Mana pulse initiation is delayed by 0.28s due to unnecessary breath-hold between activation and glide. Breathing technique must be synchronized with pulse start.

Perfect.

I turn back toward Felisia, who's watching me expectantly. The sweat on her brow isn't from heat—it's from tension.

"Felisia," I say, walking toward her, "how high are you aiming to take this Skill?"

She wipes her brow, then exhales through her nose. "As high as it'll go. But…" Her voice falters. Then she sets her jaw. "Adrienne, my oldest sister, already reached level eighty. She converted it into the Platinum version two months ago. Father threw a feast over it."

I pause.

Level eighty.

Damn.

Sir Greyson said that that's the threshold most use before upgrading the Skill with a Platinum Skill Crystal.

This Adrienne sounds like she's really strong.

"You're at eighteen right now," I say. "That's a gap, sure. But we're going to close it. You're going to hit the ceiling. Maybe break it."

Felisia snorts. "You think we can close sixty-two levels in three days?"

I gesture to the markers and lines I've been carving with my boot. "We start now. And we don't stop until that Skill has reached its full potential. Come on, let me show you."

The water curls beneath Felisia's soles like it always does, quiet and compliant. She shifts her weight and prepares the glide. Bocaj stands beside the first marker with his arms crossed, watching her like a hawk watching a crippled dove.

She glances at Greyson. He nods once, encouraging, but even he looks... hesitant. Ever since she mentioned Adrienne reaching Platinum in Water Dash two months ago, there's been something unreadable in his gaze.

She looks down the line. Ten markers.

This stretch should take ten breaths.

She exhales and dashes.

The water obeys, coiling under her as she moves, but it's sluggish. The start is clean, but by the fifth marker, she can feel her balance slipping—just slightly. She compensates, leans, accelerates again, but by the eighth pulse, she's bleeding speed. She reaches the tenth marker on her final breath, winded, her calves sore.

"Show me the maximum speed you can reach, first," Jacob says immediately. "So we'll have a term of comparison.

Felisia tries not to show the frown forming in her brow. Even Greyson raises a brow. He probably expected better.

She does the lap again, but the time doesn't improve.

She expected better.

What was she doing?

She had staked the Sky Hunt on this. She promised Adrienne a retreat in front of half the house guard. If she loses this race, she doesn't just lose the bracelet. She loses her right to compete. She loses Clearwater.

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And I put all of that… in the hands of a mud-stained boy who can't even pronounce his own name without thinking about it first.

She bites her lip and glances at Jacob. He's kneeling now, fingers drawing a quick set of arcs in the dirt, muttering something under his breath. The wind pushes his hair into his eyes and he doesn't even seem to notice.

He looks... focused.

Too focused to be pretending.

"Felisia," he says without glancing up. "Come here."

She steps closer.

He motions to her leg. "Mana's leaking from your outer thigh. You're using the Wave Veins in your calves for launch, but that's burning control. The Echo Stream Veins in the upper thigh are slower to ignite, but more stable for curved acceleration. Sit."

She blinks. "Sit?"

"Do you want to win or not?" he snaps, eyes still on the dirt.

Felisia sighs and sits on the rock he gestures to. Jacob presses two fingers lightly against the edge of her thigh—not inappropriate, just clinical. Cold. Intent.

"Now circulate it here. Slowly."

She does as told, grumbling internally.

And then—

Something shifts.

The current of mana no longer shoots straight down her leg like a bolt. It loops. Coils. Redirects through the hip, then pulses down through her calf in a tight spiral. Like... like sliding through an eddy rather than against it.

Jacob steps back. "Try again."

Felisia rises, exhales.

She activates Water Dash.

The water bends. So does she.

Marker one—half a breath.

Marker two—quarter breath.

By marker four, she realizes she's gliding—not pushing. The Skill is carrying her, not the other way around. She flies past the fifth, sixth, seventh. Ten pulses?

She crosses the tenth marker in five.

Her boots hiss as she slides to a stop and she whips around, heart pounding.

Greyson raises both brows. He doesn't speak—but he looks impressed. Genuinely impressed.

Jacob grins. "Better?"

A quiet ding sounds in her head.

Water Dash Level 18 > Level 32

Felisia stares at him.

"How?" she mutters, completely stunned.

"Just a hunch," he says, already turning away to draw another pattern into the dirt. "Now, there's another set of veins that…"

* * *

Sir Greyson watches the boy tighten the last strap on his bracer and gives a slow exhale. The coast winds carry the sharp scent of sea and old stone, but he barely notices it.

He still hasn't gotten over what happened that morning.

Level thirty-nine in one training session. Thirty-nine.

Felisia Clearwater had struggled for three years under that parasite Sevv and barely climbed past twenty. And yet, under this strange, soft-spoken boy's guidance, she'd nearly doubled her Skill level just like that.

And he stopped just because Felisia ran out of mana. He wanted to keep going.

It's absurd.

And it's terrifying.

Which is exactly why Greyson stands across from the boy now, boot heels dug into the coastal earth, arms crossed over his breastplate.

"I've seen what you can do as a Tutor," he says evenly. "Now I want to see what you can do as a fighter."

The boy—Bocaj—straightens.

"Summon your weapon. Hell's Sword. Let's see if you know anything about actual swordsmanship…"

"Alright," Bocaj smiles and cracks his neck. "I've always been curious about Knights. It's always been my dream to one day become one."

Bocaj nods. His brow furrows, and his eyes take on that now-familiar, unnatural clarity. Mana surges.

Hell's Sword flares into being in his grip, a blade of gold-edged flame burning brighter than it has any right to. Greyson feels the warmth from a distance, and his eyes narrow slightly.

Good form on the summon. Stable output. But no stance. No weight in his legs. No sense of spacing.

Greyson raises his practice blade—a dulled training saber with reinforced leather grip—and steps forward.

"Come at me."

The boy hesitates. Then he charges.

His swing is fast—but it's too wide, telegraphed, unrefined. Greyson doesn't even need to parry. He sidesteps, shifts his weight, and sweeps low.

Bocaj hits the dirt with a grunt and a puff of dust.

Greyson sighs. "As I thought. Your balance is all over the place. It'll get you killed in a real fight."

Bocaj grits his teeth, pushes off the ground, and rises without argument. He adjusts his footing slightly. Nothing dramatic.

Greyson gestures. "Again."

The boy charges once more.

Greyson prepares the same counter—duck, pivot, sweep—but the boy's footwork is... different. His center of gravity is lower. That flaw from a moment ago—the slight overextension in the rear leg—is gone.

Greyson adjusts too late.

Their blades meet—not in a clean parry, but in a forced deflection. The heat from the conjured sword surprises Greyson who—more in stupor than danger—steps back, frowning now in earnest.

He learned from one mistake. In real time.

Greyson narrows his eyes. "Again."

They clash. Again.

And again.

Each time, the same thing happens: a flaw appears, Greyson exploits it, and the next time it's gone. Not just improved—removed.

He's the greatest natural talent for fighting I've ever come across. Why didn't his master start training him? This? This fighting intelligence is beyond incredible.

"Tell me the truth," Greyson says, holding up a hand. "How much sword training have you had?"

Bocaj shrugs, breathing hard but steady. "None. My master didn't train me in combat."

Greyson eyes him.

And then he laughs once, short and sharp.

"Then either you're lying," he says, "or I'm looking at the most dangerous fool in Clearwater."

He steps forward, raises his blade again, and smiles.

"Let's see how dangerous you get by sunset."