Paragon of Skills

Meeting Renquell was a trip.

After that meeting, I asked more about him to Sir Greyson.

The man… the child… the… Elf?

Whatever he was, Sir Greyson said that he's a monster on a whole other level compared to whatever you can find in Clearwater. Apparently, he has been cursed—as in, physically and magically cursed, bound to Clearwater—until he redeems himself or something like that.

Sir Renquell committed a series of slaughters, but Elves don't kill their own because there's so few of them. They have apparently a lifespan that is measured in eons, which makes them ethereal creatures that are hard—but also very dangerous—to meet.

"The Five Wandering Knights are legends in the world of Knights. They're all at the Mithril Rank, which means all of them have at least one Orichalcum Skill that they have brought to the Intermediate Grade. There are few people stronger than them. Very few. At those levels, even a small difference in Grade, from Lower to Intermediate, is a massive jump in power. All the Wandering Knights are considered Intermediate Mithril Ranked."

"Are there Orichalcum Knights? Or Aethereim ones?" I ask Sir Greyson.

He shrugs.

"Some say that the Ytria's Principal is an Orichalcum Knight. As for Aetherium ones, who knows. It's basically unheard of. Much less of Rainbow Knights."

The existence of Aetherum Knights—or even Rainbow ones—was a thought that made me smile.

I don't know why exactly.

There was something about imagining someone so powerful, imagining the kind of feats they'd accomplish, the kind of monsters they'd fight, that just made me smile like an idiot.

I wonder how big of a monster you fight when you're that powerful.

I heard legends of region-ending—or even country-ending—calamities.

I wondered about it. I wondered about all of that, what it took, whom it took to defeat.

And my dream was that, one day, it would me me.

* * *

The three days passed in the blink of an eye and the progress that Felisia made was otherworldly.

I look complacent while, by Sir Greyson's side, I wait for the arrival of Calantha and her scary black Knight protector.

"Here she comes," Sir Greyson whispers to me.

I glance up from the stretch of sand where Felisia and I had practiced all morning. Calantha strides into view with the same exaggerated grace she always brings—head high, chin tilted just enough to suggest condescension, not arrogance.

Behind her, the black Knight walks. Still featureless, still silent, still terrifying. The armor glints like oiled obsidian in the sun. No sound escapes him—no breath, no step, no weight.

I hate that.

Felisia stands a few paces ahead, expression neutral, posture textbook-perfect.

I can tell she's nervous. Only someone who's watched her long enough would see it—the twitch in her left glove, the slight tension in her jaw.

But she's standing tall.

Calantha stops twenty paces from us. Her smile is all teeth.

"So," she says, drawing out the word like a blade. "You haven't cried yet. I suppose I should be impressed."

Felisia doesn't reply.

Calantha's eyes slide toward me. "And you. The rat-cloaked tutor with delusions of nobility. I expected you'd be gone by now."

"I hope you're not too attached to that bracelet, milady," I shoot back. "But even then, I think it will fit Felisia's wrist better than yours. You've got thick bones in your arms."

"Excuse me?" Calantha says, recoiling, clearly not being used to talk like that.

The black Knight takes a step forward by her side.

"I mean, you're strong. That's it," I say, feigning ignorance. "What do you think I meant?"

Calantha knows very well that that's not what I was trying to say but, at the same time, she also knows that I'm playing mind games and that she's just getting distracted. Her real opponent today is Felisia.

Sir Greyson coughs—hard—but doesn't interrupt.

The black Knight tilts his head a fraction. Just enough to remind me he's there.

Calantha's smile turns brittle. "Are you ready to lose, little sister?"

Felisia breathes in. Slow. Steady.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"Yes."

That catches Calantha slightly off-guard.

She gestures at the markers carved into the sand, the long flat stretch they'd raced across for days now.

"I was always ready to lose. You thought I was a joke three days ago. You can't say that now. And, neitiher you or Adrienne are ready to lose."

Calantha chuckles. "Oh, Felisia. I don't care what you've 'caught up' to. You're still trailing me. Always will be."

Her eyes lock on mine for just a second.

"And you should learn your place before it burns you."

I shrug. "That's kind of what I'm counting on."

I see a small gathering of people making it over the sand mound.

Servants. Spectators. Nobles in embroidered coats and flowing silks that are far too delicate for sea wind and salt. They carry parasols, fans, and smirks. Most of them don't even bother hiding their amusement.

"Well, well," I hear one mutter, loud enough to carry. "The Clearwater disgrace actually showed up."

"I heard she staked her Sky Hunt on a street rat."

"Didn't she hit her head when she was a child?"

"Can't believe she's embarrassing herself again. Doesn't she know when to bow out?"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Barely.

Then, Calantha raises her hand to the crowd. "I invited a few friends," she says sweetly. "After all, a public collapse deserves a public audience."

Felisia doesn't flinch. She just lifts her chin a little higher.

"Besides," Calantha goes on, "I thought Father might want to see this himself."

My gaze snaps back to the sand ridge—because sure enough, parting the nobles like a tide is a tall man with shoulders like a wall and a cloak that trails behind him like a banner. His expression is carved from marble, unreadable, and his beard is touched with the barest hint of gray.

Lord Clearwater.

Felisia's father.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't so much as glance at Calantha.

He just looks at Felisia—and gives a single nod.

That's it.

But Felisia's back straightens just slightly. Her hand, which had been tight at her side, relaxes. She breathes out.

* * *

Felisia walks toward the starting line.

The sand is firm. Damp. Wind presses in from the cliffs. Ten markers stretch across the flat, each spaced with precision. The circuit loops toward the sea in a wide arc, curves inland near a rock outcropping, then cuts back along a narrower coastal ridge. It's a clean race path that both sisters agreed on.

Calantha stands beside her, already casting Water Dash beneath her boots. Her cloak flutters with sea mist.

"Ready to embarrass yourself?" she says, voice light and cruel.

Felisia doesn't answer.

Greyson raises his arm. "Begin on my signal."

The crowd murmurs.

"She's going to get flattened."

"Level fifty versus what, thirty? Maybe thirty-five? This'll be over in a breath."

"Watch her crash halfway."

Felisia breathes in.

Greyson drops his hand.

Water erupts.

Calantha moves first. Her arc is elegant, precise. She coils around the first curve like a tide sculpted by wind.

But Felisia—

She doesn't just move.

She vanishes.

A sonic rush slams into the crowd as a ribbon of vapor explodes behind her. The path she cuts glitters blue-white, the water under her compressed to such pressure it hums. Ten meters in half a breath.

The people snap.

"What—?"

"Is that—"

"How is she that fast?"

Calantha jerks her head forward, eyes narrowing. Her lips part as if to protest—but no sound comes. Her next step stumbles. She casts again, but it's off. Too much mana. Her form wavers.

Felisia skims the second arc, cutting so close her heel grazes foam. Her posture is perfect. Her momentum seamless. She hits the fourth marker when Calantha is still pushing past the second.

I grin.

Calantha's composure frays. She flares her mana, overcasts. Her next dash whips high—but the angle's wrong. Her water arc stutters.

Felisia leans.

Her body shifts like a blade guided by instinct. She threads through her own ribbon, riding the wake, looping past the seventh, eighth, ninth—

She stops at the tenth with a spray of mist and a hiss of heat.

Perfect form. Perfect control.

Silence.

Calantha hits the final curve four seconds later. Her boots screech against the wet sand. Her last ribbon stutters. She lands crooked, slips, and barely catches herself. Her expression is thunderstruck. Her lips are drawn tight, like she can't decide whether to scream or deny what just happened. The crowd stares.

Lord Clearwater's brow twitches.

Then he nods again.

One of the nobles drops his parasol.

Someone gasps.

Someone else whispers, "She beat her by that much?"

"What's her Water Dash at?"

"Level seventy at minimum!" Someone comments.

"Level seventy?! That's level eighty right there! Are you blind?!"

Lord Clearwater takes a single step forward, the wind catching the hem of his cloak.

"Level one hundred," he says.

The words aren't shouted. They don't need to be.

They land with the force of a hammer.

The murmurs stop. Faces turn.

Lord Clearwater walks through the silence, step by measured step, until he stands before Felisia.

He looks at her.

"Your progress since we last met," he says slowly, "is staggering. What allowed such a leap?"

Felisia bows slightly.

She turns and gestures to me.

"Bocaj Duolc, Father," she says. "He saw what no one else could."

Lord Clearwater's eyes rest on me next with curiosity painted over his face.

"She cheated," Calantha blurts, her voice higher than intended. "There's no way she gained that much speed legitimately!"

Lord Clearwater stops.

The nobles hold their breath.

He walks toward Calantha.

When he reaches her, he takes her wrist gently in one hand. Calantha doesn't resist, but her eyes are wide now.

He removes the Great Tide Bracelet from her arm.

Then he turns, walks back to Felisia, and places the bracelet into her outstretched hand.

"Come to dinner, Bocaj Duolc, I'd like to speak to you," he says toward me.

Just that.

Then he turns back toward the rest of the nobles, and leaves Felisia standing there with the bracelet in her hand and every eye on her.