Paragon of Skills

Sir Renquell's voice rings out again—calm, but edged in iron.

"Well then, Magistrate Orellus."
He steps to the center of the arena, drawing no blade, making no threat. "Is this trial going forward?"

Orellus, still stiff with disbelief, adjusts his robe. "The accused has invoked his right to trial by combat. A Champion has been named. According to precedent, the prosecution must confirm if they will still proceed."

All eyes shift to Calantha.

Her jaw is locked. One gloved hand clenches at her side. Her gaze flickers from Jacob—blood still drying on his chest—to Sir Renquell, standing like a storm behind glass. Then, reluctantly, to the Black Knight.

He doesn't move.

Calantha stares at him. Then again.

Still nothing.

"…You," she whispers, her voice laced with venom. "Why are you hesitating?"

The Black Knight tilts his helm a fraction—toward Sir Renquell.

That's all.

The crowd shifts. Murmurs rise again. This time, no laughter. No sneers. Just uncertainty. Some nobles look between each other, pale-faced. A few glance toward the exits.

Sir Renquell brushes imaginary dust from his shoulder. "You could always send him in. I'm curious what noise the helm makes when it crumples."

That does it.

Calantha's breath hitches. She lifts her chin, turns sharply, and throws her voice at the Magistrate.

"The prosecution withdraws its Champion."

A stunned silence follows. Then—

"Let it be noted," Orellus says, voice cutting through the tension like a sword through silk, "that no opponent has stepped forward to challenge the accused in defense of the second charge."

He pauses. Looks at me.

"Jacob Cloud. The trial is concluded. You are hereby absolved of all charges."

The arena is dead quiet.

Then, slowly, applause.

Scattered at first. Then swelling. A few Guild officials clap. Then a few nobles. Then it spreads. Not out of joy—but out of necessity. Out of fear.

You don't defy a Wandering Knight and walk away whole.

I breathe out.

Sir Greyson smiles grimly from the platform. Felisia exhales and slumps slightly

Sir Renquell turns and begins walking off the arena floor.

But just before he leaves earshot, he says without looking back.

"A word, Jacob Cloud. In my rooms." Next time, make your handwriting less cryptic."

I blink.

"Aye, sir."

* * *

Sir Renquell closed the doors of his tower behind me.

"I spent five decades trying to perfect Eyes of the Fae," Sir Renquell says, turning slowly. "Where did you get that information?"

I clear my voice but before I can say anything, he raises his eyebrow.

"I can tell lies, Jacob Cloud. I have a Skill that lets me see through treachery. Do not waste our times with excuses."

"I'd rather not tell, then," I smile. "It's dangerous knowledge. I do know the remaining flaws of the Skill, Sir Renquell. I'd like to barter."

Sir Renquell studies me in silence for a long moment.

Then he moves.

Not fast, not aggressive—just one slow step that somehow makes the room feel smaller. The windows don't rattle. The walls don't groan. But the pressure shifts, like gravity's bending.

"Barter?" he repeats.

"Yes," I say. "I give you what you want. You give me something I want."

He walks to a chair carved from some black-veined wood and lowers himself into it without ceremony. He folds one leg over the other, leans his chin against his knuckles, and gives me a look I can't read.

"I have lived three hundred and seventy years," he says softly. "I've outdueled Grandmasters, crippled High Mages, and assassinated two Kings without ever being noticed. Do you know how often I barter?"

I shake my head.

"Once," he says. "And that was because I owed a favor."

There's a beat of silence.

Then he breaks.

Not with fury.

With laughter.

He doubles over, one hand braced on a chair, the other clutched at his side as laughter pours out of him—clear, musical, and absolutely unrestrained. His braid slips over his shoulder. He laughs like someone who hasn't in a hundred years.

I blink. "What?"

Renquell staggers back upright, wiping a tear from his cheek, still chuckling. He points at me.

"You—you—absolute mad bastard," he says between gasps. "I was just messing with you. Testing your balls. Saints above."

He drops into the nearest chair and leans back, still shaking with mirth.

"You think I don't want to barter?" he says, grinning like a jackal. "You drop a flaw in a Skill I've spent half a century refining and think I'm too proud to trade? I'm not that far gone."

I exhale, tension bleeding from my shoulders. "You had me going."

"Oh, I know," he says. "You looked like you were counting your bones ahead of time."

He straightens, the laughter fading, replaced by something sharper—older.

"Alright," he says. "Here's the deal. You're right. I want the rest of those flaws. Diagrams. Explanations. If you're hiding a Skill—or a Tool—that lets you see things Eyes of the Fae can't? Fine. Keep your secret. I don't need the source. I need the insight."

"Fair," I say. "And in return?"

"In return," he says, tapping a finger against his temple, "you get three things. Two small favors. One big. I don't care how stupid. I don't care how dangerous. Name it, and I'll cash it."

"First, I want to stay alive until I'm in Clearwater."

"One small favor," Sir Renquell nods. "I'll make sure no one kills you. There will be Assassins after you. You killed a noble kid, you absolute madman. Yet, you got your name back."

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He makes a pause.

"What else?"

"A recommendation to Ytrial?" I ask. "I want to go to the Academy after the Sky Hunt."

"You should gather enough levels by then during the Sky Hunt," Sir Renquell nods to me. "Another small one. What's the last?"

"Can I hold onto it?" I ask.

"Sure, Jacob Cloud. But now, the Skill."

* * *

I provided Sir Renquell with all the information that The Grimoire Extraordinaire gave me on Eyes of the Fae.

And it was complicated.

All I could do was to transcribe, word for word, into a notebook, which is what my Rainbow Skill told me.

I know that Sir Renquell must now suspect a lot about me. The middle-aged, suspicious woman who gave me the Crystal Shards of Fire Shield and Fire Veins had warned me about revealing too much.

Sadly, there was no other way for me to survive a Trial by Combat against the black Knight.

The black-armored warrior was clearly stronger than Sir Greyson, and I didn't want to ask the man such a gigantic favor. Perhaps, if given enough time, I could have helped Sir Greyson level up and revealed the weaknesses of the black Knight's Skills and equipment. But the truth was that there wasn't simply enough time before my scheduled execution.

Sir Renquell is still grinning when he finally accepts the stack of notes I slide across the polished table. His fingers barely brush the edge—then pause. He doesn't open the book. Not right away. He studies me, eyes too old for his face.

"You're making waves, Jacob Cloud. You know that, right?"

I nod once. "Couldn't avoid it."

He laughs again—quiet this time, more knife than song.

"No. No, you couldn't." He leans back, thumb drumming on the armrest. "You're planning to compete in the Sky Hunt. Even after all this?"

"If Felisia will have me," I say.

"The Clearwater Family bickers among its ranks. Too much for my taste. Elves cannot afford such a lack of respect for blood ties."

"Why?"

"We live much longer than Humans, but fewer Elves are born yearly than Human babies," Sir Renquell says.

He shrugs, the gesture sharp and old.

"An Elf clan that turns on itself doesn't last two generations. Here, you lot squander heirs like they grow on trees. You don't nurture. You pit yourself against each other, let the nature of the world shape you. Elves do the opposite. We refine the nature of each and every one of us and—"

"Aren't you exiled because you killed a bunch of people or something?" I ask, confused, raising an eyebrow.

Surprised by my interruption, Sir Renquell, in his childish body, first looks stunned at me, then starts cackling.

Sir Renquell wipes his eyes, shakes his head, and finally composes himself enough to talk.

"You're dangerous, Jacob Cloud. You don't know when to keep your mouth shut, and you don't let anyone talk smack to you." He leans forward, face half in shadow from the lamp on the table. "That's rare among your kind. Rare among mine too, these days."

I shrug.

"If it makes you feel better, I don't know how to talk to anyone. I grew up in Shit's Creek. We called the foreman 'fat bastard' to his face. If you didn't insult someone at least twice before breakfast, you got accused of being stuck-up."

Renquell laughs—a short, bright noise that makes him seem even younger for a second.

"If you'd talked to my father that way, he'd have tried to impale you with a breadknife."

"Yeah, well, he'd fit right in. The miners all tried to stab each other every payday. Was that supposed to be a noble thing?"

He grins, settling deeper into his chair.

"Not exactly. You're refreshing, Cloud. Most people I meet bow, scrape, and try to guess what I want. You just say what you mean."

"I mean, I can try to act all formal," I offer, sitting up straighter and putting on my best impression, "Your Eminence, I beseech thee, please do not vaporize my peasant skull for speaking in thy presence—"

He snorts. "If you call me 'your eminence' again, I'll have to exile myself a second time. Just talk. I haven't had a real conversation in decades."

"Can I ask, then, what exactly is that you did to be exiled?"

"That'd be your last favor to ask. And a big one. My crime is not known among Humans. They just have to accept that my King sent me here, of all places, and ordered me to be humbled, to serve undeserving Humans."

"That's a non-starter, then," I say, scratching my chin. "Well, then, another question."

Sir Renquell gestures for me to go ahead.

"You saw me fight, right? What do you think?"

"Are you asking for an evaluation?" the Elf smiles.

I nod.

He settles back, still smiling. "You want a proper Elven critique? Or do you want me to praise you like a doting Human would?"

"I'll take the Elven critique."

"I'll be honest, Jacob Cloud. By human standards? You're not bad. Anyone who knows what they're looking at can tell you never had a real Tutor—your form is full of gaps, and your footwork screams 'peasant'—but you can hold your own among the rubble of Humans."

I crack a crooked grin.

"That supposed to be a compliment?"

He snorts. "Don't get smug. You're far from the top, even for Humans. If you showed up at Ytrial—your so-called Knight Academy—they'd see through you in a heartbeat. Maybe you'd keep up with the worst of them, but against their real talents? You'd get broken in half."

I lean in.

"And what about Elves? What about your kind, or the ones you send to the Academies, or back in your cities?"

He laughs, but it's a hollow sound this time, brittle around the edges.

"You want the truth? Among all the races, Humans are the most plentiful, but they're also the weakest. Even the average Dwarven adventurer could break a Human's back if it came to a real fight. As for the Elves—our bloodlines are tighter, our numbers are few, but every child raised for the sword gets years of training before their tenth birthday. Even the weakest Elf who just joined Ytrial, who barely scrapes by, could kill you in a breath."

That stings. He can see it, and his eyes don't soften.

"You need to understand, Jacob," he continues, "Clearwater is a puddle. It's a fishing pond. The real world is an ocean, and you're just now paddling out past the reeds."

I nod, jaw tight.

"So, what—you're saying Elves are the top of the heap?"

He shakes his head, staring up at the ceiling as if the names are carved there.

"Not even close. Elves are refined, but not the strongest among the human-shaped races. There are three lineages—three bloodlines that still hold the original power of the first world. Infernals—Devilkin, born from the old fires, hard as obsidian, cruel as winter. Dragonkin—descendants of the true dragons who bothered to breed with mortals. They don't show up often, but when they do, whole armies move out of their way. And, maybe the worst, the Highbloods. The ones whose veins still run thick with Titan's blood—their ancestors killed gods before your kind learned to speak."

I open my mouth. I hadn't even heard of these races before today.

"Are they really that strong?"

He gives me a look that makes me wish I hadn't asked.

"Take my advice, Jacob Cloud. There's always something bigger. And there's always a bigger ocean waiting past the one you think you know."

I tighten my fists and, almost unexpectedly, a smiles blossoms on my face.

"Why are you smiling?" Sir Renquell asks, curious.

I grin wider, barely able to keep my voice steady.

"Because that's exactly what I want. I always wanted to be a real Knight, you know? When I was a kid, I thought beating a few monsters and winning a swordfight would make me strong. But the more I see—hell, the more you talk—the more I realize how much bigger the world is. There's all these monsters out there, people stronger than anything I ever imagined."

I look down at my scarred knuckles, then back at him.

"If there are races out there who can squash me like a bug, if there are monsters so strong whole armies run away… I want to meet them. I want to fight them. I want to see how far I can go. I want to get strong enough that one day, when someone like you tells me there's another ocean, I get to jump right in and see if I can swim."

Sir Renquell blinks, surprised, then barks a laugh, but this time there's a new edge to it—a little respect, a little disbelief.

"You Humans really are insane."

I shrug, but the excitement won't leave my face. "I mean, you can call it crazy. But what's the point of all this if I'm not trying to see just how far I can go? I want to fight the monsters, Renquell. All of them. Even the ones that can kill me just by looking my way."

He shakes his head, but he's smiling.

"You know, most people hear about monsters that could wipe out a city and start digging a hole to hide in. You hear about them and you want to start climbing. I suppose that's why I feel you'll go farther than most of your kind."

"Or die trying," I say, shrugging.

"Probably both," he answers, finally opening my notebook, grinning at the first page. "But at least you'll make it interesting."

He flips through the first few pages and skims the diagrams and annotated flaws. For a second, there's nothing but the sound of turning parchment. Then he grunts in approval.

"You really did it. The vein-mapping, the harmonic overlays, the pivot channels—this is…" He doesn't finish. He closes the book, sets it aside, and steeples his fingers under his chin.

"I haven't been surprised by anyone in over a century," he admits. "Not like this. You've got a power in you, Jacob. I don't just mean the Skill." His gaze pins me to the spot. "People with power always draw knives from others. The sharper the tool, the hungrier the wolves. Be careful how you shine."

* * *

The door clicks shut behind me. I move down the empty corridor, the sounds of the city a distant hum, not even reaching this high up the tower.

Halfway to the stairwell, I find Felisia waiting for me, arms folded, back against a marble column. She doesn't try to hide her suspicion.

"Did he threaten you?" she asks quietly.

"No. He just reminded me how easy it would be to get killed here," I say. "Or worse."

Felisia frowns. "You're still going to stand by me for the Sky Hunt?"

"I promised," I say, keeping my voice level. "And I'm still your Tutor. Unless you want me gone."

For a moment, she says nothing. Then she shakes her head.

She sighs, letting her shoulders drop a little.

"No, I don't want you gone. Just… don't lie to me anymore, ok?"

"I promise," I say with a smile and then I notice that Felisia was wearing a very low-cut dress. My eyes wander at her chest.

"What are you looking at?!" Felisia says, bringing her hands at her chest.

"Me? Nothing!"

"Liar!"

"Oh, come on!"