Jack sat cross-legged in the training hall, his mind a tangled mess.
Three days ago, the King had finally made his move. A royal decree had arrived, addressed to the Duke. The King would send an official investigation team from the capital to look into the assassination attempt on Princess Seraphine. The decree specifically mentioned that the investigation would also address the rumors of Seraphine's supposed death, stating that the investigators would determine the truth for themselves.
Things had grown dangerously complicated since then.
Just two days after the decree, the Queen—Seraphine's stepmother—formally requested that Seraphine return to the royal capital, citing concerns for her safety within the Duchy. Seraphine had politely declined. What excuse she had given to remain in the Duchy, Jack didn't know, but he was certain it was all part of the greater pretense. Everything was moving according to someone's plan, though whose exactly, Jack couldn't be sure anymore.
And that wasn't the end of it.
Word had arrived that Count Caroline had begun amassing troops along the border separating Caroline County and Ignis Duchy. But Count Caroline was not the only one. The Duchy shared borders with three territories: Count Caroline's on the northeast, Viscount Bertram Goldhart's to the north, and Count Garrick Ironcrest's to the northwest. All three had begun increasing their troop numbers along the border simultaneously.
In response, the Duchy had started reinforcing its own borders.
The House of Ignis had always ruled its lands with strength and fairness. Generations of just governance had earned them the loyalty of their people. If war came and the Kingdom attempted to subdue them, breaking away and declaring independence was not beyond possibility—it was not impossible, just incredibly difficult.
But now, it seemed, even that possibility was being quietly prepared for. The Duke had finally begun moving in that direction. Mass recruitment was underway, soldiers were being trained, reserves were being called, and the entire Duchy was beginning to transform itself into a war-ready state.
Jack exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples.
He steadied his breathing, taking slow, deliberate breaths.
In… and out.
He repeated the process three times, forcing the restless storm in his mind to settle. The thoughts of war, politics, and betrayal could wait—for now, his focus shifted back to his training.
Lately, Jack had been reflecting on the attack on Seraphine, particularly on one detail that had been etched into his mind: how those master swordsmen could release waves of sword energy—sharp, invisible blades of force that cut through everything in their path. After much thought, an inspiration had struck him.
That sword energy… it had to be compressed mana, unleashed from the blade in a controlled burst.
Jack understood compressed mana—he had been using it at the core of his improvised fireball spell. In his version, he formed a spherical shell of mana to contain the unstable fire element. But now, a new thought burned in his mind: what if he could change the shape of that mana casing?
A sphere was simple, but not always practical. What if he could form shapes with higher penetration? Arrow-like projectiles. Spearheads. Needles. Shapes designed not just for raw destruction, but for piercing through armor, barriers, even magical defenses.
The thought excited him.
If he could pull this off, his fireball would become infinitely more flexible, precise, and far more destructive. A single spell, reshaped and retooled, could serve countless purposes depending on the situation.
In essence, he wasn't even creating a new spell. He was merely modifying the form of his fireball—just another version of the same technique. Simple in theory. But if executed properly, it could become his signature weapon.
The corner of Jack's lips twitched into a faint smile as his excitement grew.
"Let's see if this works," he muttered under his breath, already reaching for the swirling threads of mana within him.
Jack stood in the silent training hall, his breathing slow and deliberate. The torches flickered against the stone walls, but his mind was far away—focused inward, tracing every movement of mana within him.
For days now, he had been refining his fireball, but unlike the standard approach of compressed fire wrapped inside a simple mana shell, Jack's version was more intricate — one that he had built by instinct, not by textbook.
At its core, his fireball housed a dense mana nucleus — a condensed sphere of pure, stabilized mana — encased by a thin inner mana shell, which kept it isolated from the surrounding flames. Around that burned the compressed fire, itself contained within the final, outer mana shell. It was this layered structure that made his fireball more stable and explosively powerful than what most mages could achieve.
But today, Jack wanted something different.
The swordmasters release energy from their blades like a slicing force... not an explosion. Piercing. Direct.
Jack slowly raised his hand, summoning his familiar fireball. The layers formed naturally under his guidance: the dense mana core in the center, isolated by the thin inner shell, surrounded by compressed swirling fire, and finally encased in the outer barrier.
Now the difficult part.
Instead of simply reshaping the entire structure into a spearhead or lance, he focused on the mana core itself. If he could reposition that nucleus to the very tip of the projectile — give it direction, weight, and piercing force — then perhaps it could cut through defenses like the sword energy he admired.
The fireball hovered steadily above his palm, flickering gently. He narrowed his focus, pressing the dense core forward inside its inner shell. The mana resisted at first, as if reluctant to break the balance it had grown accustomed to. But Jack's will was sharp and steady.
Move.
The core shifted forward, pressing against the front of the flame sphere, deforming it slightly. He expanded the front of the outer shell, stretching the flames along the core's path, gradually forming a cone around it — a lance of fire, now heavier and sharper at the tip where the dense core rested.
Sparks hissed. The pressure built.
The twin shells holding both the core and flames trembled under the shifting forces. A hair too much imbalance, and it would rupture.
Jack gritted his teeth.
Hold. Hold... stabilize... equalize pressure across both shells.
Tiny beads of sweat ran down his temples as he delicately reinforced the shells, thickening the tip's mana layer slightly to handle the pressure from the dense core sitting right behind it. The lance wobbled — then steadied.
A long, thin lance of flame floated before him, the mana core gleaming faintly at its tip like the head of a spear.
His lips curled into a faint smile.
This might work.
Jack inhaled, then flicked his wrist and released it.
The lance shot forward with a sharp whistling sound, almost like a shrieking arrow. As it struck the far dummy, the dense mana core punched through the thick wood like a drill, and only after passing through did the contained flames erupt violently inside, causing the entire target to burst into flame from within. The back of the dummy exploded outward, spraying charred fragments across the hall.
The force was far more devastating than his previous fireballs.
Jack exhaled heavily, still feeling the strain on his mana circuits from the precision control. But in his eyes burned a bright excitement.
__
The backyard of Greenriver Castle stretched wide beneath the afternoon sun, its hardened dirt ground scarred by countless drills and sparring matches. Tall stone walls stood like silent sentinels, ivy climbing their flanks while the banners of House Ignis fluttered lazily above.
Garren moved at the center, his full crimson armor gleaming under the light. It was not merely armor—it was legacy. A relic passed down since the days of the Ignis Empire, once worn by the Imperial Red Blades who had marched beneath the old empire's banner. Forged to balance agility and defense, it carried the weight of history upon every plate, though even its masterful design imposed limits only true discipline could overcome.
Around him, the off-duty Red Blades trained in pairs, their blades clashing in sharp rhythm. The air was filled with the steady ring of steel, the grunts of exertion, and the soft crunch of boots against dirt.
Just then a voice called out
"You haven't changed, huh, Garren? Still training in full armor like you're going to war tomorrow."
Garren stopped and turned toward the voice. A tall man stood a few meters away, his messy white hair hanging loosely, a short white beard framing his weathered face. He was well over a foot taller than Garren. Jonathan — his direct superior and former master.
Garren offered a small smile, lowering his blade."Old habits, Commander. You always said: train as you fight, fight as you train."
Jonathan let out a low chuckle, crossing his arms."And you actually listened. That's a first."
"I listened more than you think," Garren replied, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Your lessons haven't left me."
Jonathan's eyes briefly scanned Garren's stance, posture, and armor."You've improved. But you're still too stiff on your left side. You overcompensate when you step forward."
Garren exhaled, not denying it."Armor weight shifts differently as I age."
"You're not old enough to use that excuse yet," Jonathan smirked."Besides, if you had kept your balance sharper, you wouldn't be wearing a demotion on your shoulders right now."
Garren's smile faded slightly, his tone dropping."That wasn't because of my sword arm."
Jonathan's gaze grew serious, but there was no malice in his voice."I know. But discipline isn't only about steel, Garren. It's also about judgment." He paused before continuing."Still, I didn't come here to lecture. I came to see if my old student was still worth the armor he wears."
Garren's grip on his sword tightened slightly."I will always be worthy of the Red Blades. Title or no title."
Jonathan nodded with a faint, approving smile."That's good. Because soon, you may need to prove it."