Chapter 9: Roots and Resolve
Rain fell gently over the Agares estate, a soft patter against the high arched windows of Volundr's private chamber. He sat in silence, legs crossed on a woven meditation mat, breathing in rhythm with the falling droplets. Outside, mist clung to the crimson foliage of the courtyard trees, and the ever-burning torches flickered with moisture.
Inside, the air was thick with focus. The steady hum of his Limitless Aura pulsed beneath his skin, circulating through his limbs like a second bloodstream. It was no longer a strange force to him. It was him—his essence reaching beyond flesh and bone, quietly nourishing those he had marked.
Through those unseen threads, he felt the gentle flare of Seekvaira's magic in the training chamber below. He felt the iron determination of Sairaorg far to the west, in his own grueling regimen. And the faint yet growing resonance of Sona Sitri—more a whisper than a song, but growing clearer by the day.
They were learning, growing, evolving—and through them, so was he.
Volundr's days followed an intense rhythm. Mornings began with Senjutsu meditation and martial drills guided by Lirien, the former battlefield maid whose grace in combat still stunned veteran guards. Claudius would follow with deep theory: devil laws, noble customs, political case studies, and tactical modeling.
Afternoons were reserved for magical research—primarily self-led. Volundr devoured tomes on spell formulas, barrier principles, and layered enchantments. He had recently begun reinterpreting older magical philosophies through his own framework—an analytical fusion of modern logic and ancient devil metaphysics.
He also experimented with magic while in motion. "Real combat won't let you stand still and chant," he once said to Seekvaira after casting a directional compression spell mid-roll. His style was becoming as pragmatic as it was potent.
One night, Claudius entered Volundr's study with a bundle of papers and an unreadable expression.
"These were intercepted by Lord Ajuka's office," the butler said. "They contain subtle requests from minor houses to sponsor private testing arenas—covert dueling pits for child prodigies."
Volundr scanned the reports and frowned.
"They're looking for pawns to bet on," he said flatly.
Claudius nodded. "Or to discredit. Political grooming through bloodsport."
Volundr placed the documents down. "We'll attend—but only as observers."
Claudius raised an eyebrow. "Planning to stay unseen?"
"No," Volundr replied. "I want them to see me. Just not clearly."
At the underground venue days later, Volundr wore simple noble attire—not his ceremonial robe. The duels were brutal, crude attempts at displaying dominance. Most young devils fought with inherited techniques, lacking creativity. But one match caught his attention.
A boy with silver hair and a short sword stood his ground against a larger opponent using a hammer. He moved unpredictably—improvising, reacting.
"He's reading his foe's rhythm," Volundr murmured.
"Name's Zephyr Glade," Claudius said. "Third son of a fading house. Been training outside the capital."
Later that night, Volundr summoned Claudius and Lirien to a private room.
"I want you to watch Zephyr. He's not peerage material yet—but he thinks like a survivor."
Meanwhile, Volundr's relationship with Seekvaira continued to blossom. They sparred more often, and her technical precision was improving rapidly. During a particularly fast-paced exchange, she disarmed him with a clever feint.
He laughed, rolling back to his feet.
"Showoff," he said.
She panted, eyes shining. "You always said adaptation wins."
He ruffled her hair. "Then keep adapting, little shadow."
They often sat by the estate's garden terrace afterward, sharing fruit and watching the stars. Volundr spoke little about his reincarnated memories, but when he did, it was always to Seekvaira.
"You think I'll be strong enough to stand beside you?" she asked one evening.
He turned to her, voice firm. "You already are."
During the next few weeks, Volundr's Limitless Aura expanded in clarity. The marks he placed subtly influenced those within them, accelerating training and clarity of will. He began experimenting with mark depth—temporary versus permanent. He kept Sairaorg's mark stable through their synchronized growth, even at long distances.
One evening, a letter from Lord Sitri arrived. Sona had requested a discussion—through proxies, of course. Volundr agreed, sending a coded reply suggesting a book exchange between libraries.
Politics.
He was playing the long game.
By the end of the month, Volundr stood in the estate's underground forge chamber, watching a weaponsmith craft a customized practice spear. It wasn't enchanted—not yet. But its balance was perfect.
"I'll name it later," he said, testing the grip. "When it earns one."
He turned toward the shadows where Claudius stood.
"The political tide is shifting. Word of Sairaorg's progress is circulating. And now, Sona wants to begin alliances."
Claudius smiled faintly. "At ten, you have the mind of a war council."
"No," Volundr replied. "I just remember what war costs."
The forge's heat flickered in his eyes.
"I'll be ready."
End of Chapter 9