Tales of Neglected ones

Seraphina pov

The sun dipped low behind the tall garden walls of the Virelan estate, painting gold across the flagstone and grass. A calm breeze passed through the courtyard, carrying the soft scent of cedar and sunflowers.

From the terrace above, Seraphina watched the lone figure moving below—her eyes focused, thoughtful.

It was Sylas.

He was lifting crates—heavy ones. Reinforced wood packed with potion bottles and sealed barrels of spirit dust, each one normally requiring two servants to haul. He carried one under each arm.

And made it look easy.

That's not normal.

Her brows furrowed slightly as she leaned against the railing, studying his every motion with the precision of someone trained to read combatants. And Seraphina was more than just trained—she was already Level 3, and few things escaped her notice.

What she saw now made no sense.

Sylas was no fighter.

He had never trained with weapons, never attended combat drills, never asked to spar. He wasn't aura-sensitive, didn't channel mana in the traditional sense, and she'd never seen him even hold a wooden sword.

> And yet… he's stronger than most Level 1 swordsmen I've fought.

He moved with confidence now. His back was straight. His shoulders had filled out, arms defined beneath the rolled sleeves of his plain tunic. He looked nothing like the boy who had arrived here two and a half years ago, barely able to carry his own satchel and coughing after walking up the stairs.

Back then, he was pale, hunched, and underfed.

Now he looked quietly powerful.

She descended from the terrace and made her way across the courtyard. Sylas looked up as she approached, setting down the last crate.

"Hey," he greeted, brushing his hands. "Didn't expect you out here."

"Evening," she said with a half-smile. "You've gotten stronger."

Sylas blinked, then gave a faint smile. "A little, I guess."

Seraphina tilted her head, walking past him and tapping the side of the crate. "This isn't just 'a little.' That crate alone weighs more than some nobles."

He gave a small shrug, but didn't respond.

She turned to face him directly. "You never use a sword. Or train. You don't even practice forms in the open courtyard like the others."

Sylas stayed quiet, eyes calm. He didn't deny it—but he didn't explain either.

She didn't expect him to.

Instead, Seraphina gave him a soft, understanding look.

> "I won't ask how you're doing it, Sylas," she said. "Not if you're not ready to say it."

He looked at her, something flickering in his eyes—relief… and maybe a touch of gratitude.

"I will, someday," he said. "Just not now."

"Alright." She smiled again, more warmly this time. "But whatever path you're on… it's working."

She turned to leave, but her voice lingered softly over her shoulder:

> "It may not be a sword... but you're sharpening something just as dangerous."

---

After she was gone, Sylas knelt beside his satchel and carefully pulled the flap closed, hiding the soft violet glow within.

Two glass vials shimmered faintly inside—clear liquid, pulsing gently with energy.

> Rank One – Body Enhancement (Spiritual Infusion)

He had used his spiritual energy every single day, refining it into potions.

Each one took time. Discipline. Focus.

He could only make a few. But over hundreds of days, his body changed.

Not through combat.

Not through aura.

But through spiritual alchemy.

> "No sword. No blade. And still…"

He flexed his hand slowly—calm strength surging beneath skin.

> "…I've already passed the first gate."

---

She had seen it. She had known. But she didn't ask.

That silence meant more than any praise.

And one day, when he was ready—he would tell her everything.

End of chapter