Third Person POV
"Ah… ah… Achoo!"
"I told you it was cold," Novius said, barely hiding the smirk in his voice.
"If I listened to you and actually wore three more layers, I wouldn't even be able to walk."
Alaric pulled at his collar, revealing the snug body warmers hidden beneath. "I'm already wrapped like a dumpling."
The two of them sat side by side on the stone parapet, their legs dangling over the edge. The wind didn't hesitate—it sliced through the air with the sharpness of a blade, brushing cold against their cheeks. Winter had clearly arrived without subtlety.
Novius's ring glowed softly. With a flick of his hand, a thick scarf appeared out of thin air.
"Here," he offered, handing it to his son.
Alaric muttered a thanks and wrapped the scarf around his neck, burying his nose in the warmth. A brief silence followed—comfortable, but brief.
"So… why am I up here, again?" he asked, voice muffled by wool.
Novius exhaled slowly, not quite answering immediately. "Because I can't leave you alone in the room with your mother. You would more or less get in the way of Aurelia and the others, also it is inappropriate."
Alaric raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh."
"And this is the next safest place I can think of," Novius insisted.
Alaric's blue eyes narrowed, full of doubt. Then his gaze dropped—beyond the edge of the roof.
Below, people moved like restless waves—two distinct groups crowding the courtyard, forming a loose perimeter around the building.
The guards were easily differentiable from the enemies that were covered in black cloaks.
"Safe, huh…" he murmured to himself.
Novius turned his head slightly, eyes flicking to the two figures standing just behind them—Caelum and Valen, the family's butlers.
"You two sure you want to fight?" Novius asked casually. "There are at least… what? Twenty-five Yellow Stage cultivators down there?"
"We will avoid any contact with them," Caelum answered with a calm tone.
"We'll let the guards take care of them," Valen added immediately after.
Their expressions made Alaric wonder: Were they just battle-hungry? Or did they participate to protect?
Novius sighed, the kind of sigh that came from years of parenting. "Fine. But if either of you gets even scratched, you're coming back up here without a word."
"Understood," they replied in perfect sync, already in motion.
With a fluid grace, they vaulted over the parapet. Alaric leaned forward slightly, watching them land.
They blended in with the guards below that acted as a wall of protection around the estate.
Around her.
"This is basically a troop," Alaric muttered, unable to keep it to himself as he watched the figures in black-hooded robes gather below.
"It was twice as big as this when you were born," Novius chuckled beside him, his voice calm—almost amused.
From the rooftop vantage, they watched a silent standoff play out beneath a grey winter sky. Then, without breaking his composure, Novius raised a hand and pointed toward the crowd.
"Make sure they're all dead," he said. "And keep our casualties to a minimum."
It was as though the entire rooftop, the entire estate, even the enemies, had been holding their breath—waiting for that command. The moment it left his lips, everything ignited.
The guards moved like a well-oiled machine. Half surged forward into the chaos, blades drawn, while the other half remained closer to the building—positioned to shield it from anyone who slipped past. Backliners armed with long-range weapons and support skills stood ready, but they were prepared for close combat too, with a few of the close combatants lined up to help.
Alaric leaned forward, eyes fixed on the brewing battle. "They fight like animals…" he murmured lookin at the cloaked figures moving like they were rabid beasts.
And right then, one of those very 'animals' broke through the clash, blitzing toward the building with inhuman speed.
"Look ou—!" someone shouted.
An archer, just having loosed an arrow, turned too late. The attacker's short blade arced toward him like a flash of steel—
*Clang!*
There was no blade. Only the sound of metal hitting the ground. The attacker's wrist was blown away mid-swing.
The blow threw him off balance. He stumbled and fell forward, stunned..
Several guards lunged at him in unison, blades plunging into his back before he could recover. He died there, surrounded by a flurry of boots and steel.
"Hey! Eyes ahead!" a sharp voice rang out. "Stop acting like your life is someone else's to protect!"
The archer that had fallen down from the blunt force of the man running into him looked up, dazed. After meeting Novius's gaze the archer scrambled to his feet, nodded stiffly, and repositioned himself.
Alaric had barely registered what happened until it was already over.
His eyes drifted from the attacker to his father.
Obviously Novius was the one who did it.
In that blink of a moment, he had formed and fired an earth projectile—precise, fast, and just powerful enough to disarm without killing.
Alaric swallowed. His gaze dropped again—to the lifeless body, to the crimson soaking into the ground.
"Do you feel something… watching him die?" Novius asked.
He was clearly expecting a yes.
But to his quiet surprise—
"Not really."
The answer sat wrong with him. Not because it was unexpected, but because he knew Alaric was serious.
He had seen death.
Not in passing. Not in stories.
He'd seen it claim people he saw every day. Strangers. Comrades. And he had seen his mother dangling on the very edge of life.
All that, when he should've been chasing butterflies in meadows or laughing in the dirt with kids his age.
"…Is that so," Novius exhaled slowly, like he'd been holding that breath longer than he realized.
He turned his gaze back to the battle below. The bloodshed showed no signs of slowing.
Alaric followed his line of sight—just in time to see his father lift a hand. A spinning shard of rock formed at his palm, floating mid-air like a summoned blade.
It was barely longer than a grown man's hand.
Before Alaric could even track it, it was gone.
He blinked—and a new one was already spinning to life.
His eyes shifted to where Novius had aimed.
One of the robed men collapsed, chest torn open, blood painting the stone red.
"I'm just making it quick," Novius said, voice quiet but steady. "And reducing casualties on our side… I suppose."
He didn't need to say it, but he knew Alaric would wonder. He always did.
Alaric said nothing.
He sat there in silence, the cold wind brushing his cheeks, watching—again and again—as each earthen projectile found its mark. As one by one, another enemy fell.
"Can I try it?"
"Huh?"
"Can I try using a skill too?"
Novius blinked. He glanced sideways at Alaric's face to see it being lit up with the unmistakable spark of enthusiasm.
"Uh… okay. Can you throw it that far?" He pointed toward a dense cluster of enemies.
"Hu hu," Alaric nodded confidently, raising his hand palm-up toward the sky.
Novius watched as flames began to swirl and condense above his son's hand.
'Aww, cute. That's a Rank-1 skill,' he thought casually… until it kept growing.
And growing.
His expression slowly shifted. '…That is not a Rank-1 skill.'
The brightness intensified, and Novius suddenly wasn't watching something cute.
He saw Alaric lean back dramatically, arching like a catapult about to launch.
"Woah—careful, Al—!" Novius caught him just in time, yanking him away from plummeting five stories down the side of the building and plopping him back onto the parapet.
"Don't get that excited—"
*BOOM!*
A blast cut him off mid-sentence.
He jerked his head toward the source of the explosion—only to realize, belatedly, that the source had been standing right next to him moments ago.
The battlefield fell into a stunned silence.
For a full second, even the enemies froze.
Then, one by one, heads turned upward—toward the rooftop.
Novius turned to Alaric.
Alaric turned to Novius.
The boy's earlier confidence shriveled into a sheepish, awkward grin.
"…Was this the result of your training?"
"Y-Yes! Sure, it was."
"The daytime training? Or the one at night?"
Alaric flinched. "What do you mean 'night'?"
"What, you thought you could pull this off under my roof without me noticing?"
Sweat visibly broke out on Alaric's forehead.
"And next time," Novius added with a too-casual smile, "if you're going to ask someone to sneak you healing potions, don't borrow the entire stash. Its hard to explain to the guards."
A very specific image flashed in both their minds—of a certain white-haired, soft-spoken girl.
"…How long have you known?"
"So you're not even going to deny it?" Novius raised an eyebrow.
"No point." Alaric muttered.
"I noticed three days after you started training." Novius crossed his arms. "How'd you do that?"
Alaric blinked. Tilted his head. "I put more mana in it… then threw it."
Novius stared.
"That should've blown it up," he said slowly but Novius didn't budge.
"I make it spin so it doesn't," Alaric replied, tone as casual as if explaining how to boil water.
"So you needed healing potions while you were testing all this out?" Novius sighed. He didn't wait for an answer—he already knew.
After that explosive debut, Alaric didn't try again.
He sat beside his father, quiet, watching as the fight resumed and flames still lingered faintly below.
"Father, there's a battle on the other side too… shouldn't you check that out?" Alaric muttered, trying to twist around and peer over his shoulder.
"Hm?" Novius didn't even glance away from the front. "I doubt they need me over there. The strongest guards are stationed on that side. I chose to stay here because this group…" he tilted his head slightly, "is comparatively weaker."
Alaric didn't argue. He just sat down beside him, quiet.
So did Novius—resuming his observation, occasionally launching strike, all while keeping a subtle eye on his son.
But after a while, he noticed Alaric shifting restlessly, fidgeting in place.
"Al? Something wro—"
*Clang! Clink! Clink! Clink!*
Novius and Alaric vanished from where they were sitting.
A flurry of throwing daggers embedded themselves into the parapet just a breath too late.
"Outstandingly daring of you," Novius' voice rang out, cold as frost, "did you forget that if he gets hurt, there is no chance I'd ever agree to your terms?"
He reappeared a few paces back, Alaric safely in his arms.
His gaze flicked to the blades still quivering in the stone. Poisoned. That attack wasn't meant for Alaric—it was aimed at him.
"Hehe~ If your kid had taken the hit, Duke Athran, I don't think you'd have ever become our target," came a mocking voice from the opposite side of the roof.
"Are we taking the kid too?" came another voice, higher and snakier.
"Not really. Our only goal is to bring the Duke."
"We could sell him, though," another one mused. "Looks like he'd fetch a hefty price."
In the span of seconds, Novius and Alaric were surrounded—three figures in cloaks closing in from all directions on the rooftop.
"Tch," Novius muttered. "Al, looks like you were right. This really isn't the safest spot."
He smiled calmly and gave Alaric a little push. "How about you head back inside?"
Alaric looked around once then turned back to Novius and nodded.
"Good. Run on in. I'll be done here in a minute."
Alaric made no protest. He spun around and bolted toward the rooftop door.
"Not so fast, golden duck!" shrieked the money-hungry one, lunging forward with frightening speed.
Alaric didn't even have time to process what was happening—the man's hand was already inches from his shoulder—
*Snap!*
A hand caught the attacker's wrist mid-air.
Novius stood between them, as if he'd always been there. Without even a grunt, he flung the man clean off the five-story rooftop like he weighed nothing.
Alaric didn't slow down. He reached the door, flung it open, and slammed it shut behind him.
He leaned against it for a second, his chest rising and falling.
"Haah…" he exhaled. "That was scary."
[You really just left him alone out there, huh?] Boon's voice echoed in his mind, full of judgment.
"There's no way Father needs my help," Alaric muttered, starting to descend the stairs. "They were all Blue Stage. All three of them."
[They were.]
He stepped down slowly, footfalls echoing in the dark stairwell. It was oddly quiet.
"It'll be faster now. He was holding back earlier to protect me."
[Shouldn't you be more worried? He's fighting three people on the same level as him.]
'Heh,' Alaric smirked. 'He's way too strong. Those three don't stand a chance.'
Boon groaned.
The rest of the stairwell was quiet again, just the sound of his steps echoing softly. When he reached the fourth floor, Alaric lingered around and started hopping across the tiles on his toes—like a bored child playing a game.
[So… what are you going to do? The room's still two floors down.]
Alaric sighed and stood still.
'How easy would it be if I could tell I can say things around me?'
He paused.
'You know, that [Fireball] earlier? It was way stronger than I expected. At least four times what it was before.'
[Yeah. You nearly blew the arm off a Green Stage cultivator.]
Alaric shrugged.
"Would that be enough for now?"
[…I wonder.]