Aegis sliced through the icy air with a muted whistle, the only familiar sound left in his life. The blade was more than a weapon; it was the last surviving piece of who he used to be.
He tightened the bearskin cloak around his shoulders, the heavy fur soaked with frost. The weight slowed him down, anchored him, but he welcomed it. He needed the cold, the strain, the ache ripping through his muscles. They kept him honest. They stripped him bare.
Two months now. Every morning, Xur planted a row of bamboo stalks deep into the snow—twelve of them, cut and shaped by his own hand, their tops sharpened, their alignment perfect.
The challenge sounded simple: cut all twelve in a single stroke. Yet Arion had not managed it once.
“Your stance is still wrong,” As he adjusted his form, he heard a voice growl behind him.
Arion tensed. “I’m trying.”
“Trying,” Xur repeated as he stepped into view, his massive silhouette carving through the haze. “Trying is what boys do before they fail. Men train to survive.” He tapped his iron staff against his shoulder. “Again.”
Arion inhaled, steadying the tremor in his arms. Instinct begged him to reach for the Aether to let it glide through him, guide him, strengthen him—but Xur’s rule was iron. And in the current state, it made sense.
He lowered the blade, body coiled like a bowstring.
“When the strike begins,” Xur said, his voice low and sharp, “you cannot rethink. You cannot readjust. You cannot stop. One swing. One breath. One decision.”
Arion exhaled, breath steaming in the cold. His once-shattered arm throbbed—reminding him of the day everything had fallen apart.
The day mercy cost him everything.
The day the Temple burned.
“One breath,” he whispered.
He moved.
Aegis flashed outward in a sweeping arc, slicing the wind with a metallic hiss. Snow erupted around him as the blade connected. Crisp and clean but only six stalks fell.
The remaining six stood untouched.
Arion’s jaw tightened. Frosted breath escaped him in ragged bursts.
“Again,” Xur said, without a shred of sympathy. “You hesitated. You still search for the flow. I see it in your shoulders.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Xur snapped, the wind scattering his words. “All your life you fought with Aether in your bones. Now you must fight as a man fights.”
Arion stared at the fallen stalks. Six. Half. Not enough—not for what he swore to do.
He reset his stance.
“This time,” Xur said quietly, “cut them as if your next breath depends on it. Because one day… it might.”
The face of Akeem flashed before Arion’s eyes, mounting on his chest as he rained down fists on his face. It was like the whole night flashed back in one instant and with it came regret. For his hesitation and the consequences he bore.
“It already did,” Arion whispered as he swung. There was no doubt in the slash this time, no reaching for the Aether. Only steel, intent, and the weight of everything he’d lost.
The arc swept lower than before—perfect.
All twelve stalks split cleanly.
Arion flicked Aegis, sending bamboo remnants scattering, and sheathed the blade in one swift motion.
“Good,” Xur said after a beat. “That was good.” He turned toward the cabin. “Enough for the day. I’m heading down to get supplies. I’ll be back by nightfall.”
He grabbed his bear-fur cloak, pulled the hood over his face, slung his bow across his back. As he passed Arion, a low whisper escaped the boy:
“The Temple…”
Xur stopped. “What’s that?”
“The Temple taught us mercy,” Arion said, eyes fixed on the snow. “To use our steel and magic with care. To serve with honor… not to kill.”
Xur watched him silently, now realizing the hesitation wasn’t just lack of aether.
“That mercy led me to fail my mission,” Arion continued. “I should have killed Akeem there and then.”
After a moment, Xur stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “Mercy didn’t make you fail,” he said. “Your lack of judgment did. Some men pass the point where mercy has meaning.”
He placed a heavy hand on Arion’s shoulder.
“Don’t let the weight of your weakest moment define you. Fight until your last breath. The battle ends only when you’re beneath the earth.”
Then he walked away, descending Mount Kouhur and leaving Arion alone with his breath, his blade, and the cold truth settling inside him.
***
Arion sat by the fire, lost in thought. He didn’t know how long he’d been like that, nor did it matter. Night had fallen outside the window.
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A muffled crunch of footsteps in the snow snapped him from his reverie. A heavy thud landed just outside—Xur had returned.
“I had an elk in perfect range on the way back,” Xur said, a spark of excitement in his voice as he shook off the cold and kicked the door shut. “This’ll keep us fed for days,” he muttered, tossing deerskin aside. Blood coated his hands as he pulled a long knife from his belt, its edge slick with crimson. He moved to the washbasin, scooping handfuls of water to clean his face.
Every so often, Xur made the long trek down to the nearest town’s marketplace, trading pelts and meat for supplies they couldn’t gather in the mountains. Arion knew he went for news as well, even if he rarely spoke of it.
“Did you hear anything about Aetheria?” Arion asked, his voice even.
Xur exhaled, wiping his hands dry. “Word is, Ash King Theron and his cursed sorcerer are building a giant structure. I’d wager it has something to do with the Aether.”
Arion’s eyes widened as he whispered “desecration of Aether,” there was no hesitation in his next words, “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
Xur paused, water dripping from his fingers. He turned his head, brow furrowed.
“And what will you do? Fight the whole Aetherian army alone?” His tone was skeptical, almost amused. “You can’t even kill a rabbit properly.”
Arion’s expression remained unchanged.
Xur studied him a moment longer, then exhaled sharply. “You’re serious.”
Arion nodded once.
Xur set the basin down, rubbing his chin. “Where will you go?”
Arion met his gaze, unwavering. “To find the custodians I left behind. The ones who survived.”
Xur leaned against the wall, arms crossed, silent for a long time.
“You said some of them were banished,” Arion continued. “That they settled in a town on the outskirts of Aetheria. My guess is Dunreth. Temple always had good relations with them.”
The old man’s posture stiffened, the silence hanging heavy as he turned his gaze to the fire, the flickering flames dancing against his weathered features. For a long moment, Xur didn’t speak, his jaw clenched, his emotions roiling beneath the surface, contained but barely.
"And what will you do with a handful of scribes, old scholars, and maybe a few injured warriors without Aether flow? You think that's enough to change anything?" His voice was low, clipped, the frustration simmering beneath the surface.
Arion stood firm, unshaken by Xur’s fury, his own resolve clear. "Then I’ll die trying to avenge my father, my mentor and my fallen brothers,” Arion stood up as anger rose up within him, “I will die trying to do my sworn duty as the Aether’s custodian and not let that bastard of a king desecrate Aether any further!”
“No, you will get caught. You will be imprisoned and they will make an example out of you.” Xur quickly retorted.
Arion’s fists clenched at his sides, the fire in his chest rising with every word Xur spoke. His jaw tightened, and a bitter laugh escaped him, sharp and hollow. “You speak as if I haven’t suffered enough already… as if your choices somehow protect me.”
Then, finally, he spat the words through gritted teeth:
“I’m not staying here. I won’t hide in the mountains for the rest of my life, like you."
Arion’s words pierced through Xur’s heart. Xur’s face twisted in quiet rage, his voice barely above a growl.
"Your mentor was my brother," he said through gritted teeth. "Your father was my friend. I served the temple faithfully long before you ever took your first breath. Stop pretending like you know what I’ve been through." His fists slammed against the table, but the anger stayed contained, more a tremor of barely controlled emotion.
Arion opened his mouth to reply, but Xur continued, his voice darkening, laden with the weight of old wounds. "The temple and the king banished me; and I respected that decision. I did what was right.”
Xur's anger rising beneath his controlled exterior. "You think you know everything," he said, his voice tight, "but you don’t know what it’s like to carry the weight of what I did. What I had to give up." His breath caught, but there was no shouting, only the quiet fury of a man who had buried his pain for too long.
"You could have met your brother," Arion’s voice broke through, quiet but firm. "At least once."
"And what would that have done?" His voice cracked, but only for a second. He quickly regained his composure, his resolve solidifying. "Keep him tied to me? To the past?" He exhaled slowly, the anger turning into something else, something more resigned. "I wanted what was best for him, always. I gave up everything so he could have his future. And that damned Boy King... he ended it. He ended everything."
Arion's heart clenched at the bitterness in Xur’s voice. But Xur wasn’t finished. His words were colder now, eyes narrowing in a way that sent a chill through the room. "I have as many reasons to end that little tyrant as you, but I’ve learned over the years, you don’t just swing a sword like a dimwit. You think. You plan. You wait for the right time to strike."
The words hung in the air, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Arion’s mind spun as he tried to piece together the puzzle that was Xur, the man who had dragged him from the brink of death and now seemed so guarded, so distant from the mentor he had once hoped for.
Finally, Arion found his voice again, a faint thread of hope mixed with desperation. "What exactly are you waiting for, Xur? Why won’t you tell me how you found me? We both know it was no coincidence you were there, right before—right before I died."
Xur didn’t answer immediately. The air grew thick with expectation, and Arion’s pulse hammered in his ears as he waited, trying to read the man who had been his unwilling savior. Before Xur could speak, a sharp wind howled outside, as though a storm approached.
Then, suddenly, the black night outside flared with bright blue light, breaking through the cabin window, bathing them in ethereal light that refused to vanish, lingering in the air.
Xur’s expression shifted from intensity to awe, and he looked outside as if his prayers had been answered.
Arion followed his gaze, and his eyes widened in astonishment and confusion, “What… is that?” He asked in a whisper.
“Your answers,” Xur said, urgency threading his voice. He didn’t wait for a response, moving quickly to the door. Arion rose, instinctively following, his heart hammering in his chest.
As soon as they stepped outside, Arion’s gaze locked on the distant shape that moved against the snow—a glimmer of blue light, impossible and familiar. Arion froze, breath catching. At first, he thought it a trick of the eyes. But the glow solidified, the outline of a massive steed becoming clear.
It was the same creature he'd seen that day—the one he'd thought was nothing more than a hallucination after Xur had saved him.
But no. It was real. In the flesh.
There it stood, like a guardian of legends.
Scales shimmered like polished armor—thick, unbreakable.
Its mane flowed like fresh snow, and between its eyes, a single horn pulsed with ethereal blue light—the same Aether he had always known.
“Is that a Reem?” Arion whispered, his voice barely audible.
Xur approached the creature and bowed slightly, a greeting or sign of respect. The Reem tilted its head in acknowledgment, its gaze turning toward Arion, who stood frozen a few feet away.
“Go on,” Xur encouraged.
Arion hesitated, every instinct screaming caution, yet the creature’s presence felt… familiar, like a long-lost memory brushing against his bones.
The Reem lowered its head, and a faint hum vibrated through the air, reverberating against the snow. Arion’s fingers trembled, brushing its scaled forehead. A subtle warmth spread from his hand into his arm, curling like living fire. Then as soon as he touched its glowing horn, it hit him, all at once.
A surge of power, of Aether, rushed through his body like a flood. His vision blurred, and he felt the current of energy coursing through him as if he had never truly known what it was before. It was like the first time he had connected with Aether, but now it was different—more intense, more alive.
His father’s voice echoed in his mind, calm and steady: "Calm your mind. Let it flow through you."
Arion did just that. He exhaled, steadying his breath, letting the current of Aether guide him, and for the first time in months, he felt truly alive.
When he opened his eyes, the ethereal light of the Reem had vanished, but the pulse remained—a steady thrum of energy coursing through him, a bond with the Aether stronger than ever before.
Unsure if it was real, he lifted his hand, fingers trembling slightly, and then he snapped.
A flicker of flame danced atop his fingertip, small but alive, and his eyes widened in awe. It’s coming back… it’s real.
***
Ascension Of The Throne[LitRPG/GunSlinger]
Edric Veyra's new reality. He only wants to survive, but trouble knocks like it's DoorDash. He soon realizes he is the fallen heir of House Veyra—once the pillars of the nation, now nothing more than a story.
System. Before he can mourn his luck, he is bombarded by cryptic memories and a weapon magically appears from thin air: a flintlock gun engraved with runes that shoots magic bullets.
"Why did House Veyra fall?"
WHAT TO EXPECT:
- ?? Weak to Strong:
- ?? 'Lite' LitRPG System w/ Minimal Stats
- ?? Emphasis on Party Dynamics (No Harem)
- ?? 1500+ words/chapter & Smooth pacing