Two weeks had passed since Jaenor’s aura core awakening, and his dedication to training had become absolute. Within no time, he had achieved what normally takes months to finish.

As his talent was seven stars, it was only normal for him. But the old man wasn’t aware of his talent being seven stars; he assumed that Jaenor was really an exceptional child, and he was proud of teaching him.

Jaenor could feel the change inside, the two cores coexisting, and with his talent as a seven-star, it was easy for him to use both of the energies in harmony.

Nobody had sensed his talent except for Odessa (Magdalyna) and Morgana. Both of them were aware of how much potential Jaenor had.

Not even centuries-old Magdalyna had seen such a tremendously talented child. It was also one of the reasons she remained by his side, the other being she was the only one who was aware.

Right now, his power stood at upper Originbound ranks, far stronger than most of the witches.

He had advanced through the lower ranks after his aura core formation; the subtle jump was because of the harmony between two energies.

In terms of Origin power, he was at the upper ranks, Originbound, and in terms of aura, he was at the third circle.

When a witch reaches the stage of Originbound, she transcends the realm of common wielders and steps into true mastery of the Origin.

Yet even here, power is divided into lower and upper paths.

The lower ranks begin with Premal, where a witch first binds her essence to the Origin, reshaping body and spirit while awakening destructive and vital force.

Beyond this lies Soul, where the very spirit fuses with the Origin, granting an aura that can heal or unmake life itself.

Above these stand the upper ranks, beginning with Crown, witches who wear the throne of power itself, their will bending fragments of reality.

From there, a few ascend to Eternal, immortals who walk unchanged through centuries, carrying the weight of timeless wisdom and an unshakable presence.

And whispered only in legends is the final step—God-Rank—where a witch surpasses mortal limits and becomes one with the Origin itself, her very existence rewriting the laws of creation.

In the secluded courtyard behind the chateau, he moved through sword forms with seamless precision, his bare chest glistening with perspiration as the afternoon sun beat down upon the practice ground.

His dark hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, revealing the strong lines of his jaw and neck. Each movement of his blade created patterns in the air—not the wild, instinctive fighting he had relied upon in battle, but the refined techniques that Sir Reginauld had been drilling into him day after day.

The transformation was remarkable; where once there had been raw power, now there was controlled elegance.

Simply holding a sword with his legs and hands in position to let the weapon flow seamlessly in his grasp. He let the sword guide his hands, feeling even the tiniest vibration of the metal as it cut through the air.

Sir Reginauld sat on a nearby bench, methodically working a whetstone along the edge of his own practice blade. His experienced eyes tracked every movement of his pupil’s form, noting improvements and areas that still needed refinement.

The boy learned faster than anyone he had ever taught.

“Your footwork is still too aggressive in that position,” the old knight called out.

“Remember—defense first, then the counterattack. Let your opponent commit before you respond.”

Jaenor nodded, sweat dripping from his brow as he reset his stance.

The rumor that he was Lady Morgana’s lover had become accepted fact throughout the chateau, and while it chafed at his pride, he had learned to ignore the knowing looks and whispered comments.

The truth of his identity was far too precious to risk for the sake of wounded dignity.

It was then that Lady Emmanuelle appeared at the courtyard’s entrance, drawn by the rhythmic sound of steel cutting through air. She had intended merely to observe for a moment before continuing with her daily rounds, but something about the sight before her made her feet refuse to move.

Jaenor’s form was magnificent—tall and powerful, with the kind of natural grace that spoke to excellent breeding and disciplined training.

But it was his face that truly captured her attention.

Even in profile, even with his features set in concentration, the resemblance was unmistakable. The same strong jawline, the same proud bearing, and the same intensity of focus that had marked his grandfather in his youth.

Her breath caught as memories flooded back—memories of another man, decades younger, who had moved with that same flawless power.

Her late husband in his prime, before time and responsibility had weathered his features, before the war had claimed his life.

The resemblance was so strong it made her heart race in ways she hadn’t experienced in years.

She found herself studying the play of muscles across Jaenor’s shoulders, the way his movements combined strength with elegance, and the confident set of his head as he worked through increasingly complex sequences.

Heat that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun began to build within her, a warmth she had thought long dead stirring to unwelcome life.

“Your Grace?” Sir Reginauld’s voice broke through her reverie like cold water.

The old knight had noticed her prolonged observation and approached with respectful concern, quickly.

“Is everything well?”

Emmanuelle startled, suddenly aware that she had been staring for far longer than was appropriate.

A flush crept up her neck as she struggled to compose herself, hoping that her thoughts weren’t written plainly on her face.

“Quite well, Sir Reginauld,” she managed, her voice only slightly unsteady.

“I was simply… observing young Jaenor’s progress. His improvement has been remarkable.”

“Indeed it has, Your Grace. He possesses natural talent that I’ve rarely encountered.”

The knight’s expression suggested he had noticed nothing untoward, though his eyes held the kind of protective awareness that came from decades of service to the Arkwright House.

“I’m sure he must be tired,” Emmanuelle said, grasping for any excuse to extend the encounter. “Perhaps he would benefit from proper rest and… refreshment.”

Before Sir Reginauld could respond, she was already moving toward Jaenor, her decision made with the kind of impulsive determination that had marked her youth.

The young man looked up at her approach, lowering his sword with automatic courtesy.

“Lady Emmanuelle,” he said, inclining his head in formal greeting.

“I hope my training isn’t disturbing your afternoon.”

“Not at all, dear boy,” she replied, pleased that her voice sounded steadier now.

“But you’ve been working so hard these past weeks. Come inside—let me see that you’re properly cared for.”

There was something in her tone, some subtle undertone, that made Jaenor glance toward Sir Reginauld uncertainly.

But the old knight was already gathering his equipment, apparently seeing nothing unusual in the duchess’s offer.

“Go on, lad,” Sir Reginauld said with a slight smile.

“A proper bath and a good meal will do you more good than another hour of practice. We can resume tomorrow at dawn.”

–

Emmanuelle led Jaenor through the chateau’s elegant corridors to her private quarters—rooms he had never seen before, furnished with the kind of luxury that spoke to centuries of accumulated wealth and refinement.

The bathing chamber was particularly impressive, with a sunken tub carved from a single piece of marble and fed by pipes that brought hot water from the chateau’s sophisticated heating system.

“Such facilities are rare outside the great capitals,” she explained as servants hurried to fill the tub and prepare fresh linens.

“My late husband believed in combining comfort with practicality.”

Jaenor nodded politely, though he seemed increasingly uncertain about the situation.

The servants departed at Emmanuelle’s dismissive gesture, leaving them alone in the steaming chamber.

“I can manage from here, Your Grace,” he said carefully.

“There’s no need to—”

“Nonsense,” Emmanuelle interrupted, her hands already moving to assist with his shirt despite his protests.

“You’re an heir to the Arkwright bloodline, and it’s my duty to ensure you’re properly cared for.”

Jaenor frowned, though a sly smile tugged at his lips as he caught the weight of her gaze.

The older woman’s composure was a mask, but not enough to veil the flicker of hunger in her eyes. He could feel it—how her stare lingered too long on the lines of his arms, how it dipped, unashamed, over the hard planes of his chest. Every stolen glance at his muscles was a confession, and though she tried to hide it behind a veil of poise, the heat in her eyes betrayed her.

Her fingers brushed against his skin as she helped him remove the garment, and she felt that same forbidden warmth spike through her at the contact.

This was dangerous territory—she knew it and understood the implications of what she was doing—but the resemblance to her lost love was too strong, and the loneliness of recent years too profound to resist.

“You know, you look exactly like my late husband, your grandfather.”

“I don’t know how he looked.”

“Believe me, you look just like him.”

“I’m in your care, my lady,” Jaenor said, leaving any inhibition he had.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep