The Thallerion forces had withdrawn, a decision Matheros found perfectly logical, given King Xerxez of Ossibuz’s decree. To wage war while still steeped in the throes of grief was folly, a path that would surely dull a warrior’s blade. A confrontation with the Thallerions this very month would only cripple Xerxez’s fighting spirit.

“Xerxez,” Matheros urged, their voices echoing within the Thallerion throne room, where Xerxez sat upon his regal seat. “Let us not plunge headlong into conflict. Reflect on this: it bodes ill for a warrior still cloaked in sorrow to face a new war.”

“Six months,” Xerxez sighed deeply, the words heavy with resignation. “Six months hence, Pyramus descends upon Thallerion.” His voice, now a resonant boom, carried an ominous premonition of a perilous trap laid by Ossibuz.

“If the Corvus entity truly observes us, knowing this precise date,” Matheros stated, “then our preparation must be absolute.”

“Indeed, that is my fear,” Xerxez confessed, his frustrations with the Ossibians and their protector, Corvus, bubbling to the surface. “It is futile to plan now if their eyes already track our every move.”

“We must simply evade the crows,” Matheros offered, a relieved exhalation escaping him. “Entities, as I understand, are bodiless; they cannot traverse locations without inhabiting a human or animal form.” A collective sigh of relief passed between them, though the age-old tales remained mere conjecture, their certainty wavering.

During their discourse was interrupted by a guard, who presented an invitation from the kingdom of Thartherus. Its king extended an invitation for Xerxez to attend his birthday celebration the following month.

“King Driother himself invites you to his domain?” Matheros questioned, seated beside the throne.

“Aye, the gifted king,” Xerxez affirmed, a faint smile gracing his lips. He recalled King Driother’s daughters, all of them vying for his attention. Yet, upon his arrival, it was Peronica alone who truly captivated his heart. King Driother had even quipped that if Xerxez found himself torn among his daughters, he would gladly embrace him as a son-in-law. Driother’s daughters were kind; Xerxez knew there were six, yet whenever he visited Thartherus, he only ever saw five.

“Will you accept the King of Thartherus’s invitation?” Matheros pressed, noting Xerxez’s somewhat labored breathing.

“For the sake of alliance, I cannot refuse. However, we must first deliberate on the impending war.”

“So, you now concur with Matar’s six-month postponement?”

“My reasoning is thus: hasty decisions, especially when they boast an entity against us, will only bring us hardship. I refuse to see my parents’ fate repeated.”

“Why not once more wield the dagger you discovered in the stream? The elders claim it to be Orion’s,” Matheros suggested.

“I have concealed that relic. There is naught to gain by awaiting Orion’s return.”

“Do you truly no longer trust Orion?” Matheros’s question hung in the air, but Xerxez merely rose.

“Let us cast that entity from our minds,” Xerxez declared, striding from his throne towards the outside. “Accompany me to the Rigil district.”

Indeed, a considerable time had passed since Xerxez had banished Orion from his thoughts, yet some nights, the entity’s voice echoed in his mind. But it was a mere whisper, a ghostly remnant of his contempt for entities. In Xerxez’s heart, he seemed to repudiate the entities’ presence, causing the voice in his dreams to dissipate like an ephemeral illusion.

The elders of Thallerion spoke of a time when Orion’s entity bestowed weapons upon the chosen warriors of old. Yet, with Orion’s disappearance from their collective memory, their martial ardor waned. The very dagger cast into the stream, unbeknownst to Xerxez, possessed the power to weaken entities, forged in Orion’s own might. Orion’s unique gift was the ability to conjure weapons from pure thought and imagination. Should a warrior desire a bow, one would instantly materialize—not of earthly make, but glowing with ethereal energy.

Alas, humanity had grown reliant on the entities’ power. Orion, in his wisdom, chose to vanish, intending for mankind to utilize his weapons. Instead, fear and cowardice gripped the warriors, silenced by the absence of the entities’ voices in their minds. This was the genesis of the Thallerion warriors’ decline. For the new generations, Orion had simply abandoned and forgotten them. Xerxez harbored a deep resentment towards the entities, for Orion had forsaken Thallerion.

Yet, that voice in his dream—Xerxez still believed in his heart that it was Orion, guiding them, preparing them for the Moonatorians’ arrival. But what could ordinary mortals hope to achieve against the Ursa, against a formidable foe like King Hedromus?

****************************************************************************************************

The next day at Wendlock School, dawn poured like molten gold across the training field. Trainees from every faction assembled in neat lines—red, green, blue, and white forming a patchwork of color beneath the spreading boughs. At the center of the clearing stood **Teacher Devein**, a tall, austere figure whose robes were stitched with constellations. Before him, on a stone plinth, lay an opened **copy of the Book of Orion**—its pages alive with faint glyphs and a soft, otherworldly glow that pulsed to the rhythm of the forest itself.

“Trainees,” Devein began, his voice clear as a bell yet carrying the weight of years, “today you will shape your first weapon. Those among you who have advanced further may attempt a second form—but do not rush. A weapon is not merely forged; it is born from intent.”

He stepped forward and swept one hand over the Book. The glyphs shimmered in response, like fish scattering in a pool of light. “Pair up,” he instructed. “Form a chain. Hold hands. Feel the living current among you. Then follow my gestures. We will awaken your elements together.”

The trainees shuffled into pairs and lines, palms touching, fingers interlaced. The field hummed—soft at first, then rising like a drumbeat in the chest—an undercurrent of spirit energy moving across the rows, connecting young hearts and fledgling powers.

“You must be willing,” Devein continued, “to let your spirit flow through your hands. Do not force it. Let intent shape form. The Book of Orion records only the potential—your will completes the circle.”

As the class linked together and mirrored Devein’s slow, deliberate motions, Xerxez hovered at the edge of concentration. His fingers felt warm where they touched his partner’s; the current that pulsed through them was unlike anything he’d felt before—gentle, alive, expecting. He tried to follow Devein’s gestures, opening then closing his palms, drawing motion from the air like a silent song.

*I can do this,* he told himself, though the whisper in his chest trembled.

*I already summoned an archer… once. It felt—wrong. Like a toy that forgot how to be real. A glowing toy with no weight and no teeth.*

Memories of his clumsy archer flickered across his mind—thin light shaped into a bow and ragged arrow, wobbling like a child’s toy whenever he tried to aim. A small laugh escaped him then, half embarrassment, half disbelief.

*If I face Zenny with that… I’d be courting death,* he thought, picturing her flute’s flowing notes and vines that wrapped like iron. *Her music can bind a forest. My archer—what could it do? Pierce the air and apologize?*

Devein’s voice softened, almost as if he reached into Xerxez’s doubt and touched it. “Doubt is not weakness, Xerxez,” he said, scanning the rows until his gaze found the prince. “Doubt is the ember that forces thought into action. But remember: a weapon follows the mind that wields it. The archer you summon need not be a replica of someone else’s arrow. Make it *yours.* Give it a purpose.”

Xerxez swallowed, feeling both exposed and steady. In the hush that followed, Devein demonstrated again—this time slower. He formed a gesture with his fingers like drawing an invisible string across the air; a circle of runes traced the motion, and a shaft of light sang into existence, a perfect spectral arrow fixed on a bow shaped from raw spirit. When the arrow struck a distant target, the sound was soft but sure—a small bell-tone that vibrated in the bones.

“Focus on intent,” Devein intoned. “Not on spectacle. The Book of Orion responds to what you *want* to achieve, not what you fear. If you wish to hold back, your weapon will be timid. If you wish to shield, it may form a wall. If you seek precision—aim true.”

Around the field, other students began to produce paler or fiercer weapons—spears of ember, whips of living ivy hardened to fiber, tridents humming with the chill of the sea. Each weapon carried a personality: a spear that remembered how to pierce, a vine that curled like a question, a blade that sought the truth of a strike.

Xerxez breathed in. He pictured not a perfect bow, but *what he wanted that bow to do*: to pierce through illusion, to break roots that bound movement, to snap the song that held a body. He imagined an arrow not of brute force, but of clarity—an arrow that would cut through Zenny’s pollen-sheen and reveal what lay beneath.

The current in his palms tightened. Light gathered, trembling. Around him, the linked hands hummed—one river of will forging many tiny streams into shape. Xerxez’s shoulders lowered. He closed his eyes and let the breath move—slow in, slower out—until his heartbeat matched the cadence of the Book’s glow.

He moved his fingers the way Devein had shown him: a small, deliberate draw, a patience-filled release. At first, nothing—then a thin filament of light arced into being, shivering like a newborn thing. It thickened, darkened, and the shape of a bow resolved—smaller than the teachers’, yes, but compact and sturdy. It didn’t gleam like a child’s toy; instead it radiated calm purpose.

An arrow followed, pale as moonlight, not brittle but pointed with a tempered edge. Xerxez felt it anchor into his chest—not a weight of burden, but a promise. He tested the string with a practiced breath and let it go; the arrow flew clean, striking a distant target already dented by other trainees, and rang with a sound like a struck chime.

A small, relieved laugh slipped from him. It wasn’t perfect—he could feel gaps of control—but it was his. It did what he wanted: it sought the true pattern of motion and cut.

Devein inclined his head once, satisfied. “Well done,” he said. “You will refine it. The archer you conjured is not a toy; it is *young.* Teach it. Train with it. Give it a name, and it will remember.”

Around the glade, whispers rose—some surprised, some approving. Evenneor glanced over with a flicker of respect, while Zenny’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyes calculating as always.

Xerxez steadied his breath and looked down at the bow in his hands. His fingers brushed the string, and for the first time it felt less like fantasy and more like a tool he could shape with sweat and will.

*If my arrow can cut through a pollen-mist, then maybe I have a chance,* he thought. *If not to defeat Zenny outright, then to hold my ground without being swallowed by vines.*

Devein spoke again, voice carrying across the field. “Summoning is only the start. Training is what gives a weapon voice. In a week’s time, we shall test your control in mock combat. Be mindful, trainees: the blade that cuts without thought will be the blade that breaks your hand.”

As the lesson continued, the Book of Orion’s light pulsed steady like a guiding heartbeat. Trainees bent over their new weapons, practicing draws and stances, correcting mistakes with awkward determination. In the shade, Xerxez tightened his grip and tested his string again—this time with a small, private vow forming with each breath.

*This bow will not be a toy. This bow will be my promise.*

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep