Deacon's eyes opened with a slow and sluggish crawl, as his mind slowly began to recall what happened prior to him falling asleep, as the post-caffeinated effects of the Blood Pill he ingested began affecting him.
…So, this is how you're actually supposed to feel after taking a Blood Pill, Deacon mused to himself. The irony didn't escape him as he remembered the time he and Jass had taken one together after they had survived the Field Exam in his 3rd year, and they arrived back to camp with severed left arms — how he'd laughed at the crash she had while he'd only felt a bit tired after the light rush he felt after consuming the Blood Pill.
He'd been taking the wrong kind of blood back then – he and the healers who administered the Blood Pills to him after he'd get injured thought he was human.
As his slitted eyes began to sharpen into focus and stare at the brick and wood ceiling, Deacon mentally began checking over his body. Taking in a deep breath, he felt his blood pumping through his veins and invigorating his muscles beneath his skin.
His gaze drifted to the small bedside drawer next to his head, and for a moment, his thoughts lagged behind his vision; sitting atop the wood was his Serpent Pendant — the chain glinting softly in the morning light that filtered in through the window above him, which showed off the bright blue sky, highlighting the specs of dust that floated freely about.
The pendant looked the same as always — the coil of the metal looking in the tight shape of an S, the carved fangs, the polished, slitted eyes that always seemed to catch the light differently depending on where he stood. The only difference was that the hairline fractures that once ran along its surface were gone. Completely repaired.
He reached out, fingers brushing the metal, expecting it to feel different or warm or altered in some way, but it was like it had never been damaged before.
He slipped it over his head and felt it settle against his sternum and Identified it.
Item Name: Serpent Pendant
Type: Accessory – Necklace
Rarity: Common
Description:
A necklace made in the image of a powerful serpent that was passed from father to son, who sought to give his son a memento in order to remember him by.
Effects: Self-Repair
Requirement: Deacon Surtr Hayes.
"… That's new," he thought to himself as he read the description of his pendant and took notice of its new effect despite its common rarity.
When he finally pushed himself upright, he noticed something else — folded carefully at the foot of the bed was a burnt-red training suit with the Sovereign Blades' crest atop it.
Item Name: Sovereign Blades Training Suit
Type: Training Suit – Light Armor
Rarity: Rare
Description:
A burnt-red training suit reinforced with tightly woven, impact-resistant, and slashing-resistant fibers. Designed for rigorous training; durable enough to withstand extended fighting sessions, though it provides no additional protection beyond its structural resilience.
Effects: Impact Resistance, Slashing Resistance, Enhanced Durability.
Requirement: Lv 15+ & Humanoid.
Looking at the item beside the training suit, he saw his Spatial Sling Bag along with a slip of paper. Reaching over to pick up the slip of paper, he noticed that it was his uncle's handwriting on it.
Meet me outside, wearing just what I put aside for you.
Letting out a huff, Deacon lowered the note his uncle had left him and took notice of his boots at the foot of the bedside dresser.
Without wasting any more daylight, Deacon pulled himself out of bed and began changing out of his gear, then pulled the training suit on piece by piece.
After putting on the training suit, he carefully rolled his joints and stretched out his limbs – enjoying the feel of just how flexible the fabric was and how durable it felt.
As well-made as this is, I'd better not get caught on camera with this thing on, Deacon thought to himself as he put back on his boots.
After tightening the belt of his Spatial Sling Bag across his hip, he looked at his pendant atop his chest for a brief period before tucking it beneath his training suit shirt and stepping out of the bedroom he was in.
Finding himself in a hall, Deacon looked around and caught sight of a door that was slightly ajar.
Making his way down the hall, Deacon heard his uncle's voice, and upon pushing the door open, he found himself back in the lounge that doubled as a kitchen and found his uncle pacing around the kitchen with his manaphone pinched between his shoulder and the side of his head.
"No. Three weeks," he said into the call. "Yes, I know. Tell them I'll return I'll be refunding the cost of their request myself if it can't wait. If they complain, they can complain to me directly when I get back."
A period of silence overcame the room as Bjorn said his piece; however, the silence was something that was just about to break, judging by the twitch Deacon saw his uncle have on the arch of his right brow.
"I said three weeks," Bjorn repeated, and then, with zero flourish whatsoever, ended the call with an annoyed huff.
"I really should hire a secretary," he muttered to himself as he put away his manaphone, aware that he was not alone in the room.
When Bjorn finally turned and visibly saw his nephew, a smile grew across his face as he took in the Sovereign Blade's Training Suit he now wore.
"Good," he said.
"Follow me," Bjorn continued with a tilt of his chin, already moving toward the kitchen — except instead of stopping at the stove, he walked straight into it.
And the stove, along with the vent hood and backsplash, dissolved into motes of light until what remained was a doorless, stone doorway that showed off a beautiful meadow.
Another Illusionary wall, Deacon thought to himself, already missing the usefulness of his newly gained bracelet. The air that met him as he stepped past the stove-turned-threshold was rich, smelling like the aftermath of rain, clean and mineral-rich soil.
Turning his head slightly away from the sights of the trees that lined the meadow and to his uncle, who was standing in the center of the meadow, giving an appreciative look at his surroundings. "This was the accumulation of a year's worth of nonstop missions."
The field stretched for miles, untouched, not a wall or structure or distant settlement in sight. Just wind, grass, sky, and the faint hum of mana running thick through the air like invisible humidity.
"With the help of many space mages and countless hours of my own time I managed to bring a piece of home here," Bjorn said, and there was something nostalgic in the way his mouth pulled into a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
His posture shifted just enough that Deacon knew something was about to happen before it happened, and sure enough, Bjorn reached behind himself and into his Spatial Storage and pulled out a long, double-edged, darkened carbon-steel blade with the faint ripple patterns of well-treated metal, an Ulfberht — and Bjorn threw it hilt-first toward him.
Deacon caught it without thinking, the weight of it settling into his palm with a familiarity he shouldn't have had, like his hand already knew the balance and center of it without even having held one in his hand before.
…The hell, he mused to himself as he stared at the blade in confusion.
"We begin training," Bjorn said, causing Deacon to look up at his uncle with brief confusion before his words caught up with him, and he gave a confirming nod to his uncle.
Bjorn produced his own blade in the same manner, though his had the subtle dark-grey sheen of steel along with the color of twine around its hilt.
"The Jötunar were killed because of their, our, blood," Bjorn began as they closed the distance between them, seconds before their blades clashed with a resounding clang. "Or more specifically, because the Jötunar have an inability to intermingle blood with other races."
Deacon shifted his weight and moved to press forward, blade angling low to catch Bjorn's guard and drive it upward and into his neck, but Bjorn matched his blade with his own and deflected Deacon's strike.
"So Jötunar can only be with Jötunar?" Deacon asked, the words steady, even as he adjusted his stance and began a short series of quick strikes; three short thrusts of his blade to his uncle's shoulder.
Each one was deflected effortlessly by his uncle.
"No," Bjorn said, tone flat as he parried a downward slash and redirected it to the side with minimal movement. "As a Jötunn, you can get a human, elf, dwarf, naga, centaur, or whatever you fancy that can get pregnant, you can get pregnant, but the child will always be born as a Jötunn."
He met Deacon's next strike with a twist of his wrist and shoved back just enough to throw Deacon off balance for a half-step. "There have been no records of that not happening as of what I've read."
"When a child is born between a Jötunn and a non-Jötunn, normally one would expect the child to be a Demi-child or halfblood," Bjorn continued, "however, that is not the case in reality; Jötunn genes are far too dominant over the genes of the other races."
Deacon's blade paused just enough that Bjorn nearly tagged his shoulder; he recovered quickly and drove into a new tempo of movement, faster, harsher strikes — less academy taught, more instinctive.
"Somewhat like sirens then?" Deacon said, catching the shift in meaning.
"In a way," Bjorn confirmed. His blade flicked up and stopped a hair from Deacon's cheek before Deacon pushed it away with a sharp jerk of his elbow. "Our blood overwrites theirs every time. And every race that ever learned that fact took it as a declaration that we believed ourselves superior, that we were stealing the potential of their bloodline by intermingling with our own despite our low fertility."
Bjorn stepped forward and sent a punch with his off hand — Deacon barely tilted his head aside in time, the knuckles grazing across the side of his jaw and leaving a blossoming warmth of bruising under the skin.
"Why not sirens then?" Deacon exhaled as he pushed back and struck in a tight three-hit pattern meant to corner Bjorn's guard. "Any child born to them is born a siren, and they weren't exterminated. Last I heard, they have a couple of opera houses on every major Floor with beaches."
"That is because sirens lack what we have," Bjorn answered, blocking the final strike and answering with a low kick aimed at Deacon's sternum, and sent him skidding back through the grass just as twin burrows dug after them.
"What do we have that makes us so different other than our low fertility and stat changes?" Deacon asked as he pushed himself upright again.
"One, is longevity," Bjorn said, re-centering his footing. "Our Tier 1 lifespan is longer than that of an angel's," Bjorn said, as he watched Deacon get up, "but shorter than elves… Roughly three hundred and twenty years."
…Three hundred and...
"…didn't you say I was born three hundred and twelve years ago?" he asked softly as he recalled the number his uncle had said when he was born and how afterwards was kept in some sort of stasis until some time later - potentially during that day when his father had stopped coming back to the cabin and a month later he'd been captured by the Enforcers.
"Yes," Bjorn acknowledged, lowering his blade to meet his nephew's eyes directly, as the meadow wind dragged a line of grass against the flat of his sword.
"That means," Deacon breathed, "I have eight years left before I..."
"Eight years until you Tier Up," Bjorn corrected, keeping his voice steady. "And when you Tier Up, which will be soon - I promise you, that number will rise."
Deacon wetted his dried lips and tightened his grip on his blade before shifting his weight forward and launching himself at his uncle.