Chapter 11

To wield the water’s flow—Flowweaving, as it was called—was to grasp at the unseen and shape the formless. Whether the term was wholly accurate mattered little; it felt like molding the very essence of water sensed nearby, as though by invisible hands guided by will alone.

The simplest act was to cause water to gather and clump, a task requiring little finesse. Yet as the shapes grew more intricate, so too did the effort demanded. In such a state, the water could be propelled, held fast, or drawn with subtle force.

Zerion, ever the prodigy, had favored one particular method above all—fashioning water into weapons of war, and swinging them as though they were forged steel.
Truth be told, thought Curtis , I’ve never seen him use it any other way.
Then again, the young lord had seldom faced real combat.
Perhaps, in the solitude of training, he’d experimented with variations—
—but no mere servant dared spy upon his master’s private cultivation.

All Curtis  had seen in the crucible of real battle was the hurling of liquid blades—Zerion’s sole expression of Flowweaving.
And even that simple manifestation proved taxing for Curtis , still a fledgling on this treacherous path.
By fortune—or fate—his power grew swiftly, sparing him a pitiful death that might have come mere hours ago, had he remained a helpless novice.

“Luck was on my side…”

To muster focus while one’s lungs screamed for breath, while darkness danced at the edges of vision—that was no feat for the weak-willed.
Truthfully, Curtis  had meant to strike the intruder’s head… but his aim had faltered, and his blow had crashed against the nape instead.
It proved more effective than intended—a fortunate miscalculation.
Had he missed entirely… or had the invader crushed Curtis ’s neck the moment he laid hands upon it, the tale would have ended there.
Zerion would never have allowed such closeness in the first place.

The young lord wouldn’t have needed a waterskin to act—he would’ve drawn moisture from the very air and struck preemptively.
For Curtis , such a feat was but a distant dream. The water in the air remained invisible to his senses, perhaps due to his still-modest level.

“I’ve a long road ahead of me… Then again, I’ve only been dabbling in the arcane for a few days. It’s almost laughable to be impatient.”

The path was long—but Curtis  had already begun sprinting down it with unnatural speed.
He need not rush further. As long as he walked steadily, as he did now, he would be fine. No need to grasp beyond his reach.

With a steadying breath, Curtis  turned his gaze upon the fallen intruder.
Surely the man wasn’t faking death… lying utterly still all this time?
He listened carefully. Yes, there was breath—but faint, so faint it might vanish any moment.

“So what now…?”
Should he leave him to die?
Or finish it with one last strike?
Curtis  had watched Zerion cut down bandits without hesitation—
—and after seeing more corpses than he cared to count in recent days, the sight no longer turned his stomach.

But doing the deed himself—that was different.
The man had tried to kill him, so death was just.
Yet Curtis  was not so hardened that he could calmly deliver a killing blow to a defenseless foe.

Thankfully, fate chose for him.
The man’s breath, already waning, faded into silence.

And then—

“Urgh…?!”

A sudden dizziness swept over Curtis  like a crashing tide.
It was not unfamiliar—akin to the sensation of leveling up—yet this was stronger. Deeper. As though many levels had surged at once.

The haze passed quickly. Blinking, Curtis  opened his status screen.

[Flowweaving Lv. 18]
[Progress to Next Level: 18%]

Eighteen. His heart skipped a beat.
“Wait… that’s not just a feeling? I really jumped five levels?”

No way it had happened while he slept.
The surge in sensation had come precisely when the intruder breathed his last.

“No… don’t tell me… is this experience? Like in a game?”

He remembered, when first discovering the status screen, how it had reminded him of a game interface. Now that thought rose again, unbidden.

It wasn’t so wild a theory. Even solitary training had increased his level—
Surely real battle, life-and-death combat, would offer greater rewards.
A leap of five levels did seem extreme… but then again, the intruder had far outclassed him. Perhaps the vast gulf in strength explained the bounty of experience.

“I’ll test it later. Not now.”

Curtis  forced his curiosity back into its cage.
This was no game. He couldn’t go around killing people just to see if it netted him experience.
Besides, he didn’t need it—not yet. His growth through training alone was already astonishing.

For now, he had more pressing matters.

“First things first…”

Curtis  paused only a breath longer before leaving the corpse behind and opening the door with silent care.
The corridor lay hushed.
Their skirmish had not been loud enough to rouse the other guests—it seemed fortune still lingered at his side.

Descending to the first floor with the tread of a shadow, he discovered the innkeeper sprawled unconscious upon the floor.
No blood. No wounds. Breathing, steady.
Likely stunned, nothing more. The intruder must have taken the keys and silenced the man without malice or murder.

Curtis  took up a portable oil-lantern resting nearby and returned to the room above.
Beneath the soft glow of the flame, he knelt and unmasked the assassin.
The face that emerged from behind the cloth stirred no recognition at first—yet the longer he stared, the more memory stirred like dust in forgotten corners.

He searched the man’s belongings:
A pouch containing mostly copper and a few silver coins.
A ring of keys—probably stolen from the inn.
And a small bronze medallion, no bigger than his palm.