Paragon of Skills No Chapter 19

Felisia arrives at the beach just after dawn, boots crunching softly on the sand. The wind is sharp, the tide low, and the sll of scorched salt lingers faintly in the air. She spots Sir Greyson imdiately—standing still atop a dune, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

She approaches quietly, brushing windblown hair from her face.

“What’s happening?” she asks.

Greyson doesn’t answer right away. He just nods toward the lower flats.

Felisia follows his gaze.

Down by the waterline, Jacob—Bocaj—moves like a man possessed. Half his clothes are in tatters, his shirt completely gone, and his cloak discarded in the sand beside him, probably so it wouldn't catch fire. Hell’s Sword is in his hand, but it’s... brighter than before. Much brighter. The gold-red fla is no longer a shimr—it’s a torrent, controlled and focused, laced with glowing runes that weren’t there yesterday.

All around him, the sand is warped and gleaming.

Felisia blinks, then crouches to run her fingers over a patch beside her foot. Glass.

Not slag. Not lt.

True glass—stretched smooth and curved from heat and pressure.

“He’s been at it for almost an hour,” Greyson says at last. His voice is quiet, almost reverent. “Nonstop.”

Felisia watches another strike. Fla whips out in a tight arc, carving a line of heat through the air. The ground flashes briefly, and another thread of sand curls and hardens.

“He’s refining?” she murmurs.

Greyson nods. “I’ve seen him level different Skills at least five tis. He doesn’t have a Class, which ans his Mana is limited, but his utilization of those Skills, at least in terms of efficiency, is beyond impressive. Also, he doesn’t stop after improvent—he just goes right into the next iteration. No hesitation. No rest.”

Felisia swallows. Her own training had been brutal—but this was sothing else. This was obsession.

“He really wants to beco a Knight for so reason,” Sir Greyson says, looking at her. “Maybe you should as well, milady. At least until your father is the one presiding over Clearbay.”

Felisia had considered that, but she had been afraid that she wouldn’t have made the cut. She was a noble from a backwater city compared to the kind of monsters and prodigies that inhabited Ytrial, the Knights’ Academy.

“He’s going to burn himself out.”

“No,” Greyson replies. “He’s not casting blindly. He’s asuring everything. Watching for the flaw before it happens.”

Felisia looks back down at Jacob, the streaks of fire, the webs of glass, the sweat pouring down his back.

“He’s really dedicated,” she mutters.

“He really is,” Sir Greyson nods. “But let’s go, milady. He knows it’s ti for your training.”

By the ti they reach the shore, Jacob finishes a sequence with a final swing. A crisp line of fla whips through the air, carving a shallow trench in the glass-laced sand. He pants once, then lowers Hell’s Sword, sweat plastering his hair to his brow.

Felisia waits until he sheathes the fla.

Then she says, “Want to spar?”

Jacob blinks up at her, still catching his breath. “Now?”

“I’ve recovered my mana,” she says, tone casual. “And you’ve been training for hours. I figured it’s only fair to give you a real fight.”

Jacob doesn’t hesitate. He grins and picks up his discarded robe.

“Sure. Let

just... not wear this. It’s gone. I need new clothes.”

Sir Greyson clears his throat but Jacob doesn’t get the hint.

Felisia, instead, blushes slightly seeing the body that years in the mine sculpted.

Then, they start circling each other, barefoot in the sand, and Greyson steps back to observe.

Felisia doesn’t activate any Skills—at least not visibly. She doesn’t draw her rapier either. She simply moves.

Fast.

Jacob ducks the first sweep and parries with Hell’s Sword, the heat flaring at the contact point. But it’s clear she’s holding back. Her movents are lighter than usual, her mana restraint subtle. She’s trying to et him where he is.

He knows it.

He’s slower, less trained. His movents still feel clumsy compared to her grace—but that doesn’t stop the grin from spreading across his face.

Because she’s fighting with him, not against him.

He dodges another flick of her wrist and a blade of water, then slides under a water-boosted dash. Glass crunches underfoot. His counter-swing misses by inches, but he hears her breath catch—not out of fear, but amusent.

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They’re both enjoying this.

Another exchange.

He presses forward—predictable, a textbook feint—and she rolls her eyes, sweeping his leg with enough force to knock him off balance but not off his feet.

“Sloppy,” she says.

“rciful,” he replies, laughing.

Another clash.

Hell’s Sword catches her palm—not dangerously, but enough for a spark to jump. Her eyes widen.

“Your control’s improving.”

“So’s your pretending,” he shoots back.

She doesn’t answer.

Instead, she accelerates just slightly. Not enough to overwhelm him—but enough to make him sweat again. His footwork tightens. He starts spotting her tells.

They go back and forth for almost a minute in silence.

Finally, they break apart.

Felisia exhales through her nose, amused and flushed. “You’re not terrible.”

Jacob places a hand on his knee, grinning through the burn in his lungs. “High praise.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she mutters.

“I won’t if you don’t,” he replies, and for a mont, their eyes et.

“Oh my, could I try that Hell’s Sword?” A childish voice cos from behind Jacob.

I’m still catching my breath from the spar when I feel it—sothing off in the air. A shift in pressure. Like the world holding its breath.

I straighten and glance around.

A figure walks across the beach, barefoot, like the wind put them there. Small. Shorter than . Pale skin, white hair tied back with a ribbon that doesn't flutter in the breeze. The face looks like that of a child—but there’s sothing about it that makes my stomach knot up.

Too still. Too perfect.

“Hi, there,” I say, frowning. “You lost, kid?”

But the child observes the Hell’s Sword in my hand, tilting his head and smiling at it.

“The major flaws have been fixed,” he says with a child-like wonder.

The figure stops a few paces from

and smiles.

“Huh?” I ask, confused.

What does he know about the Skill? Isn’t this a kid?

“What’s your na?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Bocaj.”

The figure tilts their head. “That’s not your na.”

I blink. Then laugh, scratching the back of my neck. “Wow, alright.”

I glance over at Felisia and Sir Greyson to share the mont.

They’re both pale.

Not just surprised—ashen. Felisia’s eyes are wide, her jaw locked tight. Sir Greyson… I’ve never seen him look afraid before. But his hand is halfway to his blade, and it’s not moving.

The wind dies.

“Sir Renquell,” Greyson says quietly. Too quietly.

The figure gives a soft, knowing smile. “Still using titles?”

My mouth suddenly feels dry. “You’re a… Knight?”

The figure shrugs. “Among other things.”

“But… you’re, what, twelve?”

Felisia inhales sharply behind .

The figure—no, he—steps closer, looking up at

with a gaze that sohow weighs more than Sir Greyson’s full armor.

“Do I look like a human to you?”

I squint.

And then I see it.

The ears—slightly pointed. Not exaggerated. Just enough.

An Elf.

A real Elf.

I’ve read about them. Everyone’s read about them. But seeing one—especially one this young-looking—this calm, this composed—it’s another thing entirely.

“Sir Renquell of the Crownless Thorn,” Greyson says, voice tight. “One of the Five Wandering Knights.”

I blink again.

I may not know what that ans, exactly—but Felisia clearly does. She takes a step back.

Sir Renquell holds my gaze a mont longer before tilting his head, almost amused. “You’re not very reverent, are you?”

I shrug. “I just thought Elves were supposed to be… taller.”

That gets a twitch of the lips. Almost a smile.

“You’re not the first to say that,” he says. “Nor the last. But it’s funny. You speak like soone who doesn’t know what I am.”

“An Elf?” I say, folding my arms. “A Knight? A terrifyingly well-preserved child?”

Felisia lets out a strangled cough behind , but I keep going.

“I don’t know. You just showed up and started acting mysterious. Classic highborn behavior.”

Renquell’s eyes narrow slightly, but not with anger. Curiosity.

“I suppose it must look strange from your vantage,” he says, voice softer now. “To see soone like … here.”

“I really don’t know what you an, my friend, but sure. Whatever,” I say, confused.

He turns away dramatically, looks out over the sea, wind playing with the loose ribbon at the end of his braid.

“This isn’t where I was ant to be,” he says. “I wasn’t born for salt and sand. I was born to rule. To fight. To rise through the Thorned Court and die in a war worth rembering.”

There’s longing in his voice but it just makes

cringe.

“But instead?” He glances over his shoulder. “I was sent here. Relegated. Punished. Exiled by my kin to serve a human child.”

A silence stretches. Even the waves seem to pause.

It’s

who breaks the silence. “Human child?”

That’s when Greyson finally says it. “Adrienne. Felisia’s older sister.”

My mouth opens slightly. “Huh.”

Renquell’s mouth twists. “She has potential. But she’s… petty. She wanted a trophy Knight. Sothing her sisters couldn’t have. The court made it so.”

There’s bitterness there, buried but burning.

I nod slowly, take a step forward, and pat his shoulder. “I an, could’ve been worse.”

His eyes flick to mine.

I grin. “They could’ve killed you, no?”

There’s a beat.

Then Renquell bursts out laughing.

Not politely—not the way Elves are always described in stories. He howls, tipping forward, clutching his stomach, laughing so hard I think I see tears. His boots skid in the glassed-over sand.

Even Felisia takes a step back.

Greyson just exhales and mutters, “Saints above.”

Renquell finally straightens, brushing his braid back, still grinning wide. “You,” he says between the last chuckles, “are either the most foolish boy I’ve ever t—or the only honest one in this cesspool of a peninsula.”

He claps

on the shoulder, harder than expected, making my bones creak.

Oh fuck, what the—

“I think I’ll enjoy watching you,” he cos closer to my ear and whispers in it, “Jacob Cloud.”

I open my mouth but no words co from it.

The next mont I blink, he’s gone.