The snowfall had softened, but the tension in the air grew sharper than the blade at Bjarke's side.
He stepped forward, calm and composed—his noble cloak catching the wind, the sigil of House Frostvein emblazoned across his chest. His silver-blue eyes studied the Iron Warden like one might examine a rabid animal before culling it.
> "That's… Bjarke of Frostvein," Sigrin whispered, awe barely contained. "A noble from the northern strongholds. Trained by the Glacier Monks. A mid-stage Rank 6 mage."
Eirik, bloodied and bruised, couldn't comprehend it fully—but he felt the difference. Bjarke's very presence seemed to freeze the earth beneath him.
The power system of the world had always been known only to a few:
Ranks from 10 to 1, divided into Low, Mid, and High stages. Each jump in rank was a leap in both magical and physical might. And then, beyond all—stood the mythical Rank Zero, a tier untouched by all but legends.
Eirik was Low Rank 10, barely more than a peasant with raw instincts and untrained Light magic.
Sigrin stood at High Rank 10, trained and steady, but still green.
The Iron Warden—brutal, monstrous—was Low Rank 7, a true warrior hardened by slaughter.
And yet, Bjarke?
A Mid Rank 6—a noble blessed with bloodline power and refined mastery.
The Iron Warden let out a guttural snarl. "Another noble brat? You'll fall like the rest."
Bjarke unsheathed his blade, and the temperature dropped.
> "I've fought beasts tougher than you on my father's glacier," he said coolly. "This won't take long."
The battle began.
The Warden charged, his fists coated in rippling iron, swinging with monstrous force. Bjarke dodged smoothly, his movements calculated—ice blooming beneath each step.
He slashed.
Frost burst from his blade, arcing like a serpent. The Warden raised an iron arm—and it shattered beneath the freezing strike.
Eirik's eyes widened. The man who crushed them like insects was now bleeding.
> "How is he doing that?" Eirik asked.
> "It's rank difference," Sigrin said. "At Mid Rank 6, he's… leagues above us. Every strike carries more magic. More control. We can't even touch that level yet."
The Iron Warden roared and pounded the ground, sending shards of iron flying. Bjarke twisted midair, landing beside him—and impaled his shoulder with a frost-coated dagger.
> "You used fear to control children," he whispered coldly. "Let's see how you like it."
The temperature plummeted.
Frost crawled across the Warden's body, creeping through cracks in his armor. He swung wildly—missed. Bjarke stepped back, untouched.
With one final movement, Bjarke raised his sword to the sky—and brought it down.
> CRACK!
A frozen spike erupted from the ground, piercing through the Warden's chest.
Silence fell.
The iron-clad slaver shuddered, cursed, then collapsed—ice spreading over his lifeless form.
Eirik stood frozen—not from cold, but from awe.
> "We… we never stood a chance, did we?" he muttered.
> "No," Sigrin said quietly. "But now you've seen what real strength looks like."
Bjarke turned, flicking the frost from his blade.
> "You two did well, for Rank 10s," he said. "Reckless—but brave. That's why I'll allow you to come with me."
> "Where?" Eirik asked.
> "To the Capital. If you want power—real power—you'll need training. You'll never get it in the wild."
And with that, the frost-wielding noble walked past them, leaving only snow and silence in his wake.
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