# Chapter 4: Bloodline Skills and Tsubaki (Part 1)
The silence in Hephaestus's office stretched for what felt like an eternity.
Aelarion lay on the leather couch, his shirt still draped over a nearby chair, the fading warmth of the goddess's ichor slowly cooling on his skin. He had heard the sharp intake of breath behind him, the almost-shout that had been stifled too late. Now, the goddess was moving about the room with a deliberate calm that felt practiced—the composure of someone who had learned to hide their storms behind mundane tasks.
He sat up slowly, pulling his tunic back over his head. "Goddess?"
Hephaestus had her back to him, her hands flat on her desk, her shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. When she turned, her face was composed, but her single eye still held a glint of something he could not name.
"The city is not safe," she said, her voice low and serious. "Not for someone with a status like yours."
Aelarion frowned. He was ten years old—well, his body was—and though he carried memories of another life, the emotions that rose in him now were raw and unfiltered. "What do you mean? Did I do something wrong?"
The vulnerability in his voice made Hephaestus's expression soften. She crossed the room and sat beside him on the couch, her wooden leg thumping softly against the floor. For a moment, she studied his face with an intensity that made him want to look away, but he held her gaze. Gornol had taught him that.
"You have magic, Aelarion. Spirit Summoning. Do you know what that means?"
He shook his head, though something deep inside him—a whisper from the life he had lived before—stirred with recognition.
"Spirit Summoning is an art lost to the ages," Hephaestus continued. "The heroes of old wielded such power. In the modern era, it exists only in stories. If the wrong people learn you possess it..." She let the sentence hang, and even at ten, Aelarion understood. People wanted things they couldn't have. Sometimes they killed for them.
"And your skill," she added, her voice dropping even lower. "Path of the Prodigy. It accelerates your growth beyond normal limits. Combined with your magic..." She shook her head slowly. "You would be a target, Aelarion. A prize to be claimed or a threat to be eliminated."
Aelarion felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. His hands, small and still bearing the calluses Gornol had helped him build, gripped the edge of the couch. "I don't want to be either."
"No," Hephaestus agreed. "You shouldn't have to be. But Orario is not kind to those who stand out. You must be careful."
"So, what do I do?" he asked, his voice steadier now. Gornol had taught him to face problems head-on, not to whine about them.
Hephaestus reached out and gripped his shoulder, her small hand surprisingly strong. "You hide. You train. You grow strong enough that no one can touch you." Her eye was fierce now, burning with a protectiveness that seemed at odds with the cold goddess of the stories. "You are not to enter the Dungeon until I say you are ready. I will arrange a beginner's course for you—combat training, Dungeon theory, everything you need to survive. You will complete it before you set foot in the Dungeon. Do you understand?"
Aelarion nodded slowly. "I understand, Lady Hephaestus. I won't let you down."
She held his gaze for a moment longer, searching for something—determination, perhaps, or the stubbornness to survive. Whatever she found seemed to satisfy her. She nodded and rose.
"Good. I've arranged a room for you not far from mine. You'll rest there tonight. Tomorrow, your training begins."
She handed him a key—a simple iron thing, but the weight of it felt significant. "Your room is down the hall, third door on the left. The canteen is on the ground floor if you're hungry. Hammer usually eats late—he's a dwarf, grey beard, looks like he was carved from the same stone he works. He was Gornol's friend. He'll want to meet you."
Aelarion took the key and rose, bowing to the goddess. "Thank you, Lady Hephaestus."
She waved him off, but her expression was warm. "Go. Rest. You have a long road ahead, little one. Don't try to walk it all in one day."
---
The room was small but comfortable—a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, a window that looked out onto the compound's central courtyard. Aelarion unpacked his meagre belongings: his spare tunic, the small pouch of valis Gornol had left him, the second letter from the old dwarf that he kept folded close to his heart.
By the time he had arranged everything to his satisfaction, the sun had set beyond the walls of Orario. His stomach growled, reminding him that he had not eaten since before entering the city. He made his way down to the canteen, where a handful of familia members sat scattered across the long wooden tables, eating in companionable silence.
The food was simple but good—a hearty stew with fresh bread that warmed him from the inside out. He ate quickly, nodding to the few who glanced his way, but kept mostly to himself. He was new here, and even though he carried memories of being older, his body was ten and his emotions sometimes felt ten as well. It was strange, being small again, having to look up at everyone.
He had just finished his meal when a shadow fell across his table.
"Well, well. Gornol's boy."
Aelarion looked up to find a dwarf standing beside him—older, with a grey-streaked beard and arms thick as tree branches from a lifetime at the forge. His face was weathered, crisscrossed with small scars that spoke of sparks and accidents, but his eyes were kind. There was something familiar about him, a warmth that reminded Aelarion painfully of the dwarf who had raised him.
"You must be Hammer," Aelarion said, setting down his spoon. "Lady Hephaestus said I might meet you."
The dwarf's bushy eyebrows rose. "Did she now? The goddess mentioned me by name?" He let out a rumbling chuckle and slid onto the bench across from Aelarion. "Aye, I'm Hammer. Known that old goat Gornol for forty years, back when we both worked the forges here together."
Aelarion felt something loosen in his chest. "You knew him? Really knew him?"
Hammer's face softened, and for a moment, he looked almost sad. "Knew him? Lad, that stubborn old bastard and I came up together. Joined the familia the same year. Drank together, forged together, nearly got ourselves killed in the Dungeon together more times than I care to count." He chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that seemed to come from somewhere in his boots. "When he left the city, I thought I'd never see him again. Then I heard a boy showed up with his letter."
Aelarion reached into his tunic and pulled out the worn piece of parchment he kept close to his heart. "So, you the one he wrote about you. Said you made the ugliest axes he'd ever seen, but they never broke."
Hammer barked a laugh that drew looks from across the canteen. "That sounds like him! The old fraud. His swords were pretty, but mine could chop through a goblin's skull and still split firewood the next day." His laughter faded, and he looked at Aelarion with something like wonder. "He wrote about me? After all those years?"
"He wrote about a lot of things," Aelarion said quietly. "He wanted me to know about the life he had before me. The friends he left behind."
Hammer was quiet for a long moment; his thick fingers wrapped around his mug. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher. "He was a good man, Gornol. The best of us, maybe. when he left the city, we didn't understand. None of us did. We thought he was throwing away everything he'd built."
He looked up at Aelarion, and there was something fierce in his eyes now. "But I understand now. He was not throwing away anything, but did not want to burden us with guilt for his accident so he left the city.
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the shared memory of Gornol a warmth between them. Aelarion glanced around the near-empty canteen. "Why are there so few people here? Shouldn't dinner be busier?"
Hammer shrugged. "Most of the smiths prefer to eat in their workshops. Once the fire's lit and the metal's hot, they don't like to leave it. You'll learn that soon enough, if the goddess's interest in you is any indication." He eyed Aelarion with new curiosity. "She doesn't take personal interest in just anyone, lad. Whatever she saw in your status, it's something special. You'd do well to remember that—and to keep it close to your chest."
Aelarion nodded slowly. "She said the city isn't safe for people who stand out too much."
"She's right," Hammer said, his expression turning serious. "Orarion is a city of wolves, lad. Some of them wear smiles and offer help. Some of them wear Armor and carry swords. But they're all looking for something to devour. Don't give them a reason to look at you."
After a few more minutes of quiet conversation—Hammer sharing stories of Gornol's younger days that made Aelarion laugh and ache in equal measure—the dwarf rose with a grunt.
"Get some rest, lad. Tomorrow's going to be a long day. Tsubaki will want to see what you're made of, and she doesn't go easy on anyone, regardless of age."
---
Aelarion returned to his room and closed the door, leaning against it for a moment. The day had been long—the journey, the city, the test of his smithing, the falna. His body ached for rest. He barely had time to kick off his boots and fall onto the bed before sleep dragged him under.
---
**The Void**
He opened his eyes to nothing.
But this was not the terrifying emptiness of his first existence between lives. This was a familiar nothing, a space he had been in before. And in the distance, a presence coalesced—vast, ancient, and waiting.
**ROB:** "Congratulations on securing a place in the Hephaestus Familia. Your journey has begun."
Aelarion's soul-self—formless but aware, yet somehow still feeling very much like a ten-year-old boy who missed his grandfather—drifted toward the presence. "You said you would check in from time to time. I assume this is one of those times?"
**ROB:** "Indeed. There are matters you must understand about your existence in this world. Your bloodline."
Aelarion's awareness sharpened. "My bloodline? The half-high-human, half-high-elf background you created?"
**ROB:** "Yes. Such lineages carry inherent gifts—abilities woven into the very essence of the blood. You possess six bloodline skills. They will manifest as you level up. At Level 2, you will gain one High Human skill and two High Elf skills. At Level 3, the remaining three will awaken."
Aelarion's mind raced. "What are they?"
**ROB:** "I will show you. But first, you must understand something important. These skills will not appear in your falna."
Aelarion blinked, or would have if he had eyes in this form. "They won't? But the falna shows everything, doesn't it?"
**ROB:** "The falna shows what the gods grant through their divine blessing. Your bloodline skills are not granted—they are inherited. They are woven into the very fabric of your existence, as much a part of you as your heartbeat or your breath. No god's blessing can reveal them, and no god's power can suppress them. They are yours alone."
The void shimmered, and words formed in the darkness—glowing script that burned itself into Aelarion's consciousness.
**High Human Skills:**
*First, **Fast Growth.** This skill has merged with your granted wish for accelerated leveling. The two are now one—a foundation of growth that will carry you further than either alone could have.*
*Second, **Adaptability.** The ability to adapt to anything—new weapons, unfamiliar magic, elemental forces, poisons. Whatever you face, your body and mind will learn to endure and overcome. A sword in your hand becomes an extension of your will. A bow finds its mark as if guided by instinct. The elements that seek to destroy you will find you harder to break each time they try.*
*Third, **Craftmaster.** A blessing upon all crafts. When you forge a blade, it may gain sharpness beyond its materials. When you craft armor, durability may exceed its design. When you brew a potion, its effects may amplify. Creation itself bends to your will, recognizing in you a kindred spirit.*
**High Elf Skills:**
*First, **Loved by Nature.** The natural world recognizes you as kin. Beasts are calmer in your presence. Plants respond to your touch, growing stronger or yielding their fruits as you ask. The elements themselves may offer you passage where others find only barriers.*
*Second, **Mana Control.** The signature skill of the high elves. Where others wield magic, you command the very flow of mana—shaping it, refining it, bending it to purposes that transcend simple spellcasting. Your spells will cost less, hit harder, and leave you less drained. In time, you may learn to shape mana in ways that have no names.*
*Third, **Nature's Care.** When you heal, you do not merely mend flesh. Life force flows through your hands, drawn from the world around you. Wounds close faster. Illness fades. The living things that surround you lend their strength to your healing, and in return, you will find that your touch brings life wherever it goes.*
Aelarion stared at the glowing script, his soul-self trembling with a mix of awe and hunger. Six skills. Six gifts that would shape him into something far beyond ordinary.
"You're drooling," ROB observed dryly.
"I am not—" Aelarion caught himself. "They're incredible."
**ROB:** "They are the inheritance of bloodlines that should not exist in this era. High Humans are a myth. High Elves are nearly extinct. You carry the blood of both, and the world will not know what to make of you. Guard these gifts carefully, Aelarion. Reveal them only when you are strong enough to protect yourself—and those you care about."
He forced his mind back to calm, though inside he was buzzing with excitement. "I will. I promise."
**ROB:** "Good. I will watch your progress. Do not forget your purpose: the Dungeon, the destruction that looms. Grow strong, Aelarion. Stronger than any who came before."
The void began to fade, light seeping in at the edges.
**ROB:** "And try to enjoy yourself. You have a life to live as well. Gornol would want that."
Aelarion's soul-self stilled. "You knew him?"
**ROB:** "I watched. He was a good man. The best kind—the kind who gives without expecting return, who loves without condition. Honor his memory by living well."
---
**Aelarion**
He woke with the morning sun streaming through his window; his body refreshed in a way that felt almost supernatural. The memory of the void lingered at the edges of his mind—the skills, the warnings, the promise of power yet to come. But more than that, ROB's last words echoed in his heart.
*Honor his memory by living well.*
He pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Today was the first day of the rest of his life. Gornol had given him this chance. He wouldn't waste it.
The canteen was busier at this hour, filled with adventurers grabbing quick meals before heading to their forges or training grounds. Aelarion collected a tray of bread, cheese, and fruit and found a seat near the window. He ate quickly, his mind already turning toward the day ahead.
He had just finished when a voice rang out across the canteen.
"There you are, pretty boy!"
Aelarion looked up to find a woman striding toward him with the confidence of someone who owned every room she entered. She was tall—easily a head taller than any other woman in the room—with a powerful, muscular build that spoke of years at the forge and in battle. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and a black eyepatch covered her left eye. Her right eye, sharp and intelligent, fixed on Aelarion with open curiosity.
But it was the sword at her hip that drew his attention first—a katana of exquisite make, its blade polished to a mirror shine, its hilt wrapped in black cord. Even sheathed, it radiated a presence that made his skin prickle.
"You must be Tsubaki Collbrande," Aelarion said, rising from his seat. "Lady Hephaestus said you would find me."
Tsubaki stopped in front of him, her eye tracing the lines of his face, his build, the way he held himself. "Half-elf?" she asked.
"Half-human, half-high-elf," Aelarion corrected, meeting her gaze steadily.
Her eyebrow rose. "High elf? That's rare. Almost extinct, these days." She circled him once, and Aelarion turned with her, refusing to show his back. Something in her expression shifted—approval, perhaps. "Gornol trained you well. You've got good instincts."
"Gornol taught me to never show my back to anyone I haven't known for at least a year," Aelarion said, and was rewarded with a genuine laugh.
"I like him," Tsubaki declared, loud enough for half the canteen to hear. "Come on, pretty boy. Let's see what you can do."
---
The training ground Tsubaki led him to was a wide courtyard behind the main compound, ringed with weapon racks and practice dummies that had seen better days. A handful of adventurers were already there, sparring in pairs or running drills under the watchful eyes of senior members.
Tsubaki stopped at the edge of the yard and turned to face him, her expression shifting from amused to serious in the space of a breath.
"Here's how this works," she said. "Every morning, you'll spar. I'll find you partners—people who can push you without breaking you. You'll learn to move, to fight, to survive. Every afternoon, you'll study. Dungeon theory, monster lore, the rules of the Guild. You don't set foot in the Dungeon until I say you're ready, and the goddess has made it very clear that won't be for at least a week."
Aelarion nodded. He had expected as much after Hephaestus's warnings.
"But for now," Tsubaki continued, "I need to see what I'm working with. Marcus!"
A young man jogged over from one of the sparring rings—human, lean and quick, with the easy confidence of someone who knew his way around a blade. "Yeah, Captain?"
"This is Aelarion. Gornol's boy. I want you to spar with him. Start slow, let him show you what he's got."
Marcus turned to Aelarion with a friendly grin. "Gornol's apprentice, huh? I heard stories about that old dwarf. He must have been something special to raise a kid who walks into Orario without flinching."
Aelarion felt a warmth in his chest at the words. "He was. He taught me everything I know."
"Well then," Marcus said, grabbing two wooden training swords from the rack and tossing one to Aelarion, "let's see what he taught you."
The weight of the wooden blade was different from the steel sword Gornol had forged for him, but the grip felt natural in his hands. He fell into a basic stance, feet shoulder-width apart, blade held at an angle that could block or strike.
Marcus's eyebrow rose. "Clean stance. Let's see if the follow-through matches."
He came in with a simple overhead strike, testing. Aelarion blocked without thinking, the impact jarring his arms but not breaking his guard. He had done this a thousand times with Gornol, back in the village. The memory of the old dwarf's voice echoed in his ears: *"Block with your bones, lad, not your muscles. Let the strength flow through you, not against you."*
"Good block," Marcus said. "Now show me what else you've got."
They circled each other, and Aelarion let his instincts take over. He attacked with a series of strikes—high, low, high again—the rhythm Gornol had drilled into him. Marcus parried each one, but Aelarion saw him adjust his stance slightly, taking him more seriously now.
They traded blows for several minutes, the clack of wood on wood filling the training yard. Aelarion's arms burned, but he didn't slow. He was smaller than Marcus, weaker in pure strength, but Gornol had taught him to use that. He moved more, dodged more, made Marcus work for every exchange.
"Not bad," Marcus said, breathing a little harder now. "You've got good footwork. But let's see how you do with something that isn't a sword."
He called over a younger adventurer—a girl about Aelarion's age, maybe a year older, with sharp eyes and a bow slung across her back. "Mira, can you set up some targets? I want to see his archery."
Aelarion felt a smile tug at his lips. Gornol had taught him the bow as well, insisting that a smith should understand all weapons, not just the ones he made.
The targets were set up at varying distances, and Mira handed him her bow—a short recurve, well-maintained, the string in good condition. Aelarion tested the draw, finding the weight comfortable, and selected an arrow from the quiver she offered.
His first shot struck the target dead center at twenty paces.
His second shot, at thirty paces, was a finger's width off-center.
His third shot, at forty paces, hit the center again.
Mira let out a low whistle. "You've done this before."
"Gornol believed in being well-rounded," Aelarion said, lowering the bow.
Tsubaki, who had been watching from the sidelines with her arms crossed, nodded slowly. "Solid. Very solid for someone your age. Your form needs refinement, but the foundation is there. We can work with that."
The morning continued with more sparring—different partners, different weapons, different styles. A swift-footed elf named Sera taught him to dodge, to use an opponent's momentum against them. A massive dwarf called Brokk demonstrated the art of the shield, letting Aelarion pound against his guard until his arms gave out. Through it all, Aelarion pushed himself, remembering Gornol's voice: *"A sword is only as good as the arm that swings it."*
---
By midday, Aelarion was exhausted, his tunic soaked with sweat, his muscles trembling. But Tsubaki didn't give him time to rest.
"Forge," she said simply, and led him to a workshop at the far end of the compound.
It was a smith's paradise—three forges lined the far wall, each with its own anvil and quenching barrel. Racks of finished weapons gleamed in the afternoon light, and half-finished projects sat on workbenches, waiting for their creators to return.
Tsubaki gestured to one of the forges. "Let's see what Gornol taught you. Forge something. Anything."
Aelarion moved to the forge, his hands already reaching for the bellows. The familiar motions calmed him—the rhythm of the fire, the weight of the hammer, the smell of hot metal. He selected a piece of iron, heated it until it glowed cherry red, and began to work.
It was a simple blade—a short sword, the kind Gornol had made him practice a hundred times. He drew out the shape, formed the tang, beveled the edges. His hands moved with a confidence that surprised him, the muscle memory of years of training guiding each strike.
When he was finished, he quenched the blade in oil, watching the steam rise, then set it aside to cool. It wasn't perfect—the edge was slightly uneven, the balance a fraction off—but it was solid. Functional.
Tsubaki picked up the blade, examining it with a critical eye. She ran her thumb along the edge, tested the balance, held it up to the light.
"Basic," she said finally. "Very basic. You have a solid grasp of fundamentals—better than most apprentices your age. But you don't know any advanced techniques, do you?"
Aelarion shook his head, feeling a flush of embarrassment. "Gornol said fundamentals were the foundation. He said if I couldn't forge a perfect basic blade, advanced techniques would just hide my mistakes."
Tsubaki was quiet for a moment, then she smiled—a genuine smile, warm and approving. "He was right. I've seen too many smiths who can fold steel ten times but can't make a blade that holds an edge. Your fundamentals are strong. That means when I teach you the advanced techniques, you'll actually understand what you're doing."
She set the blade down and gestured for him to follow her to a different workbench, where a collection of finished weapons lay. "Watch," she said, and picked up a hammer.
For the next two hours, Tsubaki taught. She showed him how to fold steel, how to layer different metals to create blades that could flex without breaking. She demonstrated the proper way to heat-treat a blade for maximum hardness, the subtle differences in quenching oils that could make or break a sword's temper. She explained the art of differential hardening, of creating blades with hard edges and soft spines that could take punishment without shattering.
Aelarion soaked it in like a sponge, his eyes wide, his hands itching to try the techniques himself. But Tsubaki shook her head when he reached for a piece of steel.
"Not yet," she said. "You need to understand before you do. Come back tomorrow, and we'll start with the basics of folding. For now, rest. You've earned it."
---
As evening fell, Aelarion sat in the canteen, eating a quiet meal. His body ached in a dozen places, his hands were raw, and his mind was full of everything Tsubaki had taught him. But underneath the exhaustion was something else—a deep, quiet satisfaction.
He was learning. He was growing. And in time, he would become strong enough to enter the Dungeon, to face whatever dangers awaited, to honor Gornol's memory by living the life the old dwarf had given him.
But not yet. Hephaestus had said at least a week before he could enter the Dungeon. Tsubaki had confirmed it. He had time—time to train, to study, to prepare.
He finished his meal and made his way back to his room, collapsing onto the bed without even removing his boots. His last thought before sleep took him was of Gornol, sitting by the forge in their little village, watching him work with proud, tired eyes.
*I won't let you down,* he promised silently. *I'll become someone you'd be proud of.*
And then sleep claimed him, deep and dreamless, ready for whatever the next day would bring.
---
**End of Chapter 4,**