The walk back to the Moonveil Guild should have been a victory lap.
Tristan's mind was humming with a newfound clarity, the fog of his 1st-IQ existence burned away by the influx of points.
He could see the structural flaws in the buildings they passed; he could calculate the trajectory of the falling leaves; he could even sense the subtle shifts in Garrick's gait that suggested the veteran was hiding a slight ache in his left knee.
But the victory was short-lived.
As they turned onto the grand boulevard leading toward the guild's spires, the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of iron-shod boots echoed against the stone.
A squadron of twelve Royal Guards, clad in enchanted silver plate that shimmered with a protective blue sheen, fanned out in a perfect military pincer movement, cutting off their path.
Tristan's heart hammered against his ribs.
His new IQ didn't erase his anxiety; it just gave him more variables to worry about.
He reached out with his right hand, his fingers twitching in the familiar gesture to summon the Eschaton.
If I can just manifest the blade, maybe I can—
A heavy, calloused hand clamped down on his wrist like a vise.
"Don't," Garrick hissed, his voice low and dangerous.
"Summoning a weapon against the King's personal guard isn't a fight, Tristan. It's a suicide note. These men are 4th and 5th Circle warriors. They'll have your head off before the light even finishes coalescing in your palm."
Tristan looked at the guards.
Their faces were hidden behind visors, but their posture was absolute. They weren't here to talk.
"Tristan Silverbrook," the lead guard announced, his voice muffled by his helm but carrying the weight of the crown.
"By order of His Majesty, King Valen Emberfall, you are summoned to the Royal Court. Immediately."
Garrick slowly released Tristan's wrist, stepping back with his hands held visible.
"He'll go quietly. He's a guest of the Moonveil, not a prisoner."
"He is whatever the King says he is," the guard replied coldly. "Move."
The Throne Room was even more intimidating than Tristan had imagined.
The sheer scale of the architecture was designed to make a man feel like an ant beneath a giant's boot.
The ceiling was lost in shadows, and the air was thick with the suffocating pressure of King Valen's presence.
Tristan stood in the center of the marble floor, his boots sounding lonely against the stone.
Garrick stood a respectful distance behind him, his head bowed.
On the raised dais, King Valen sat like a mountain on a throne of gold and obsidian. Beside him stood Princess Rosalind.
Tristan's eyes darted to her, and his vision was instantly overlaid by the blue glow of the System.
[ TARGET 01: ROSALIND EMBERFALL ]
[ SOCIAL STANDING: ROYALTY (SSS) ]
[ POTENTIAL STAT POINTS: 1,200 ]
The number burned in his mind. Twelve hundred points. It was enough to catapult him into the upper echelons of power.
It was the difference between being a victim and being a god.
But looking at the cold, clinical way she watched him from behind her spectacles, he felt the familiar, crippling weight of his "gooner" past.
To her, he was a specimen. To him, she was an impossible summit.
"So," the King's voice boomed, a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate in Tristan's very teeth.
"The Silverbrook returns. Or so the rumors say."
Valen leaned forward, his icy blue eyes boring into Tristan's soul.
"Tell me, boy. Tell me your history. Tell me the world you came from. Tell me why you have appeared now, when the shadows are lengthening at my borders."
Tristan swallowed hard, his throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper.
"I... I don't know, Your Majesty. I woke up in an alleyway. I have no memory of anything before that moment. I remember my name, and... nothing else."
"A convenient ailment," Valen sneered, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the arm of his throne. "And your power? My mages tell me your mana signature is so weak it wouldn't power a kitchen charm. A Silverbrook is supposed to be a font of arcane energy. You are a puddle."
"I don't know why that is, either," Tristan said, trying to maintain the steady gaze his new IQ suggested would be most effective. "I am... learning. Relearning."
The King went silent.
The air in the room seemed to grow heavier, the mana of a 9th Circle mage pressing down on everyone present.
Tristan felt a bead of sweat roll down his spine.
He could see the logic play out in his mind: the King was a pragmatist.
A tool that didn't work was useless. A symbol that couldn't fight was a liability.
"Listen to me carefully, 'Tristan,'" Valen said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper.
"The Silverbrook line is the only reason this kingdom survived the last Breach. If you are the true heir to that power, you are the most valuable asset in Valdoria. But if you are a fake... if you are a charlatan wearing the hair of a legend to hide your own insignificance..."
The King stood up, and the shadows in the room seemed to lengthen behind him.
"If you do not prove to be useful to this kingdom—and soon—you will be discarded. And by discarded, I mean executed. I will not have a false hope wandering my streets while my people prepare for war. You have a week to manifest a 3rd Circle signature. If you fail... I will peel the silver from your head myself."
Tristan's breath hitched.
A week? He needed hundreds of points to reach the 3rd Circle.
"Dismissed," the King growled.
An hour later, Tristan was sitting in a corner booth of a quiet tavern near the docks.
The "Salty Keg" was a low-rent establishment, filled with the smell of old wood and spilled ale. It was exactly where he needed to be.
Garrick sat across from him, watching him with a mixture of pity and concern. "You're taking this remarkably well, kid. Most men would be halfway to the border after a threat like that."
"I don't have anywhere to go, Garrick," Tristan said, his voice hollow.
He looked at the mug of dark, frothy ale in front of him.
In his previous life, he'd never touched the stuff—alcohol was for people who had lives to celebrate or forget.
To Masaru, it had been a terrifying unknown.
He picked up the mug, the condensation cold against his hand.
He took a sip. It was bitter, sharp, and hit the back of his throat with a pleasant burn.
"My first drink," he whispered. "I guess if I'm going to be executed in a week, I might as well know what the fuss is about."
"That's the spirit," Garrick grunted, raising his own mug.
"We'll find a way. The Moonveil doesn't just hand over its guests because a King gets a bit—"
BOOM.
The front door of the tavern didn't just open; it disintegrated.
A wave of splinters and iron hinges tore through the air.
The force of the blast hit Tristan square in the chest, lifting his 6'1" frame off the bench and hurling him several meters across the room.
He slammed into a heavy wooden pillar, the breath leaving his lungs in a pained wheeze.
The tavern went silent, the patrons diving under tables.
Through the dust and the settling smoke, a figure stepped into the wreckage.
Finnegan Dewlight was no longer the arrogant, polished mage Tristan had seen on the training field.
His golden hair was a wild mess, his eyes were bloodshot and wide with a manic, flickering light, and his robes were scorched at the cuffs.
He held a crystal focus-staff in his hand, the tip glowing with a violent, unstable white light.
"Where is he?" Finnegan roared, his voice cracking with rage. "Where is the parasite?"
Tristan groaned, trying to push himself up from the floor. His ribs screamed in protest—his Durability was only 10, and that blast had been a 4th Circle impact.
Finnegan's eyes locked onto Tristan's silver hair. A twisted, hateful grin spread across his face. "There you are. The 'Savior.' The one Selene thinks is so... impressive."
Finnegan stepped over a broken chair, his staff humming. "I'm going to end this joke, Tristan. I'm going to show everyone that behind that pretty hair, you're nothing but empty space. You're a fake! A fraud!"
Garrick scrambled to his feet, his hand going to the heavy broadsword at his hip. "Finnegan! Stand down! You've lost your damn mind! This is a member of the guild!"
"He's an infection!" Finnegan screamed, turning his staff toward Tristan. "And I'm the cure!"
A bolt of pure, concentrated light erupted from the staff.
Tristan's IQ of 100 kicked in.
Time didn't slow down, but his brain processed the variables at lightning speed.
He saw the ionization of the air; he calculated the vector of the beam based on the tilt of Finnegan's wrist.
He didn't just move; he launched himself to the left a split second before the beam hit the pillar he had been leaning against.
The wood exploded into kindling.
"Run, Tristan!" Garrick yelled, drawing his sword and lunging at the elf. "Get out of here! Call the Watch! Call Sylvara!"
Garrick swung his heavy blade, the steel whistling through the air, but Finnegan was a 4th Circle mage.
With a flick of his wrist, the elf conjured a shimmering kinetic shield that deflected the sword with a shower of sparks.
"Move, old man!" Finnegan hissed. "This isn't your fight!"
"He's under my protection!" Garrick roared, bringing his sword down in a two-handed overhead strike.
Finnegan's eyes narrowed. He stopped holding back. He slammed the butt of his staff into the floorboards, and a shockwave of golden energy erupted from the point of contact.
Garrick, caught in the middle of his swing, was blasted backward.
He hit a table, the wood shattering beneath him, and skidded across the floor until he hit the far wall.
He slumped down, his sword clattering away, unconscious.
Tristan stood alone at the back of the tavern, his back against the brick wall of the hearth.
He was a 1st Circle mage facing an unhinged 4th Circle killer.
Finnegan turned toward him, the light from his staff illuminating a face filled with pure, murderous intent.
He began to walk toward Tristan, his boots crunching on the glass and splinters of the ruined tavern.
"No more hiding, Silverbrook," Finnegan whispered, the light at the tip of his staff beginning to swirl into a lethal, concentrated point. "Let's see how much your 'stamina' is worth when I burn the heart out of your chest."
Tristan looked at the exit, then at the unconscious Garrick, then at the glowing death approaching him.
His mind raced, searching for a solution, a strategy, a way out. But for the first time, his 100 IQ told him the truth he didn't want to hear.
There is no way out. Not without power.
Finnegan raised his staff, the air beginning to scream with the pressure of the impending spell.
"Die, you fake piece of shit!"