"A shallow edge is meant for cutting. The idea is to target weak points or use it against unarmored opponents."


    Silence settled over the room as Azrael carefully sharpened a sword with deep nicks. Bartho watched him attentively, correcting him immediately at every small slip-up. Over time, Azrael’s movements became smoother and more confident.


    "I have a question," Azrael began hesitantly. "Can you please explain the difference between Gifts and Blessings? The explanations in the book seemed a bit convoluted to me at times."


    Bartho paused for a moment before answering. "Hmm, the differences? The most important one is that Gifts are nearly the same for everyone, while Blessings are unique. Think of it this way: the Gift comes directly from the element itself. The Blessing, however, comes from a powerful creature that has already forged its own path."


    "So, the command in Gifts is chosen randomly and is tied to the principle of the element?"


    "Exactly. According to the Olympus theory, the commands of the Gifts stem from the short-term emotions or thoughts of the gods of the respective element. But that hasn''t been proven. There are some points that suggest it, but that goes too deep into the subject. The command of the Blessing, on the other hand, is tied to the will of the creature from which the Blessing originates. So, it’s a much more personal connection."


    "Ah, I see. That means, when you take on a Blessing, you essentially inherit the legacy of a powerful creature and continue their path."


    "Exactly! That’s why they say heroes embody their deity. They carry out its command, after all." Bartho paused briefly before continuing. "And there''s something else you should know about Gifts..."


    Bartho gently corrected Azrael’s hand as his sharpening angle had become messy due to their conversation. Despite the slight deviation, Bartho noticed the inconsistency immediately and intervened.


    "Focus," he said calmly. "Gifts are always the same. At least, that’s what most of the old books say. But that’s not entirely true. A Gift is always the same at the start. More precisely, it means everyone with the Light element starts with the same abilities. From there, they take a different path. Think of it this way: at the beginning, the Gift is general. Then, it changes according to your personality or your fighting style."


    He adjusted Azrael’s hand again.


    "This divergence is still relatively general. Two people who both use a sword and are aggressive will have the same ability. A defensive person, on the other hand, will develop defensive abilities."


    Azrael nodded and continued his work, focusing intently. "Thanks. I think I understand the key points now."


    "One more thing," Bartho added as he checked Azrael’s progress. "It’s often not explicitly mentioned, but when you gain Enlightenments, you shouldn’t always make the same choice. It''s fine to focus on one area, but too much of one thing leads to an imbalance in your body."


    "By the way, when you improve your body, the amount of natural energy you can absorb increases as well. Remember, that''s the energy for your abilities."


    He spent the rest of the day working on strength training and weapon maintenance. Late in the evening, he began reading a book on various fighting techniques. However, most of it came naturally to him by instinct. Just a few minutes earlier, Bartho had assigned him a room. It was simple but cozy: a window, a well-kept bed, and a small nightstand.


    The window was directly opposite the library, and as he glanced outside, he saw the first snowflakes of the autumn gently falling from the sky.


    Exhausted, he finally fell into bed and drifted into a peaceful sleep. For once, he dreamed nothing.


    "Here we go!" Energetically, he jumped out of bed early the next morning. He felt great. No nightmares, no bad mood – everything was perfect. Full of energy, he threw open the window to enjoy the fresh morning air. But what he saw made his blood run cold.


    There they were. Motionless. No sign of life. All the people who had once wanted to see him hanged lay in the snow, their limbs turning blue. Their bodies were rigid, their skin marked by the cold, and their limbs frozen at grotesque, unnatural angles.


    Azrael''s gaze fell upon their faces. Their eyes, glassy and wide open, stared into nothingness, as if they had screamed in panic in their final moments. Lips that had once cursed him with hate were now deep blue, the skin around their mouths cracked and brittle.


    Some of them had their hands clenched into fists, their fingers discolored in a grim shade of purple, while others had their arms unnaturally stretched out, as if they had tried to reach for something just out of their grasp.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    The bluish tint of their skin stretched from their toes up to their shoulders, a clear mark of the freezing cold that had permeated their bodies. Some of their coats were slightly open, as if in delirium, they had tried to remove their clothing. The first autumn snowflakes sparkled on their clothes and in their hair, gently falling onto the lifeless bodies, further enhancing the image of silence and finality.


    Dumbfounded, Azrael rubbed his eyes, unsure whether this was reality or a dream. "Dead... they’re dead," he whispered, trying to make sense of what he had just seen. The stiffness of their corpses spoke volumes—the rigor mortis had already set in. No warmth, no breath. They had frozen to death in the solitude of the night.


    "I don''t really care. Let them die," he muttered, but his thoughts continued to race. "The question is… where is the survival instinct? You can’t just freeze to death or starve when there’s a warm house with water nearby. Even if you wanted to, your body wouldn''t let you. It''s impossible."


    And yet, there they lay—silent proof of the impossible. "I need to tell Bartho."


    With quick steps, Azrael marched toward the forge, his heart pounding faster than usual. Bartho often worked early in the mornings, Azrael had heard him mention once. As soon as he spotted him in the forge, he called out, "The people outside our window are all dead!"


    Bartho furrowed his brow and looked at Azrael, confused. "Which people?"


    "Those who wanted to see me hanged," Azrael replied, a mix of desperation and disbelief in his voice.


    A soft laugh escaped Bartho. "I think you''re still not fully awake, boy. No one in this town wants you dead. Why would they?" His voice was soothing, but Azrael could hardly believe what he was hearing.


    His expression hardened. Thoughts whirled around in his mind, and suddenly, everything seemed to blur together. "An anomaly... he''s affected too... No, no, not him too..." A cold shiver ran down his spine. "Please, not again... not again." His lips began to tremble, and without warning, a single tear crept down his cheek.


    "Can we visit the gallows later?" he asked softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, as he desperately tried to maintain his composure.


    Bartho looked at him, silent for a while, then nodded. "Why not? We’ll go in the afternoon."


    Each strike against the training post rang in his head like thunder, but it did nothing to quell the unease. "I need to become stronger." The thought burned in him, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Sweat dripped from his face, mingling with the fury that simmered inside him.


    "What if I can''t save him?" Fear constricted his throat, his breath became shallow. Images of that time flashed before his inner eye—the screams of his parents in his dreams. Their blood on the grass. He felt the old, familiar sense of helplessness settle deep within him, like poison eating through his veins.


    "I couldn''t save them... but this time, it will be different. I won''t allow his death. No matter what. Even if I have to stop the Grim Reaper himself. He will lose. For sure."


    He struck harder, as if to shatter those memories. But they remained. The lifeless eyes of his parents, the blood that his hands couldn''t stop back then. "Not again. I can''t bear it again."


    "What if I have to kill him?" The question pierced his chest like a knife. "Could I do it?" The thought of losing Bartho, just like his parents, made his hands tremble. His muscles tightened, as if he could already feel the weight of the decision. "I won''t fail again. Not this time."


    When the afternoon came, they set out. The snow crunched beneath their feet as they walked along the snow-covered road leading to the town center. The air was clear and cold, and the first snowflakes of autumn gently settled on the ground.


    Suddenly, Azrael heard a voice from the right calling to him. "Young man, would you like a piece of sausage?" He turned cautiously toward the voice. An old woman stood there, her face lined with deep wrinkles, like scars from a hard life. Her short, colorless hair hung messily around her head, but she smiled warmly at him.


    "Sorry, dear lady, but I just ate," Azrael said politely, declining the offer.


    "She had turned me away coldly when I was looking for work. I’m definitely not eating anything from you," he thought bitterly, without letting the smile fall from his face.


    They continued walking, when another voice sounded. "Young man, would you like to try my new bread?" This time it was an old man, who looked at him kindly and offered him a crispy piece of bread. Again, Azrael politely apologized and declined.


    It was strange. The entire path was lined with strangers who spoke to him. Over and over, they offered him food, drinks, or small goods for free. Their behavior was unnaturally friendly—too friendly. Azrael felt the growing disdain in his chest. "Why now? Why all these faces that never even acknowledged me before?"


    Bartho walked silently beside him, ignoring the odd behavior of the people around them, as if he either didn''t notice or consciously blocked it out.


    ?What’s going on now?“ Azrael wondered as he walked along the path. Just a few days ago, everyone had despised him, even wanting him dead, yet now their behavior had inexplicably shifted. Kind words, benevolent gestures – it didn’t fit. It made no sense.


    ?I can’t take this anymore. Over and over, strange situations. Everything that happens seems illogical. Nothing fits together.“ The thought gnawed at him as he quickened his pace. The path to the gallows, which had felt like an eternity, now lay finally ahead of him.


    As the gallows came into view, he increased his speed further. His chest rose and fell in rapid rhythm. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now. ?Let’s see if we can find something out.“ His eyes fixed on the old stone plaque in front of the gallows.


    As Bartho had said, the names of the condemned were engraved there – people who had lost their lives in that place. Directly beneath were the reasons for their sentences. Azrael’s gaze searched the inscriptions until, at the very end, he came across the date: ?August 24, 1014 Sun Cycle.“


    ?Bingo,“ he muttered.


    Azrael stared at the stone plaque as his thoughts slowly began to arrange themselves. ?I was born on August 8, 1003... The day they died was in my eleventh year, roughly a month later, so on September 8... The date on this plaque doesn’t match.“ He narrowed his eyes. ?They had already left before my parents died.“


    A boiling rage began to stir within him. He could feel the anger building up inside. ?It takes about two weeks to get from here to Care Brunn... That means, they arrived roughly around the time my parents died.“


    SILENCE.