After Linley finished speaking, a taut silence fell over the training ground. Only faint voices from the distant residence and the rustle of wind through the treetops could be heard.
Wharton looked at the plans his brother had spread across the stone table. The red circles stood out like blood. He knew how long Linley had waited for this day-ever since learning of their father's death, revenge had been the fuel keeping his brother alive. But he also knew that if they followed this plan, what awaited them was not successful revenge, but a dungeon in the Ecclesiastical Tribunal.
"Brother," Wharton began, keeping his voice as steady as he could, "the plan is thorough."
Linley looked at him, a trace of surprise in his eyes-he had thought his younger brother would support him outright.
"But," Wharton continued, "there are a few problems."
He walked over to the stone table and pointed beside a red circle on the plan. "You said you'd pretend to be injured and send someone to the palace to ask for medicine. Brother, what's your status right now? You're a genius mage from the Ernst Institute, a master sculptor who just completed 'Dream Awakening.' All of Fenlai City is watching you. If you suddenly get 'injured,' and it just happens to be the day before a scheduled visit to the palace, what will Clayde think?"
Linley frowned. "I can make it look like a training accident."
"What kind of accident could leave a Level Seven Mage who's also a Seventh-level Warrior so badly hurt that he needs to ask the palace for medicine?" Wharton shook his head. "Brother, you're too impatient. The excuse is too far-fetched. If Clayde is even a little suspicious, he'll send a court mage to investigate, not a royal physician—and they have plenty of ways to tell whether an injury is real."
Linley fell silent for a few seconds. "I can really injure myself."
"No." Wharton's answer was firm. "Hurting yourself for a plan is the worst possible approach. Besides, even if you really are injured, will Clayde definitely come? Brother, he's a king, not a philanthropist. What special value do you have to him that would make him visit you personally?"
"I'm the kingdom's youngest genius-"
"That's just a title." Wharton cut him off. "In Clayde's eyes, you're a promising young man at best, not someone worth dropping his guard and visiting personally. Besides..." He took a deep breath. "Brother, have you considered what happens if he sends medicine but doesn't come himself? Where would you put the poison? In the medicine he sends? That would only alert him."
Linley's frown deepened. He stared at the plans, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the stone table. It wasn't that he had never considered these flaws, but his obsession with revenge had led him to ignore them.
"Then I'll do it another way." Linley's voice grew low. "I'll request an audience directly."
"And then?" Wharton pressed. "In the palace, with everyone watching, how would you get Clayde to drink poison? Brother, the royal family has dedicated poison tasters. Every dish and every cup of tea goes through three tests. Even if they can't detect Hemolytic Poison, how can you make sure that cup of tea reaches Clayde's lips instead of being switched along the way?"
Linley fell silent. He clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white.
Wharton looked at him, his heart aching. It wasn't that his brother couldn't think of these things; he didn't want to. Hatred had blinded him, leaving him able to see only the goal of "killing Clayde," not the thorns and traps covering the road ahead.
"Brother," Wharton said more gently, "I'm not saying we shouldn't take revenge. We must, but not now, and not like this."
"Then how long do we have to wait?" Linley looked up sharply, his eyes reddening. "Until Clayde dies of old age? Until the force behind him does something to Mother-"
He broke off abruptly, his chest heaving.
Wharton's heart tightened. His brother had guessed it after all: there was a greater hand behind what had happened to their mother. In the original story, it was the Radiant Church, and the purpose was to offer her as a sacrifice to the Radiant Sovereign. But he couldn't say that now.
"Until we're absolutely certain of success." Wharton spoke each word distinctly. "Brother, you're seventeen this year, and I'm twelve. We have plenty of time."
"Father ran out of time!" Linley roared. "He died three months ago! His body's already cold!"
His voice echoed across the training ground, startling birds from the distant trees.
Bebe squeaked uneasily, jumped down from Linley's shoulder, and rubbed against his leg.
Linley panted and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, some of the red had faded, but the deep pain in them was clearer.
"Wharton," he said hoarsely, "do you know how I've spent these past three months? Every night when I close my eyes, I see Father lying in the ancestral hall. That wound in his chest... a spear pierced him, going in through his back and out his chest."
His throat caught.
Wharton walked up to him and put a hand on his shoulder. The twelve-year-old's hand was still small, but steady.
"I know, Brother," Wharton said. "I dream about him every night too. I dream about the day Father sent me to O'Brien. He stood at the door without saying another word, just standing there. I thought there was still plenty of time, that I could come back when I was stronger and show him how accomplished his son had become... but it's gone. Everything's gone."
Linley looked at his younger brother. Twelve-year-old Wharton's eyes were red too, but his gaze was firm.
"That's exactly why we can't rush," Wharton said. "Brother, we're the last men of the Baruch Clan now. If something happens to us too, who'll avenge Father? Who'll look for Mother? Who'll restore the clan?"
He let go, stepped back, and suddenly began taking off his shirt.
Linley stared. "What are you doing?"
Wharton took off his training clothes, revealing his upper body. His twelve-year-old frame had already begun to take on a warrior's shape, with well-defined muscles, but the injuries were more conspicuous: a dark scar on his left shoulder, a patch of burn marks over his right ribs, and several bruises of varying ages on his back.
"I got these at O'Brien Academy." Wharton pointed to the scar. "In my third year, I sparred with a Level Eight instructor, and he didn't hold back in time. If this scar had been half an inch deeper, my left arm would have been crippled."
He pointed to the burn marks. "During the academy tournament last year, my opponent was a Level Seven Fire Element Mage. My battle-qi defense was a moment too slow, and I got burned like this."
Linley looked at the injuries. His lips moved, but he said nothing.
"I train with everything I have, as if my life depends on it." Wharton put his clothes back on. "Because I know that only by getting stronger will I have the right to talk about revenge. Brother, I'm normally at Level Eight now, and I can reach the upper stage of Level Nine when I transform. Give me another three years—no, two—and I'll break through Level Nine, maybe even touch the threshold of the Saint-level."
He stared into Linley's eyes. "What about you? Brother, you're a Level Seven Mage in two elements, and your Dragonblood Warrior bloodline has awakened too. What level could you reach in two more years? A Level Nine Mage? A Ninth-level Warrior? When the time comes, we brothers can join forces. Forget Clayde alone—even if there's some force behind him, we can take it down together."
Linley was silent for a long time. The wind blew, sending fallen leaves rustling across the ground.
"Two years..." he murmured. "That's too long."
"It isn't," Wharton said. "Brother, Father waited his whole life and never got a chance for revenge, because he was alone. We're different. There are two of us, we're still young, and our talent is ten, a hundred times greater than Father's. Why rush to gamble on an uncertain outcome in the most dangerous way possible?"
He walked over to the stone table and picked up the Hemolytic Poison formula.
"Lord Cesar gave you this so you'd have a choice, not so you'd stake everything on one gamble," Wharton said. "Brother, think about it. If we act now and fail, the Baruch Clan will truly be finished. If we wait another two years, until we've both broken through Level Nine, then..."
He paused and lowered his voice. "Then we can do it more cleanly. No need for poison, no need to sneak into the palace. We can intercept and kill him outright. With two Saint-level Dragonblood Warriors, even the Radiant Church wouldn't turn against us for his sake."
Linley's eyes flickered.
Wharton knew he had persuaded him and pressed further. "And Brother, have you forgotten about Mother? Clayde was only the one carrying it out. There must be someone behind him. If we kill him now, the trail will go cold. Whether Mother is alive or dead, who took her, and why-they may remain secrets forever."
Those words struck Linley's heart like a heavy hammer.
He looked up sharply. "You mean..."
"I mean revenge isn't just about killing." Wharton spoke each word distinctly. "Revenge means dragging out everyone responsible and uncovering the whole truth. It means letting Father and Mother-whether she's still alive or not-rest in peace."
Linley closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, the fervor had faded from his eyes, replaced by a deep calm.
"You're right," he said at last. "I was too impatient."
A weight lifted from Wharton's heart.
"But," Linley continued, "we can't do nothing. We can't spend these two years waiting with our heads buried in training."
"Of course." Wharton nodded. "We can do three things. First, keep improving our strength. That's the foundation. Second, secretly gather information on Clayde and the force behind him. Third... prepare for what we'll do in the future."
The brothers looked at each other, and each saw an understanding in the other's eyes.
"One more thing," Linley said. "The reward for yunling has already been posted. Withdrawing it now would only look suspicious. But we can change the explanation-say I'm studying a new sculpting technique and need this rare material to make a special pigment."
"Clever." Wharton smiled. "That way we won't alert anyone, and we can keep gathering materials. If we actually find some, keeping it could be useful in the future."
Linley nodded and began gathering the plans and formula from the stone table. His movements were much more composed than before. The determination to stake everything was gone, replaced by a thoughtful steadiness.
"Brother," Wharton said suddenly, "I'm sorry."
Linley's hand stopped. "Why are you apologizing?"
"I was... a little harsh just now." Wharton lowered his head. "I know you're hurting. I shouldn't have argued with you like that."
Linley looked at him for a while, then reached out and ruffled his younger brother's hair. He hadn't done that in a long time-not since before Wharton left for O'Brien.
"You weren't wrong," Linley said. "I'm the one who should thank you. If you hadn't brought me to my senses, I might really have gone down a dead end."
He withdrew his hand and spoke softly. "Father's gone, and an elder brother should be like a father. I should be the one looking after you and guiding you. Instead, you're the one who brought me to my senses... I haven't been a good brother."
"You have," Wharton said at once. "Without the money you sent back, I couldn't have made it at O'Brien. Without you buying back Slaughter, the clan's legacy would have been lost. Brother, you've already done more than enough."
Linley smiled. There was some bitterness in it, but also some relief.
"Then let's do it together," he said. "Get stronger together, uncover the truth together, and take revenge together."
"Mm."
Night had fully fallen. Wind lanterns had been lit on the training ground, their dim yellow glow illuminating a small patch. The brothers stood side by side, their shadows stretching across the ground and joining together.
"Oh, right." Linley suddenly remembered something. "You've been at O'Brien for six years. How has your magic training gone? Have you continued studying the theories Grandpa Doehring left behind?"
Wharton scratched his head. "Warrior training took up most of my time. As for magic... I only accumulated magical power; I didn't learn any actual spells. My Fire Element magical power is probably at Level Five now, but I can't cast a single spell."
"Level Five?" Linley was somewhat surprised. "Reaching Level Five in six years just by accumulating power through meditation is very fast. Do you want to learn magic? I can teach you some Fire Element spells. When I learned you had an affinity for the Fire Element, I specifically looked for them at the institute. Unfortunately, they're all below Level Seven."
"Then I want to learn." Wharton didn't hesitate. "Being a warrior is the foundation, but magic is a trump card. If, in a future battle, my opponent thinks I'm just a warrior and I suddenly throw a Fire Element spell at them..."
He didn't finish, but Linley understood and smiled. "Sly."
"I learned from you." Wharton smiled too.
The atmosphere eased somewhat. The grief and hatred that had been suffocating them remained, but they no longer burned recklessly. Instead, they had sunk into their hearts, becoming flames that tempered their wills.
"Let's start tomorrow," Linley said. "I'll teach you magic in the morning, and in the afternoon you can spar with me to practice warrior techniques. You have more combat experience than I do, and I need to hone myself in actual fighting."
"All right."
"Brother," he said suddenly, "after we've taken revenge, let's restore Wushan Town. Father always wanted to expand the family manor, but he never had the money."
Linley paused in his steps. "All right. When everything is over, we'll take back everything the Baruch Clan has lost."
The lights of the residence drew closer. Hiri stood at the door holding a lantern, his stooped figure looking frail yet warm in the light.
"Young masters, dinner's ready," the old man called.
"Coming," the brothers answered together, quickening their pace.
Wharton walked beside his brother, silently calculating.
Two years. If he could break through to become a Ninth-level Warrior, then with his Dragonblood transformation and magic for support, the brothers could join forces and easily ambush a peak Level Nine Warrior, without letting Grandpa Doehring become Linley's lifelong regret.
More importantly-in two years, the Day of Destruction would arrive.
Dylan would lead an army of magical beasts through Fenlai City, leaving the Radiant Church too occupied to look after itself and the entire Holy Union in chaos. That would be the perfect time to fish in troubled waters.
He couldn't say any of this now. But that was fine. He could guide things gradually and prepare slowly.
When they pushed open the door and entered, the aroma of food greeted them. It was a simple meal of three dishes and a soup, but the presentation was delicate. Hiri had made it with care.
"Sit down, quickly. The food's getting cold." Hiri busied himself serving rice, a smile on his face, though lingering worry hid in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
The brothers sat down and began to eat. During the meal, they chatted about lighthearted things-Linley talked about interesting happenings at the institute, Wharton described the customs and people of O'Brien, and Hiri occasionally added a few words about recent events in Wushan Town.