The moment Faust's phantom vision locked onto the brilliant, ice-blue transfusion inside the locked bedchamber, the majestic, horned silhouette of the dragon appeared.
It tilted its massive head. Its slit-pupil amber eye—vivid and terrifyingly real—pierced straight through the stone walls, locking onto Faust's exact metaphysical vantage point.
A crushing wave of absolute spiritual pressure slammed into his consciousness. Faust was violently, physically expelled, his mind snapped back into his physical skull with the force of a hammer blow. He stumbled backward in the dim hallway, gasping for air as he clutched his throbbing temple beneath the white linen bandage.
He let out a long, ragged sigh, steadying his breath.
He turned and proceeded quietly toward his assigned quarters to process the shock.
"Hey! Wait a moment!"
Faust stopped, turning his head to see young Isfrid trotting down the corridor behind him. The young swordsman's icy composure from the training field had completely vanished, replaced by a look of profound, irritated skepticism.
"How is it humanly possible that you are my godfather?" Isfrid demanded, crossing his arms as he scanned Faust's ageless face. "You look no older than I do! Is this some sort of senile, long-running joke of Grandfather's, or—"
"Watch your tongue, boy," Faust cut him off, rubbing his temple as a weary, playful smirk tugged at his lips. "You are being exceptionally naughty. You should be thoroughly thankful for the magnificent, expensive gifts I have subtly sent across the border for your birthdays since you were in a cradle. Honestly, kids these days are entirely strange. No respect for your elders. Go to your room."
Isfrid violently shook his head, his dark hair shifting.
"I will not. Grandfather explicitly ordered me to follow you and help you figure out how to properly form a contract with your relic."
Faust froze, his visible eye narrowing.
"My relic? I don't possess any—"
Then, it clicked. Isbert's words from the village tavern echoed in his mind. The silver-encrusted Tarot cards he had received from the de Alarcón family. The old Patriarch had called them a relic.
Faust leaned against the Gothic pillar of the corridor.
"Explain."
Isfrid let out a smug, boyish chuckle, clearly enjoying the sudden shift in authority.
"Ah, it's perfectly understandable for someone who doesn't hail from a premier Adeptus bloodline to be entirely ignorant of the classification. Come with me to the eastern courtyard. It's better to show you."
Faust followed the youth curiously, his boots clicking softly against the flagstones until they reached a massive, open-air training ground.
The courtyard was a symphony of violence and precision. Dozens of elite Frost family knights were drilling in the damp autumn air. Some were moving with blurring velocity, executing flawless martial katas with curved, heavy sabers; others stood in rigid lines, firing heavy flintlock pistols and high-caliber revolvers into distant wooden targets with mechanical accuracy.
Faust spectated with an appreciative eye.
Decades ago he had gone through a remarkably similar, savage regiment.
Faust considered himself a true master of the blade—though his personal preferences always leaned toward the lethal utility of short swords, main-gauches, and daggers. Of course, his physical skills had rusted slightly under the heavy weight of time and his years as a peaceful scholar, but as he watched the knights train, he knew truth: with a few days of rigorous practice, his unique physiology and altered reflexes would allow him to reclaim his absolute martial peak effortlessly.
"Listen closely," Isfrid began, stepping up to the wooden railing. "Do you know what a Soul Weapon actually is?"
Faust nodded vaguely. He had parsed a few fragmented, incredibly cryptic mentions of such things within the stolen pages of Weyer's iron-bound journal. But the old Grandmaster's written notes on the subject had been deliberately vague, as if the knowledge was either long lost to the ravages of time or deeply hidden from the lower echelons.
Faust waved his hand dismissively, offering Isfrid a small, calculated lie to open the way for a greater truth.
Isfrid swelled with a touch of youthful pride and began his lecture.
"A Soul Weapon—or as the ancient, forgotten languages of the knights call it, an Arma—is a tool woven directly into the fabric of a person's soul. It can be birthed by the wielder, passed down through bloodlines, or even abandoned by a previous master. They are entirely dependent on the spiritual density of their owners. The oldest texts claim that if an owner's soul enters a new cycle within the grand river of reincarnation, a truly powerful Arma can actually be reborn alongside them."
Isfrid gestured toward the knights in the courtyard.
"Any weapon can technically become an Arma, but very few ever achieve the awakening. There are two primary types: Natural and Artificial."
He looked at the training grounds.
"Natural go through incredibly complicated cosmic processes or bizarre, fatal circumstances to naturally spark their own consciousness, allowing them to independently choose their masters. While Artificial are forged by master alchemists and smiths using forbidden components, engineered to either force a consciousness into the steel or allow it to awaken naturally over generations."
Isfrid looked rather proud talking about such things, it seemed he enjoyed being a knight.
"Both methods lead to the same ultimate goal," Isfrid continued, "the awakening of a resemblance of true lucidity within the tool. The exact degree of that sentience depends entirely on chance. And from that moment on—well, not exactly from that moment..." Isfrid paused, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish, embarrassed grin. "Ah, anyways, I tangled the order up a bit, but I hope you get the point! Let's talk about the Ranks."
Isfrid cleared his throat, counting on his fingers:
"Unawakened Rank. These are simple, inanimate weapons. Just like the standard swords and revolvers those knights are using out there," he pointed at the young man and woman, "They are weapons whose spirits are entirely asleep, waiting for a spark. Most weapons in the world reside here."
The boy spread his fingers, sticking out the middle finger.
"Lifeless or Dead Rank are still basic weapons, but the first tremors of awakening life have begun to stir within the iron. As my grandpa always says, 'There is vastly more life hidden within the dead than within the inanimate.'"
Then the ring finger took its limelight.
"The next goes the Somnolent Rank. This is the most unstable, volatile, and dangerous stage of a weapon's existence. The tool's budding consciousness is constantly on the verge of falling back into a permanent death. If the wielder fails to support it, the weapon risks collapsing back into the Lifeless rank, or worse, completely shattering its spiritual essence to become a mundane, Unawakened tool, starting the cycle again," he cleared his throat putting his hand down, there was still his pinky, but he decided to miss it out, "Lucid Rank is the last. If the weapon endures the sleep and, with the aggressive help of its wielder, manages to uplift its consciousness, it becomes Lucid. This is the magnificent boundary where the true Orders of the Arma begin. A fully Lucid weapon occupies the 10th Order."
Isfrid turned to Faust, his eyes serious.
"My grandpa told me that true Relics—like the Tarot cards you carry—are incredibly advanced, occupying the prestigious 3rd Order of the Arma."
Faust's analytical mind immediately seized on the mathematical gap.
"If a Relic is only the Third Order... then what constitutes a weapon of the Second and First Order?"
Isfrid blinked childishly, his grand posture instantly deflating.
"Huh? Um... I actually have no idea. That information is strictly restricted to the reigning Patriarchs of the Adeptus Families. I only know the lore up to the third."
Faust literally facepalmed, his hand slapping against his forehead with a low groan.
"Incredible," he thought bitterly. "This information is profoundly useful, yet entirely useless at the exact same time."
Faust dropped his hand, staring intensely at his young godson.
"So, tell me... is this lecture the entirely of what Isbert ordered you to do?"
Isfrid smiled, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes.
"Of course not! He asked me to actively help you form a contract with your Relic... or, at the very least, define if those cards are actually an authentic Arma at all. Grandfather mentioned that his own sensory abilities have been deeply damaged by his recent missions, so he might simply be mistaken about your deck's true rank."
Faust's visible eye locked onto the boy, his gaze turning incredibly sharp, suspicious, and heavy. If his old friend was in such a state he'll probably won't notice Faust's gaze when he entered that omniscient state of vision.
"Those are definitely not the words of Isbert," Faust said smoothly, his gravelly voice dripping with an aristocratic edge that brooked no deceit. "Your grandfather does not doubt his own eyes, even when bleeding. Those are your doubts, aren't they?"
Isfrid's cheeks instantly flushed a bright, defensive red. He stamped his boot against the wooden railing, glaring at Faust.
"Don't you dare call my grandpa so casually! He is the Patriarch!"