Ch.7

The dining table was filled with warm food straight out of the oven: bacon, omelet and croissant!

'Such luxury, how come?'

There was also a honey cake at the center of the dining table, seven lit candles on top. On the other side, Caliber was standing straight like a training dummy wearing a white apron.

"Happy birthday, young master." The butler said.

"Pardon?" Erik blinked.

"Happy birthday, young master," Caliber repeated.

"Pardon?" Erik blinked again.

Wildfather, he had forgotten about his own birthday!

Nurmen people celebrated their birthday every nine—

'Wait a minute, he almost made me buy this bullshit. I'm not nine years old yet!'

No, the most surprising was Caliber's kindness. The old fart should have ghosted him as he had in his previous life.

"Happy birthday, young master," Caliber repeated with all the patience in the world. The butler has always been a stealthy man. Truthfully, the number of times Erik had seen him outside of classes could be counted on one hand.

So why was the poltergeist butler here, celebrating a fictional birthday?

'What changed?'

Certainly, Erik's actions in this life were different. Their causality was bound to differ.

"It's not my birthday, yet, Caliber."

Erik blew the candles in an awkward fashion and sat to eat this delicious-looking breakfast; someone was giving him good food, why would he refuse out of suspicion?

He grabbed a steaming croissant, a delicacy invented in the snobbish Celeste Empire.

Crunch!

'So good! Cripsy on the surface, soft inside. The butter and fluffy dough melt in my mouth!' He thought.

"Did you bake it yourself?" He asked.

"Yes, young master. Are they to your taste?"

"6.5 out of 10." Erik smirked internally. He could swear the old fart's brows twitched. His eyes traveled to two wooden boxes next to the small cake. "Are these…"

"Your birthday presents, young master," Caliber brought both boxes within hands' reach. "I hope they are to your liking."

Erik gobbled his croissant, almost choking on his food, then grabbed the first box and peered inside.

Healing bandages, lots of them still soaking in a green liquid.

He looked at Caliber, then the box, then Caliber again. "Is this a joke?" That was his usual supply of low rank healing bandages!

"I would never dare, young master."

'What a terrible liar,' Erik thought.

"You have been training quite intensively for the past few years," Caliber said, "so I thought additional ones might come in handy."

That was true, but nowadays he needed these less and less.

His fists had grown accustomed to hitting wood. The dummy only left minor injuries no matter how hard he hit it now. The last time he used those was after beating up his older brother, who was now officially gone for the next two years.

Well, it was already a miracle he got presents in the first place during this fake birthday. He swallowed back a complaint and opened the second box.

"Low rank healing potion!? Isn't that forbidden until I pass the first Trial?"

"It's been approved, young master."

"By whom?"

"Me," the butler said calmly.

Erik blinked for the third time today. The balls on this old fart were durelite grade! Going against the clan's decision was risking death.

"Why, Caliber? So far, you've been avoiding me. Why all these so suddenly?"

"May I speak honestly, young master?"

"You don't need to be so formal when we're alone, you know," Erik said. He could feel the butler was hiding his real personality. Call it a hunch. "But if you must, yes, you have my permission."

Before becoming his butler, Caliber Wolf had led the Matriarch's personal guard, the Snow Tigers. The butler job was more like a retirement for him who had been famous for using his fists in an axe clan and rampaging battlefields alongside the Matriarch.

The butler chuckled lightly. "Very well."

Caliber tore his apron and hurled it in the kitchen's hearth.

"You've earned yourself a bit of respect, brat. You're already famous amongst cadets for renouncing your heritage and beating the stutterer to a pulp with your fists. At first, I thought your pugilist self training was a mere childish impulse, a rebellion phase, that you would have swapped for the axe at some point. If that were the case, I already know how your life would have ended. Like all ninth children, banished or dead during a trial. But after four years of practicing pugilism and with the talent you displayed, I'm certain now something else drives you.

"And that got me curious. I started wondering, what if, just what if a Basara brat who chose the fists over the axe becomes a Berserker? I've seen many things in my 194 years of life but that, haha, wouldn't that be hilarious!? Ahaha! Just thinking about your siblings' shocked faces is priceless! Priceless!"

'Heavenly shit, that's the real him?' Erik thought. The change was drastic, but not surprising. 'Does he have some kind of grudge against the Basara family? Well, he is originally from the Wolf clan. No, I can't believe someone who was by my mother's side for so long would harbor such feelings towards the clan. Entertainment then? But was entertainment worth the death penalty? I'm missing something.'

Berserkers were the Basara children who had successfully earned their place in the clan by completing the three Trials: Trial of the Beast, Trial of the Wild and Trial of the Path. Berserkers were also officially allowed to compete for the clan's next leadership.

Amongst the nine Basara children, two were Berserkers, one was undergoing her Trial of the Path, another just returned from his Trial of the Wild, three had died during their trials, Ogram was still undergoing his first trial and Erik was too young to start.

"That's a big assumption, Caliber. Do you really think they'll let me become a Berserker without an axe?" Erik asked.

Normally, Berserkers were all master axemen, an additional unspoken requirement to become one.

However, there was one way he could bend the rules.

"Now, now, brat, do not pretend you don't know what I'm talking about," Caliber bent closer, staring directly into Erik's eyes. "I'm a good judge of character, and I've seen your determination. You're like a puppy who stubbornly won't let go of his bone. The sound of your fists hitting your brother's pig face spoke volumes; they screamed your thirst for power. And strength is your only way to the position of Berserker. No matter what the clan says they cannot deny overwhelming power."

The old fart was right. If there was one rule that stood above the others, it was this one: power above all else.

But for Erik, power was only a means to an end. What he truly wanted was glory, honor and, a new addition to his bucket list since the Fate Quest: reach godhood.

"You're misunderstanding something, old fart," since Caliber didn't restrain his language, why would he? "I'm aiming to become a measly Berserker? Don't make me laugh." Erik clenched both hands. "These fists will not be content until I take the position of Patriarch."

"Ka…," Caliber was gripping his stomach, his entire body was shivering, a wolf-like smile crept up his face.

'Ka?'

"KAHAHA!"

Eating his birthday cake, Erik watched the crazy old man laughing for one long minute. The dough was a bit too sweet to his taste, but overall, it tasted okay.

5.5 out of 10.

"Brat," Caliber calmed down, "do you even know what this means?"

"Obviously, old fart," Erik said with cake crumbs stuck on his face. "It means I'll have to piss on a thousand year old tradition."

"Huh, you're smart for a child your age. Does the blessed body accelerate your brain cells' growth too?"

Erik quickly shifted the topic. He didn't want anybody to find out about his regression yet. "Laughters and entertainment aside, why are you risking your life by giving me these healing potions, Caliber?"

"Meh, no one will find out if we keep quiet about it, no biggies brat. You're just too interesting to waste your potential with my inaction."

Really? That was his excuse?

Erik wasn't buying it.

There was definitely something fishy going on. No obvious Machiavellian plot came to mind. He didn't know enough about the butler's private life and motivations to come up with a plausible explanation.

Whatever. If the old fart would help him, why shouldn't he take advantage of this opportunity?

"As for why I gifted you healing potions," Caliber continued, a devilish grin appearing on his face. "It's for your third present."

Erik's gaze traveled to the golden threads weaving a notification, his eyes widening.

——

[Fate Quest: Wolf's Plaything]

Objective: Survive Caliber Wolf's training.

Time Limit: Two years.

Rewards:

1) +50 wyrd

2) Wolf Style

Bonus reward: Satisfy or exceed Caliber's expectations

1) ???

——

"From today until your Totem Beast summoning, I will be training you in the Nursery."

The Nursery Caliber was talking about was an underground room created for Basara children in the servant quarters to avoid prying eyes while they trained secret arts or with their butlers.

Butlers could never show the clans' technique to others nor used them. If they did, a wyrd axe near their heart would sever their core and life.

Now that Ogram was gone, no one occupied this room.

Erik had been in the Nursery only once—twice counting his past life—when Caliber taught him [Soaring Wrath] and [Soothing Pain].

"Shall we begin after your first breakfast, young master?" Caliber returned to his classy demeanor.

Something about those healing potions told him only pain awaited him down there, but as long as it benefited him, he welcomed it.

"Do your worst, Caliber."

"With pleasure, young master. Kahaha, with pleasure."

***

Lore Extract:

"Nope."

—Unknown.