Low-Fantasy Occultist Isekai-Chapter 82 - 80.5 - Interlude Devon

Devon never thought his departure from Floria would come so soon, yet here he was, counting down the last days before he left for Alluria. He also had to manage three different teachers, each with a different vision of what it meant to be a Knight.

First came his mother. She was a Knight in the most straightforward sense of the title, dedicated to building strength and endurance. Although she had never lost her maternal warmth, her training sessions allowed no room for excuses. She insisted that he perfect the Stalking Gait—the foundational technique passed down from her own mother. He learned to control his breathing, guiding mana through his veins until it flowed through him like a steady current of power. Each step, she told him, brought him closer to achieving Aura, though he had yet to manage anything more than a sputter.

Then there was his father. A Flame Swordsman, he taught Devon the importance of channeling mana into his strikes. Training with him meant learning how to endure heat and pressure. He’d ignite the air around Devon’s practice sword, forcing him to stabilize the blade with his own mana or risk being scorched. Devon couldn’t quite replicate his father’s blazing aura since he lacked the affinity, but he made progress in harnessing his natural stamina into short, explosive bursts of power.

Akari, his mother’s friend and traveling companion from her adventuring days, was the final piece of Devon’s instruction. As a Wind Berserk, she was a monstrously powerful warrior capable of using the highest form of the Stalking Gait. While his mother insisted on building a solid foundation and his father encouraged a powerful offense, Akari beat the experience he so lacked into Devon.

It was… a lot. Some days, Devon collapsed into bed at night, barely able to raise his arms after wielding a sword all day. But he was undeniably growing stronger. He was level twenty-five, which was above the average civilian young adult. That was a great accomplishment.

Which is why losing a spar to Nick bothered him so much.

Devon ran a hand through his hair, recalling the moment Nick’s invisible shield had blocked his strike, allowing his younger brother to punch him in the face. The memory made him scowl. Sure, Akari had prevented him from using any active skills, but it was still a loss. Losing to his younger sibling—someone who, by all accounts, had no business winning a melee fight—gnawed at his pride.

During training, Devon channeled that frustration into his swordsmanship, releasing every bit of it through sweat and determination. His mother noticed but didn’t comment, merely pushing him harder to ensure that if he ever faced Nick again, he’d have learned enough not to lose. Although his father wouldn’t say it, he seemed almost amused by Devon’s increased fervor, while Akari encouraged him with playful teasing.

Once his morning lessons were finished, Devon tried to shake off the lingering remnants of that embarrassment by heading into town. Floria might be a small frontier town, but it was bustling in its own way. He appreciated the chatter, the lively streets, and the simple fact that everyone recognized him as the Captain’s son—the future Knight of Floria who was about to set off for the largest city in the region.

His friends waited for him outside the local bakery, where the warm glow of the ovens spilled into the street. They called his name, waving him over with big smiles. Some had apprenticeships with local artisans or shopkeepers, but a few had joined the militia as new recruits, already dreaming of adventure beyond the walls.

"Devon!" one of the girls greeted, staring at him with bright eyes. "You’re really leaving next week?" She pouted.

He nodded, smiling, though his heart twinged with mixed feelings. "Yeah, Alluria’s calling." He paused, deciding how much to reveal. "My father’s old master, Sir Xander, agreed to take me on."

A ripple of excitement spread through the group. Marlon, one of the few with a martial class, slapped Devon on the back. "Man, that’s crazy. He has to be one of the top Knights in the kingdom for the Captain to send you away, right?"

Devon shrugged, failing to hide his pride. "So they say. I’ll find out soon enough."

He caught the gaze of another girl—she was new to the group, a blacksmith’s daughter two years older than him, with her hair tied back in a neat ponytail. She offered him a coy smile. Avery, her name is Avery. I need to at least remember her name, especially since Nick caught me with her. Well, the second time.

Devon, buoyed by the crowd’s enthusiasm, returned it confidently, feeling the adrenaline he always got when attention was on him.

"I heard Alluria’s ten times bigger than Floria," Marlon said. "You’ll likely be rubbing elbows with real heroes, Dev."

Devon forced a modest laugh. "I’m not sure about ’real heroes,’ but yeah, it’s pretty big." He stepped closer to the blacksmith’s daughter, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "But I guess I’ll see it all soon, right?"

Avery giggled. "You will, will you?"

Devon basked in the spotlight, but deep down, he felt a pang of guilt. These were his friends—people who, for the most part, would stay in Floria or, at best, take on ordinary apprenticeships in the other frontier towns. He was heading to the capital of the region, home to legendary teachers and countless opportunities. It wasn’t just his skill that got him there; it was his family name, his connections... Luck, really.

Still, he was a teenage boy, and no matter how much he tried to hold it back, his excitement and pride sometimes spilled out. Devon found it hard to be modest whenever the conversation turned to future prospects. At times, he worried he sounded like a braggart, but the attention from the prettiest girls in the group made it hard not to show off a little.

Avery leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. "So, Dev," she said coyly, "when you’re a famous knight, are you going to come back and protect Floria from all those monsters?"

He shrugged, trying to keep his tone light. "Of course. I can’t let my dad hog all the heroics."

The group laughed obligingly. He knew the truth was that his father had barely managed to keep the wyvern occupied until Sir Arthur could slay it, but stories had a way of being twisted, and word around town was that Eugene had battled it to a standstill. Devon hadn’t tried to set the record straight all that hard.

Eventually, the baker’s wife appeared to close the shutters and gently shoo them away. Devon bid his farewells, exchanging a few extra words with Avery, who smiled broader than usual when he promised he’d drop by before leaving. He flashed her one last grin before heading off.

The next day, Devon arrived at the market to pick up a few snacks and catch up with some friends who were helping vendors unload their goods. It was still early in the day—he had just finished his morning training with Mother and Akari, and although his shoulders were sore and his legs felt heavy from the repeated drills, he was looking forward to browsing the wares.

He wound through the stalls, tipping his chin in casual greetings at passing acquaintances. The variety of strangers was actually impressive, given that Floria had always been a bit of an off-the-map location. For the first time in a while, Devon found the streets crowded with merchants hawking finely woven cloth, exotic spices, and even a few battered magical trinkets.

It had taken a couple of days for things to settle, but new the market was in full swing.

It was a welcome distraction from the rising tension in town. Everyone knew the Green Ocean was becoming increasingly dangerous, but with the caravan’s arrival, a thin layer of excitement spread over Floria, as if people were collectively choosing to enjoy life a little more, even with trouble on the horizon. Devon was glad to see it.

He approached a fruit vendor, picking out an apple that looked particularly ripe. He flipped the merchant a coin, bit into the sweet flesh, and turned to go, only to hear a scuffle further down the alley.

"Leave me alone!" a girl’s voice rang out. "I said no!"

Devon paused mid-bite, scanning the crowd. At first, no one seemed to notice the disturbance. But then his gaze landed on two silhouettes near a stack of crates, partially concealed by the tent’s awning. A broad-shouldered man, looking freshly drunk despite the early hour, leaned in too close to a dark-haired girl who stood with her back against a supply cart, clearly trapped.

That’s Avery.

A stab of anger hit Devon. He set his apple down on the edge of a barrel and strode forward, half-expecting the private guards hired by the caravan to step in. He spotted a few of them lurking by the main square, but they barely glanced over, as if waiting to see if things would escalate.

In moments, Devon found himself behind the man. The sharp odor of alcohol overwhelmed him instantly, causing him to wrinkle his nose. This adventurer was stocky and appeared much older than Devon—perhaps in his mid-twenties—and worn leather clung to his robust frame. He muttered something under his breath and had a sword loosely strapped to his hip.

"Hey," Devon said, stepping forward and putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. "She said she wants you to leave her alone."

The man blinked, turning slowly, as though his senses lagged. His unfocused gaze fell upon Devon, and a sneer spread across his stubbly features. "The Captain’s brat," he scoffed, voice thick with resentment. "The fuck do you want?"

Devon ignored the words, hooking his arm around the man’s elbow and firmly pulling him away from Avery. She exhaled shakily, grateful eyes meeting Devon’s.

"You good?" Devon asked her.

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She nodded, rubbing her arms nervously. "Y-yes. Thank you."

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The adventurer spat on the ground, clearly annoyed. "What, now some brat thinks he can push me around?" He glared at Devon, fists clenched. "My partners disappeared, and now no one respects me. Folks think I’m worthless because they took all our money and jumped town."

Devon exhaled, trying to keep his voice steady. "I’m sorry for your loss, but that doesn’t give you the right to harass someone. Why don’t we—"

"Don’t you patronize me!" the man barked, lurching forward. He reeked of unwashed sweat and rage. "Who’re you to talk about rights? Captain’s boy, so high and mighty, with your father’s name as a shield. Must be so proud, yeah? While the rest of us suffer…"

The words struck a chord, but Devon refused to let them bite. He raised a hand placatingly. "Look, I’m not here to fight. But you need to back off. She doesn’t want your attention—"

"Shut your mouth, kid." The man’s sword was halfway out of its sheath now, an unsteady but vicious glare in his eyes. "I’ll show you just how worthless I am."

Devon sighed inwardly. He’d just spent the morning pushing his limits, and now he had to contend with a drunken swordsman? Just perfect.

Avery took a step back, sensing the imminent conflict. "Please—" she began, but Devon cut her off with a reassuring gesture.

"It’s alright," he said. "I’ll handle it."

The adventurer lunged. Despite the man’s intoxication, Devon quickly recognized the traits of a skilled fighter—he knew how to wield a sword well enough to avoid careless mistakes. Grateful that Akari had insisted on practicing disarmament techniques, Devon drew his sword—a sturdy steel blade reinforced with minor enchantments—and met the strike midway.

Steel sparked, echoing through the alley. The man pressed forward, fueled by rage and pain, but Devon’s stance remained solid. He used the Stalking Gait to keep his footing light, anticipating each shift so he could pivot around blows that otherwise might have knocked him off-balance.

"C’mon then!" the man spat, eyes wild. "You’re so noble and mighty, show me what you got!"

They exchanged strikes, with Devon carefully limiting his moves to non-lethal angles. But the man’s skill was real—he parried Devon’s overhead slice with a deft twist, leaving him mildly impressed. So this is what an adult swordsman can do, even drunk.

A quick glance behind him revealed that Avery had backed away completely, her hands nervously clasped by her chest. The crowd, while not fully intervening, was growing. Some pointed, and some whispered. The private guards, unimpressed, stood at a distance with their arms crossed, as if waiting to see how this would play out. Useless.

"Back off," Devon warned, batting away another thrust. "I don’t want to hurt you."

"Hurt me?" The man laughed harshly, though it was more like a desperate bark than true mirth. "You’re just a boy in fancy boots. We’ll see who gets hurt."

The adventurer pivoted, suddenly shifting to a more refined stance. The slump in his shoulders vanished. Devon’s breath caught—he’d underestimated just how good this man could be sober, and evidently, muscle memory was still intact even when drunk. They clashed again, and Devon felt the man’s strength grow as he used a skill. He might have been overwhelmed if he’d been any lesser in talent or stamina.

But Devon wasn’t lesser. He was the product of his parent’s intense training. Even as he struggled against the man’s blade, he steadied his breathing. A faint warmth from the Stalking Gait filled his muscles, letting him twist free of the lock with surprising grace.

He swept the sword downward in one fluid motion, his exhale lending him a brief burst of speed. The man’s defenses wavered, and he was forced to block from a disadvantaged angle.

They clashed again and again, and sparks flew. Devon felt his pulse race, adrenaline surging through him like fire. It was exhilarating and also a bit unnerving. He was in full control, but the man’s raw power left him little margin for error.

Finally, Devon noticed an opening. The man had overextended himself, attempting to push him back. Devon spun to the side, directing air from his inhale into his sword. It would have been enough to disarm him on its own, but he wanted to ensure the fight would end there, so he pushed harder, channeling his willpower into his blade and baring his teeth. A sharp crack echoed as Devon’s suddenly green blade shattered the adventurer’s steel near the hilt.

Before the man could react, Devon delivered a kick to his chest, sending him flying back like a ragdoll. He slammed into a stack of crates, collapsing in a heap, chest heaving for breath.

An instant later, Nick heard the shouts of approaching soldiers. "What the hell is going on here?!" one of them roared, the clatter of armor echoing in the alley.

Devon turned, spotting half a dozen local guards rushing toward them. The last thing he wanted was to get tangled in an inquiry over a simple scuffle—especially one that might end with him scolded by his father.

He glanced at Avery, who stared back, half in awe, half in relief. Meeting her gaze, Devon offered a faint grin. "Time to go," he muttered.

She nodded, and he earned a yelp as he lifted her in a bridal carry. The guards yelled in confusion, trying to give chase, but Devon’s [Predator’s Steps] let him accelerate beyond their ability to catch up, and before long, they were gone, disappearing into the maze of tents and stalls near the market’s edge.

His heart hammered as he glanced back. There was no sign of pursuit. Good. He exhaled, letting the tension drain from his muscles. The girl looked at him in gratitude and surprise as he set her down.

"Thank you," she said softly, staring up at him with doe eyes.

Devon shrugged off the praise. "I’m just glad you’re okay." He shifted his stance awkwardly. "You should get home."

She nodded and remained where she was, staring at him with slightly parted lips.

Ah, I suppose the knight should get his kiss from the princess after saving her.

With a grin that was all cocky boyishness, Devon stepped closer, enjoying the way the girl’s cheeks reddened.

You have done a heroic deed.

+11,500 EXP.

You have learned the skill [Aura].

+48,888 EXP.

Level up!