“The poor boy believes it will harm you,” Quill mocked.

  “It won’t harm me,” Greaves said, believing Jack was worried about his safety. “You have my word.”

  Jack nodded, took a deep breath, and threw the branch as hard as he could, hoping it would at least cause a bruise.

  The branch flew towards Greaves’ right shoulder; he didn’t flinch as a shimmering blue shield surrounded his body. The branch bounced off and fell to the forest floor.

  Jack breathed a sigh of relief while feeling disappointed at the lack of damage. Is that a Mage Shield?

  A few of the nobles applauded.

  “Lucky bastard,” Baroness Vampese chided. “All I received was a damn cleansing spell from that Master Mage. I could’ve got that from a green novice.”

  Greaves laughed. “Mage Shield, the best passive pseudo skill there is, my boy.”

  “V-very impressive, my lord,” Jack said, trying to hide his shock.

  He’d read about the Mage Shield skill. It was a passive skill available to Master Mages that would activate from almost any physical impact. Swords, arrows, daggers, or a branch thrown by a teenager. It would stop them all.

  Fuck! I chose the wrong class! Jack realised what this meant. His plan to train for a few years to level up to Apprentice Archer was doomed to fail. All his arrows would be stopped by the shield. He’d die for nothing again. I need a new plan.

  “And no, killing animals won’t give you any pseudo skills,” said Baroness Quill, steering the conversation back on track. “They’ve no skills to offer.”

  “Even when you receive no skill, you still get something,” said Argil. “Tiny increases to your affinities and Class Compatibility scores. You’ll notice it physically. Your reflexes, strength, and dexterity will improve. It’s how our older blood mages grow so strong over the decades.”

  Despite the shock at realising his plan to kill Greaves was a no-go, Jack feigned amazement. “That explains it, my lord. I thought it was just excitement after the hunt. I… I felt something, a kind of warmth.”

  “That’s the blood working,” Idrisa said, nodding. “It’s subtle, but it adds up.”

  Jack smiled. They’d confirmed what he’d already guessed and provided important new information. So that’s why my Class Compatibility has increased, he thought. It’s no wonder the class is forbidden; it must be tempting to murder…

  “What’s your Blood affinity at now?” Greaves asked.

  Though there was no rule against asking someone about their affinities, it was considered rude to do so.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  I have to answer, but what do I tell them? “I haven’t checked recently, my lord,” he lied to buy time. “Please give me a moment.” Jack accessed his affinities, and to make it more plausible, he acted surprised. “It-it’s gone up, my lord.” He faked a stammer. “It’s at 31%. I believe it was at 19% when I selected the Novice Scribe class, my lord.”

  Greaves nodded his head. “That’s a respectable percentage, my boy.” He turned to the others. “We might have a prodigy among us.”

  The older nobles nodded in agreement, and some of the younger ones looked annoyed.

  Jack frowned. I’m glad I lied. If 31% is a prodigy, what would they say to the true value? 56%, what does it mean?

  His thoughts were cut short by a horn blast echoing ahead. Three quick notes.

  “That’ll be the younger lords’ chance,” said Quill. “Let’s see what they make of it.”

  They slowed, allowing the six young nobles to ride ahead with bows in hand. The older nobles watched with vague interest as the youths spread out across the trail, waiting for the kill to be presented to them.

  Jack watched the six young nobles with interest while they prepared for a deer to be driven their way by the hounds. One of the younger teens dropped an arrow and blamed the arrow. Another held the bow too high. Another had nocked and drawn an arrow back, but was aiming through a horse’s head!

  Jack shook his head. They’re useless. Imagine what Toma could achieve with their privileges.

  From the underbrush ahead, a young buck burst into the clearing. The deer had sleek, strong, and proud antlers. It would grow into a magnificent stag one day… if it survived.

  The deerhounds were still far behind.

  “Wait for the dogs, you fools,” muttered Argil.

  The young nobles didn’t wait. Arrows flew. One thudded into a tree, another glanced off a root, and a third sailed high into the branches. The closest missed the buck by a few inches. The startled deer darted away, vanishing back into the forest unscathed.

  One of the young nobles spurred his mount to chase the young buck.

  Greaves yelled at the tall, blond, hawk-faced teen as he headed into the trees. “Fenton! Fenton, stop! By the Gods. Fenton!”

  The young noble ignored Greaves.

  Jack stared with his mouth open. I thought nobles received the best training?

  A moment later, the hounds spilled into the clearing, looking confused.

  “Impatience,” said Baroness Idrisa with disdain. “Every one of them is more eager than trained. Fools.”

  “Might as well have thrown their boots,” grumbled Baron Argil.

  “I’ve seen drunk bakers shoot straighter,” said Trefin.

  Baroness Quill laughed. “I’ve seen toddlers with better form.”

  Fenton returned from his lone deer chase.

  “Fenton!” Greave’s called to him like the teenager was a misbehaving hound. “Here! Now!”

  Fenton rode over with a sheepish look.

  “When I tell you to stop, you will stop!” Greaves chastised the young noble. “Do you understand, boy?”

  Fenton glared at Jack, who was biting his lip, trying not to smile. “I thought I could get the buck on my own, uncle.”

  “That’s your problem,” Greaves said, shaking his head. “You don’t think. You will follow my instructions or leave the hunt. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, uncle,” Fenton replied, still glaring at Jack like this was all his fault.

  “It’s like dealing with an unruly dog that can’t control his instincts,” Baron Trefin said. “We don’t chase deer like common dogs, Fenton. We hunt them with patience. Preferably with a glass of wine in hand.”

  The older nobles laughed, while nearby servants took the hint and began preparing glasses of wine for the nobles.

  Jack stifled a chuckle.

  Baron Greaves glanced at him. “Something amusing, Jack?”

  “No, my lord,” Jack said, schooling his features. Don’t let your guard down. They aren’t your friends.

  But the damage was done. Fenton’s knuckles turned white as he gripped his bow and reins. The tall, blond, hawk-faced teen, with flushed cheeks and a wounded pride, scowled at Jack. A deeper seed of resentment had been planted.