Ascension of the Primalist [A Tamer Class, LitRPG]

As the electrified spear flew toward him, Seth’s legs refused to move, exhaustion rooting him into place. His life flashed before his eyes. Should he have done things differently? Bowed to nobles and not made a fuss? Left everything behind to hide and grow stronger in the Rifts?

Seth shut his eyes, bracing for the impact and accepting his fate. Yet before the spear could hit him, a thundering explosion shook the arena, rattling the ground as if struck by a meteor. Opening his eyes, he found himself surrounded by a thick cloud of dust.

"Well, well, well."

Orwen’s loud voice cut through the chaos, and as the debris settled Seth saw the man standing in a smoldering crater less than ten feet away, the spear clenched in his hand. Lightning arcs hissed and popped around the weapon, licking at Orwen’s arm but he didn’t seem to care—he was grinning.

"You can't just kill our young recruit like that, Jovan," he said, facing Lucius’ father, who had just leapt into the ring.

The noble exuded a threatening aura that rippled through the air. His long blond hair flowed wildly around his shoulders, and his bearded face was contorted with anger. Muscles tensed beneath his gold-embroidered clothes, and his lips pressed into a tight line as a new spear appeared from thin air in his hand. "Step aside, Orwen," he spat, aether vibrating around the gleaming weapon. "Or else—"

Before the man could finish, Drack fell from the sky, crashing into the ring with a deafening boom. Pieces of the clay flew in all directions, the ground shattering beneath him. A brown layer of aether hovered around his giant iron shield and his large plate armor, both covered with scratches and charred spots. "Or else what?" he growled, spinning the black war hammer in his other hand.

Lucius' father’s face tensed, and a second later a few other nobles wearing the purple and black color from the Faertis House jumped into the ring behind him, pulling out various weapons.

"Let's all calm down," Orwen said, tossing the spear in his hand to the ground before looking behind him. "Tell me good news, Krystel."

The angel-looking Priest was kneeled next to Lucius—or what seemed to be Lucius—and white aether was flowing out of her palm to plunge into the noble's bloodied body. "Umm, it's really bad but he’ll live… probably."

"See!" Orwen exclaimed, spinning around with a broad smile. "No need to get upset! Everything will be fine!"

Sergeant Faertis stepped forward, his golden shield in hand. "Keep your mouth shut. Or you’ll also lose your head."

Orwen’s expression shifted, and the air around him stirred up violently. Powerful gusts of wind filled with bloodlust howled to life and whipped dust into swirling eddies as if a colossal storm were to descend upon the coliseum. The thousands of spectators held their breath, while Sergeant Faertis and the other nobles stepped back, color draining from their faces—except Lucius’ father, who tensed and raised his spear.

"That’s enough, Orwen!" Director Ryehill’s voice boomed from the stands, cutting through the loud gusts. "No one will touch your recruit.”

Orwen glanced at the man, and the next moment the raging wind around him immediately died down. The director’s salt-and-pepper hair glinted under the sun rays while his piercing-blue eyes swept over to the Faertis. "And you, Jovan," he continued coldly, "return to your seats with your House’s members. You should be grateful the Champions of Chaos’ Priest is healing your son. You and I both know there aren’t any as skilled as her in the whole nation."

Lucius’ father grunted and reluctantly turned on his heels, motioning his men to follow him. As the nobles retreated, Director Ryehill cast a subtle glance at Orwen—a quick flicker of the eye that almost looked like a concealed wink.

Seth barely noticed it. His gaze was locked onto the Faertis’ backs, a red haze edging into his vision like a descending curtain.

Orwen looked at him and stepped closer, his lips moving—yet Seth heard nothing.

The world around him had grown muffled, the thunderous roar of his heart drowning out every other sound. His core raged in his chest, threatening to tear him apart from the inside; he needed to rise, to fight, to crush the Faertis.

Every single one of them.

Seth tried pushing himself forward, but his strength finally gave way. His legs buckled, and he collapsed onto the ground, an absolute darkness swallowing him. His hunger for vengeance had no limits.

But his body did.

Seth awoke in the dimly lit academy infirmary, the scent of herbs reminding him a little of Marcus’ shop—minus the mold smell. Blinking away the blur, he slowly took in his surroundings. Elena and Jenna were slumped in chairs to his right, both asleep, the noble’s head resting on the Warrior’s shoulder while Devus sat on the left with Renwal and Mael, all three also dozing and leaning against the wall.

As Seth looked at them, an unsettling feeling washed over him. These were his friends, people he cared about, yet somehow, he felt as if an invisible wall had formed between them. He had sensed it first at Aran’s house with Elena.

She had been moving closer to him emotionally, and he had been drifting away. Something within him had changed; a new hunger had awakened—a relentless need to hunt and grow stronger.

'Good morning, princess,' Nightmare teased from within his teardrop. 'Slept well?'

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'Yeah, yeah,' Seth retorted, rolling his eyes. He immediately felt Colossus send waves of joy through their bond. 'How long was I out?'

'Almost an entire day,' the direwolf answered.

Damn, Seth thought, taken aback. Sure, he’d barely slept in the past week within the Desert of Misery, but that was still quite extreme.

Glancing down, he noticed a small, polished metal prism lying to his side. A nearly invisible thread of white aether exited the two-fingers-sized artifact and plunged into his face, his ribcage and his left arm, which were now squeezed between two wooden splinters. He immediately cast Intermediate Identify.