The Useless Prince Is A Gangster
Chapter 161. Aura Begin

Chapter 161: 161. Aura Begin

The training chamber felt calm and quiet, the silence was so deep that Leo could hear his own heartbeat, steady and strong, the cool air buzzing.

Gidon stood across from Leo, his tough frame in a plain gray tunic, graying beard framing a face both stern and curious. Leo, in his neat academy uniform, arms crossed, crimson eyes sharp with a small, confident smirk.

Gidon’s voice boomed through the quiet, rough but full of respect. "These past two days, I’ve put you through every test I could think of. Your skills? A damn arsenal—too many to track. But your hand-to-hand combat? Every move is meant to killing, precise as a blade."

Leo’s smirk grew, a flash of pride in his eyes. His past life as Leo Carter, a skilled assassin, had made his body a weapon, every hit deadly, his smirk speak for him.

Gidon crossed his arms, his hands tightening as he looked at Leo, curiosity in his eyes. "You’re no novice, Caulem. Teaching you basics would be a waste. I’m thinking of teaching aura training—real aura mastery—and a few of my personal techniques to sharpen what you’ve got."

Leo stepped forward, arms uncrossed, his tone calm but direct. "I can release aura, but shaping it is where I’m stuck."

Gidon’s thick brows shot up, surprise breaking his stern look. "You’re saying you never learned to mold it? Not even the fundamentals?"

Leo gave a dry laugh, honest but not embarrassed. "Come on, professor. Months ago, I was the Academy’s punching bag. Who’d bother teaching a bronze nobody like me aura techniques?"

Gidon’s jaw tightened, a hint of guilt on his rugged face. He knew the Academy’s unspoken rule: bronze students were left to struggle alone. He shook his head, voice strong, almost sorry. "Aura mastery hinges on three pillars: understanding, channeling, and controlling. Advancing comes later. Even for nobles trained since young age, it takes six months to a year to get it right."

"No way to speed that up? A crash course, maybe?"

Gidon laughed loudly, the sound echoing off the walls, and slapped a heavy hand on Leo’s shoulder, making him stumble a bit. "Always with the impossible demands, kid. You don’t lack nerve, I’ll give you that."

Leo’s smirk came back, his voice steady. "So, is it doable?"

Gidon’s grin grew, his eyes shining with amusement and respect as he walked across the chamber, boots scraping softly on the stone. "It’s not impossible to learn fast, precisely, not for you." He stopped, pointing a rough finger at Leo, his tone serious. "Your focus is topnotch, Caulem. I saw it when you took down Garrik—pure, unshakable clarity. With that kind of mind I can mold it into aura mastery in months, not years."

With a firm command in his voice, he moved closer and prodded Leo’s chest. "Let’s begin with understanding, the first pillar. Leonhardt, take a seat, get rid of all the distractions, and discover your inner aura. Feel it.

Leo nodded, a determined expression on his face. He sat cross-legged on the cool stone in the middle of the room. His shoulders relaxed as his heartbeat slowed, and he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

Gidon’s voice, guiding, filled the quiet like a light. "Don’t just chase your mana core. Feel the fire in your veins—the spark that’s yours alone."

Leo breathed out, his mind going quiet as he looked inside, searching for the faint pulse of aura within him. The chamber’s silence surrounded him as he began his journey toward a power that could change his life.

____

The underground slave market stank of sweat, fear, and rusty iron and dark. Flickering torches on wet stone walls threw rough shadows over rows of tight iron cages. In one, a boy about ten years curled up with a heavy slave collar.

His dull, empty eyes stared at the dirty floor. A fat slave trader shuffled toward the boy’s cage, his voice smooth but fake as he spoke to a cloaked figure beside him. "These young ones fit your needs perfectly, my lord."

The boy glanced up, seeing the noble—a thin man in his fifties, his lips twitched as he looked over the children and pointed at the boy. "That one will do."

The trader’s face lit up with a greedy smile, his chubby fingers fumbling with the lock. The cage door squeaked open, and the boy stumbled out, legs shaky from days locked up. The trader muttered a spell, the collar’s runes glowing briefly, tying the boy to his new master. The noble’s cold, twisted smile made the boy shiver as he was led into the market’s dark gloom.

The boy had held onto a tiny hope—food, work, living. But the noble’s manor, a huge estate crushed that dream. The old man didn’t want workers; he was a monster who bought children to enjoy their pain. The boy’s days became endless torture—whips, hunger, and the noble’s happy laughs at his screams. His body showed the cruelty: purple bruises, red cuts.

One morning, while pulling a water bucket through the manor’s garden, the boy saw another slave—a girl his age, hiding among the bushes, her torn dress covered in dirt. Her messy raven hair framed a grimy face, but her eyes shone with quiet focus as she dug in the soil.

A spark of curiosity drew him closer. "Hey, What are you doing?"

She looked up, a finger to her lips, checking for guards. "Shhh, let me show you something."

He crouched beside her, nervous but curious. She reached her small hand to the dry ground, and a tiny flower grew, its petals opening in a bright burst of color. The boy’s breath stopped, his voice barely heard. "That’s... magic?"

She nodded, a proud smile breaking through the dirt on her face. "Yes. And nobody knows about it."

He stared at the flower, then at her, amazed. "You could have a better life with magic like that. Why staying here?"

She looked at him, her gaze sharp but kind, seeing his thin body and new face. "You’re new here. What’s your name?"

He paused, his voice low. "I... don’t have one."

"Me neither. So I gave myself one."

"What is it?"

"Sylo."

Draven snapped out of the memory, his knife stuck mid-carve on the wooden table, the delicate flower he’d etched now ruined by a deep cut. His breath came fast, the pain of Sylo’s death—ripped apart by the ruler—burning his chest like a new wound. He sat in a fancy room in the Chaos Pillar’s prison.

After his own prison fell, he joined the Chaos Pillar, his hate for the ruler driving him.

The door creaked open, and a cult soldier, his face hidden by a blank mask, stepped in, voice flat. "The meeting begins soon, sir."

Draven’s eyes darkened, his grip tightening on the knife. With a quick, angry thrust, he stabbed the blade into a torn picture of Leonhardt pinned to the table, the steel sinking deep into the wood. "Three months, Caulem," he growled, his voice low and hateful. "Then you’re mine."

He stood, leaving the knife on the table, the carved flower beneath it a quiet memory of Sylo.

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