5 years later
A young boy was doing pushups in the garden, morning sun lit the light sheen of sweat on his brow.
It was Vaeris. He had grown. Taller than most boys his age. Muscles coiled beneath his clothes. His silver-gold hair clung to his forehead, and his bright green eyes were narrowed in a focused frown.
"Too light," he muttered.
Valtren stood nearby, arms crossed. He raised a brow. "That weighs a Ton, boy."
"Can't help it if I'm strong," Vaeris said, with a shrug mid-pushup. "Wanna double it?"
Valtren smirked faintly. "You asked for it."
He tossed a cube no larger than a fingernail through the air. It landed on Vaeris's back with a barely audible tap. The effect was immediate.
Vaeris grunted—nearly collapsing face first.
The cube was Star Core Iron—the densest known material on the planet. Worthless for tools. Priceless for training. Even paragons struggled to lift a proper ingot with pure strength. That tiny cube weighted 2 Tons.
"That was mean." Vaeris groaned, breath ragged. Still, he kept going.
After the strength drills came sprints, running at full speed constantly—pushing himself until he dropped from exhaustion.
********
Finally, he collapsed onto his back, panting. The ground bent beneath his weight.
"Take a break," Valtren said. "Weapons training next."
The boy didn't complain. He never did.
Axes, staves, fists, hammers, blades—Valtren had trained him in all weapons, without an ounce of mercy. And Vaeris? He absorbed it like sponge. Every stance, every mistake, every bruise was a lesson earned.
After a short rest, they stood in the courtyard with wooden swords in hand.
"I will definitely land a hit today, grandpa." Vaeris grinned, his sword raised high.
He rushed towards Valtren. His swing came fast—graceful, like a painter's first confident brush stroke. One flowed into the next. A rhythm. A dance.
Valtren deflected every blow with minimum effort. Sharp parries. Swift counters. Every mistake became a bruise.
"There are concepts in swordsmanship," Valtren said as they moved. "Every swing can carry a concept," Valtren said. "The Swift Sword—fast, deadly. The Heavy Sword—slow, but crushing. Concepts come from your will."
Vaeris swung again. Valtren just knocked it aside.
"You can mimic a concept without will," he continued. "But without it, your blade has no soul. Just movement. No message." He slipped past Vaeris's guard and tapped him on the forehead with his blade.
"That's enough for today. Train alone or rest." He turned—and vanished into the wind.
Vaeris stood still, sword lowered, eyes burning.
Next time, he thought. Next time, I'll land a real hit.
With a sigh Vaeris removed the mana-blocking cuffs from his wrists. Mana flooded back into his body—warm, invigorating, soothing his strained muscles. He stretched, then picked up a towel from a bench and wiped his face.
A gentle breeze stirred the garden—rustling the tree leaves and flowers softly. Vaeris closed his eyes for a moment and let the wind wash over him.
"Time to take a shower."
He headed back toward the estate. After a fresh shower and a change of clothes, his stomach rumbled from hunger.
He moved to the dining hall to have his breakfast.
At the head of the table sat his grandfather. To the right, sat his father and mother.
"We were just about to call you," Seraphyne said, smiling as she patting the seat beside her. "Come, sit."
"How was your training today, darling?" she asked warmly.
"It was fine, Mom. Just like always. Couldn't land a single hit on Grandpa." Vaeris replied.
Alaric glanced up from his cup. "The house's Training Academy starts next year. Are you ready, son?"
Vaeris met his father's gaze. His voice calm.
"I'm more than ready."
Breakfast arrived as they spoke.