Chapter 9: The Grove and the Grind

The stillness of the grove lingered, broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves.

I stepped closer to Celia, my footsteps light but purposeful. She flinched slightly when she sensed my presence, but her reaction was fleeting.

Her composure returned in an instant, her gaze steady as she turned to face me.

"You startled me," she said softly, though her expression betrayed no annoyance.

"Sorry," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to."

She offered a small, knowing smile and gestured for me to sit beside her. The moonlight painted her features in soft hues, and for a moment, I hesitated.

Shaking the distracting thought from my mind, I joined her on the grass, the cool earth grounding me.

"I have some questions," I began, turning to face her. Her attention shifted to me, her serene expression replaced by a subtle curiosity. "About your family."

"What about them?" she asked, her voice even but tinged with guardedness.

I considered my words carefully. "Did your parents ever tell you anything about what they used to do? Or why they stopped talking about your family's lineage?"

Celia exhaled, her gaze drifting to the moon again. "Not much. My mother... she always seemed like she wanted to tell me something but held back.

My father avoided the topic entirely, like it was forbidden." Her voice softened, almost wistful. "I remember small things—conversations overheard, vague warnings. But nothing concrete."

"What about your investigations?" I pressed gently. "What have you learned on your own?"

Her expression darkened slightly.

"Only fragments. Most of what I've uncovered points to connections with trade routes, contracts, and certain symbols... the same ones associated with the Calvian family." She glanced at me, her lavender eyes searching. "But I don't know what it means yet."

The pieces started to click together in my mind, but before I could delve deeper, the conversation lapsed into silence.

We sat there, watching the moon ascend higher in the night sky.

Celia's lips curled into a soft smile as she gazed at the stars, and for a moment, I found myself distracted by the sight of her. Her smile was gentle, almost disarming.

I shook my head, berating myself silently. Focus. This doesn't matter.

"I should get some rest," I said, breaking the silence. "There's a lot I need to do tomorrow."

"Of course," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of amusement, though she didn't look away from the moon.

I stood, brushing the dirt from my clothes. "Goodnight, Celia."

"Goodnight, Elias," she replied, her smile lingering as I walked away.

Morning arrived far too quickly. I woke up and immediately began my Veinforge technique, pushing my mana through my body for seven minutes.

The strain was immense, my veins burning with the effort, but I stopped before the pain grew unbearable.

Breathing heavily, I grabbed my training sword and changed into my usual training attire. Skipping breakfast, I made my way to the field.

When I arrived, something unusual caught my eye—Master Kaine stood alone, his imposing figure silhouetted against the rising sun. His arms were crossed, and his gaze was fixed on me.

"I was expecting you," he said as I approached. "You're going to train regardless, so we might as well do it right."

"Do what right?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Push you to your limits—and beyond. By the end of today, your body will feel like it has no soul left in it. But you'll gain more from this than weeks of standard training." His expression was stern, leaving no room for argument.

I nodded, determination burning in my chest. "Let's do it."

The training began immediately, and it was merciless.

First, Kaine instructed me to run laps around the field while carrying two heavy stones in each hand. "Build your endurance. Don't stop until I tell you," he ordered. My arms screamed in protest by the tenth lap, but I gritted my teeth and pushed through, the weight dragging me down with every step.

Next came the push-ups—hundreds of them. For every ten, Kaine placed a weight on my back, forcing me to endure under increasing pressure.

My arms trembled, my body threatening to collapse, but his sharp gaze kept me going.

"Mana control now," he barked after I finished the last set, barely able to catch my breath. "Channel your mana through your entire body and hold it there. Don't let it waver."

Sweat poured down my face as I closed my eyes and focused. The Veinforge technique came into play again, my mana coursing through me like fire.

I held the flow steady, even as my muscles protested, until Kaine finally called for a break.

But the reprieve was short-lived. He handed me a weighted training sword and instructed me to practice strikes and parries against a moving target—a dummy enchanted to dodge and counter.

Each strike had to be precise, my footwork flawless. Every mistake resulted in a sharp jab from the dummy, leaving bruises in its wake.

"Again!" Kaine shouted, his voice unrelenting. "Faster, sharper. Your sword is an extension of your body—make it move like one."

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, I was spent. My body ached in ways I hadn't thought possible, every muscle screaming for rest.

Dinner that night was a blur. I devoured the food like a starved beast, barely tasting it. My limbs felt heavy, my mind clouded with exhaustion.

Sleep came quickly, pulling me under before I could even think about my usual nightly training.

The next morning, soreness clung to me like a second skin, but I forced myself out of bed. After breakfast, I sought out Lady Celestia.

When I found her, she greeted me with her usual composed smile. "Have you decided?"

"I have," I replied firmly. "I'll agree to your offer—but not yet. I need to finish what I've started here first."

Her smile widened slightly, a glimmer of approval in her eyes. "Very well. I'll wait."

***Marcus POV***

The air in the training yard was still, save for the rhythmic sound of his blade slicing through the wind. Marcus stood alone, his strikes precise but lacking the force he desired.

He tightened his grip on his sword, frustration bubbling under his calm facade.

His thoughts wandered to Elias. The boy was an enigma, always moving with purpose, always carrying out plans that seemed impossibly calculated for someone his age.

What was he after? How did he think so far ahead, as though every step of the future was laid bare before him?

Marcus gritted his teeth, a flicker of envy tightening his chest. "Where does he get that certainty?" he muttered under his breath.

He had trained relentlessly, studied tactics, and honed his swordsmanship, but Elias always seemed... different. Unpredictable. Exceptional.

A sudden voice broke through the haze of his thoughts—a girl's voice, sharp and scathing, ringing out like a whip.

"Useless! That's all you are, Marcus!"

He froze, his pulse quickening. The training yard was gone, replaced by a shadowy, familiar room. His heart sank as he saw her—his Mother, her expression twisted with disdain.

"You're an incompetent, pathetic excuse for a son!" she spat, her voice dripping with venom. "Do you even know the basics of battle? Of strategy? Your brother—"

"Stop," he whispered, but her words bore into him like barbs.

"—your brother is leagues above you in everything. Swords, mana, leadership! What have you done, Marcus? What have you achieved?"

Her words hit harder than any blow he'd taken in training.

Before he could speak, a man stepped forward, his imposing frame casting a long shadow. His father. His cold, unforgiving eyes bore into Marcus, stripping him of any dignity he had left.

"A waste of time," his father growled, his voice like a low thunderclap. "You were supposed to be my pride, Marcus. Instead, I'm stuck with you."

The man's fist connected with Marcus's stomach, and he doubled over, gasping for air.

"You're weak," his father sneered, his voice echoing in the dark void of the room. "I should've had a better son."

As Marcus tried to straighten, another voice cut through the oppressive silence—a voice he knew all too well. His brother.

"Better? I am better," his brother said, stepping into view. His smirk was cruel, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "You're just trash, Marcus. You always have been. I wish I didn't have a brother like you."

Laughter followed, cold and relentless, drilling into his skull. It felt like the walls were closing in, the voices growing louder and louder, suffocating him.

"Stop," Marcus whispered again, his voice barely audible. He clenched his fists, his knuckles white as the voices continued their assault.

"Stop!" he shouted, bolting upright.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his body drenched in sweat.

The dream, or rather the nightmare, still clung to him, its cruel echoes fading slowly. He ran a hand through his damp hair, his chest heaving as he tried to calm himself.

The room was dimly lit, the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the window. He stared at the floor for a moment, his thoughts racing.

"Elias..." he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're my first obstacle."

He sat on the edge of his bed, his fists tightening. His eyes burned with determination, the weight of his family's scorn fueling the fire within him.

"I'll surpass you, Elias," he said, his voice firm now, his resolve unshakable. "And then I'll surpass my brother. I'll prove to them—" his voice faltered for a moment before hardening again, "—I'll prove to them that I'm just as good as him. Better."

The fire in his chest ignited into a roaring inferno. Marcus rose to his feet, his exhaustion forgotten, his fears replaced by a singular goal.

No more doubts. No more shadows.

He would not be second to anyone, not to Elias, not to his brother.

He would rise.