Harsh Training

The Plenituse Form was an enigma even among the most elite sword forms in Spheraphase.

It was a style of combat that combined grace with lethality, elegance with efficiency.

Designed by Lysameria Plenituse Richinaria herself, it revolved around subtle, fluid movements that mimicked the ebb and flow of water, striking with unexpected precision and devastating impact.

Unlike traditional combat styles that focused on raw power or rigid technique, the Plenituse Form was about adaptability and finesse.

Despite its delicate appearance, the form is brutally effective. It emphasizes efficiency, using the least amount of energy to produce maximum damage.

And finally, the practitioner must be in perfect sync with their weapon, treating it as an extension of their body.

The training ground buzzed with the weight of expectation as Lysameria stood before her son, her piercing gaze assessing him, her wooden sword sheathed at her side as she gestured toward Vastarael's wooden glaive.

Lysameria asked her husband to give Vastarael to him for three years. And in three years, she would do nothing but train the art of the form with her.

He agreed but under the condition that after her training, he would take him and teach him about his mage class, since he is a mage as well.

Vastarael was cut off from seeing his sisters or his father. He didn't mind since he also wanted to get stronger. He was a bit worried how his sisters would react without seeing him for three years but...

His mother's words were final.

"If you think absorbing memories will save you effort, think again," she said sharply. "The Plenituse Form is more than just technique. It's about discipline, awareness and harmony between mind and body. You've inherited the movements but you haven't earned them. Not yet."

Vastarael nodded, gripping the glaive tightly. "I understand, Mother."

"Good. Then we begin."

From the very first session, Lysameria made one thing clear: this was not a game. She pushed Vastarael to his limits and beyond, drilling him in the fundamentals until his muscles burned and his lungs screamed for air.

Every day began with grueling exercises. Vastarael ran laps around the training ground, carried weighted bags and a heavier glaive to build strength, and practiced footwork drills that left his legs trembling.

He knew he was strong but he couldn't test his strength in the palace. The walls were extremely durable, even the floors. He could punch a wall and shatter it. That was the strength he was born with.

Now, he realized that he was too weak.

But that was a lie. He was naturally stronger than most Immortals.

Lysameria had him perform movements on narrow beams and slippery surfaces, emphasizing the importance of maintaining control in any environment.

He felt muscles he never knew he had as he balanced. It was agonizing.

"A Plenituse practitioner is unshaken," she reminded him. "The battlefield is chaos.but you must adapt to it. Don't fall!"

But he did.

He fell several times but he never gave up. He got up again and again until he was able to do it.

This took two months.

She also set up targets that moved unpredictably, forcing him to strike with pinpoint accuracy. Each miss earned him a sharp reprimand.

"Your enemy won't wait for you to get it right, Rael!" She barked. "Predict the movements!"

Each target was moving at blinding speeds and he realized why she taught him how to balance.

In one out of ten targets, seven hit him. Each impact was painful but thanks to his mental adaptation to pain, he was used to it.

And then came the sparring.

Lysameria attacked him relentlessly, her strikes fast with no mercy. He had no choice but to parry and deflect, each failed attempt resulting in a painful tap from her wooden training sword.

Even though it was a wooden sword, and that she was seriously holding back, it was very painful.

But what made her truly ruthless was her refusal to allow him to rely solely on his abilities or extracted memories. When she noticed him trying to imitate the movements too perfectly, she called him out.

"You're copying the glaive basics, not owning it!" Lysameria shouted one afternoon, her voice cutting through the air like her sword. "The Plenituse Form isn't just about what you do! It's about how you do it. Make it yours, Vastarael. Otherwise, you'll never master it!"

Despite her harshness, Lysameria saw flashes of brilliance in her son. When Vastarael truly immersed himself in the form, his movements were breathtaking. During one sparring session, he moved instinctively, his strikes flowing together in a way that even surprised Lysameria. For a brief moment, it was as if she were watching herself, her purest form, reflected in him.

That was six months since he started training.

She paused, lowering her sword as he panted heavily, struggling to get up.

"That," she said, her voice softer than before, "is what I'm talking about. You felt it, didn't you?"

Vastarael nodded, his chest heaving. "I… I think so."

"Good." Her lips curved into a rare smile. "Now, do it again. And this time, don't stop until you've perfected it."

Caresse and Opera often observed from the sidelines, their expressions ranging from concern to awe.

"He's remarkable," Caresse murmured one afternoon, her eyes following the graceful arcs of the glaive as it moved in her stepson's hands. "It's been six months and his progress is too fast."

"He's determined," Opera corrected. "Lysameria's training would break most children his age. But Vastarael… he's not just surviving this. He's adapting to it."

Both women agreed, however, that Lysameria's intensity was unmatched.

"She's ruthless," Caresse said with a sigh. "But that's how she shows her love. She finally has someone who shares her technique. I'd do the same if Milliania shared my skills."

Opera smirked. "True. And if Vastarael inherits even half her skill, no one in Spheraphase will stand against him. Her mother's form is the world's strongest weapon form after all."

By the end of his first year, Vastarael's body was sore and his mind overwhelmed. Yet, he never once considered giving up. The Plenituse Form was a connection to his mother, to his lineage and to a legacy that demanded nothing less than perfection.

And he would give it everything he had.

And just like that, the first year as over.

The second year marked a turning point in Vastarael's training. No longer content with drilling fundamentals, Lysameria introduced him to the broader scope of the Plenituse Form, delving into its intricacies and pushing him to adapt to real combat scenarios.

The days began earlier and ended later, often stretching into the dead of night. Vastarael trained relentlessly, often collapsing into his bed only to wake up hours later for another session.

They were in a separate part of the palace where he couldn't access the main buildings. A lot of times, he heard that his sisters sometimes sneaked to watch him but they couldn't interact with him.

And Opera already had twins, who were now a year old.

Lysameria drilled him on combining the Plenituse Form with tactical footwork and reflex training. His glaive became an extension of his body, responding to his instincts rather than conscious thought. To ensure his movements were precise, she blindfolded him and had him strike at moving targets based only on sound and vibrations.

"The enemy won't always let you see them," she said coldly. "But they'll always make a sound. Learn to hear it."

This was his second worst phase of training. Now instead of seven out of ten, nine out of ten blows hit him.

Vastarael's physical endurance was pushed to the limit. Lysameria's immortal subordinates, who were cat-featured Mortals blessed with immortality, sparred with him tirelessly.

Each time he fell, they forced him to rise again. Their speed and agility were unparalleled and their claws left marks on his skin that healed but burned with phantom pain.

Fortunately, he was no stranger to pain.

His mental adaptation to pain was even faster than before. He realized that he was still weak and he pushed on.

Lysameria tested him with glaives of different weights, sizes, and materials, ensuring he could adapt to any situation. She also introduced him to combat against dual-wielders, shield-bearers and even unarmed opponents.

This took another six months.

Vastarael was then thrown into simulated battles against groups of her subordinates. Armed with only his glaive and the barest amount of armor, he learned to navigate multiple enemies at once.

His Arteium regeneration ability saved him more times than he cared to count. Gashes, burns and even fractured bones healed quickly, but the memory of the pain lingered.

He was really thankful of being born as an Aeterium. His durable body and the regeneration that they possess made him withstand the last three months of the second year.

By the third year, Vastarael had reached a level of competence that astonished even his mother.

But Lysameria wasn't satisfied.

She ramped up the intensity, forcing him to spar against students and seasoned veterans alike.

He fought daily matches against Lysameria's subordinates, who were infamous for their brutal efficiency. Their cat-like reflexes and sharp claws made them formidable opponents and they rarely held back. Every sparring session ended with Vastarael battered and bruised, but he emerged stronger each time.

Lysameria's idea of a fair fight was throwing Vastarael into combat against three or more opponents simultaneously.

While wielding his glaive, he learned to use its reach and fluidity to control the battlefield. Slowly, he began to turn the tide, forcing even the most experienced fighters to acknowledge his progress.

Vastarael suffered countless injuries. His fingers were broken and reset, his arms dislocated and his ribs cracked more times than he could count.

But his regeneration ability ensured that he always healed as he slept. By morning, he was already fine. He had no scars or injuries.

This made him fresh for a new beating.

Over time, Vastarael's movements became smoother and more refined. His mastery of the Plenituse Form reached a point where his strikes were as graceful as they were deadly. And his regeneration adepter to the point where he could heal in minutes instead of hours.

During one sparring session, he disarmed an opponent with a fluid spin of his glaive and countered an attack from another with a perfectly timed parry.

His movements were so natural, so effortless, that even Lysameria paused in admiration.

"He's a genius," one of her subordinates murmured, her feline ears twitching in amazement. "No, more than that. And he still haven't learned the forms."

By the end of the third year, Vastarael was nearly unrecognizable from the boy who had started his training.

His body was lean and powerful. He carried the weight of his weapon as if it were an extension of his soul.

Yet the cost was steep.

His nights were haunted by dreams of battle and his days were consumed by the relentless pace of his training. Pain had become a constant companion and though his injuries healed, the memories of them lingered.

But despite it all, Vastarael never wavered. He had given himself to the Plenituse Form, to his mother's vision of perfection, and to the legacy of the Richinarias.

On the final day of his training, Vastarael stood before Lysameria. Lysameria nodded, a rare smile gracing her lips.

"You've done well, my son. More than well. You've proven that the Plenituse Form lives on through you. Now, I'll allow you to use your Memory Extraction to see the four Plenituse Techniques."

Opera and Caresse, who had watched from the sidelines, exchanged glances.

"She's proud of him," Opera whispered.

Caresse nodded. "She should be. He's become everything she hoped for."

Vastarael bowed his head to his mother, his voice steady as he replied, "Thank you, Mother. For everything."

And in that moment, Lysameria knew that her son was not just a practitioner of the Plenituse Form. He was its future.

"And now, you'll have to fight her as your final training."

"Her?"

His eyes widened when he saw a girl his age approaching the training arena. He couldn't hide his shock when he saw who it was.

It was Adelasta Viaca, his betrothed.