Chapter 3 – Lessons from the Mentors (Part 1)

Mornings at the Argwager family residence never forgave laziness. Before the rooster crowed or the servants opened the curtains, I was already standing in the hard, cold training yard. My breath formed steam in the air, the soles of my feet felt frozen, and both my hands tightly gripped a wooden sword heavier than an eight-year-old should possess. In front of me, Master Orvin stood like an ancient warrior statue. Straight. Steadfast. Never looking like an ordinary human. His skin was rough like the hide of a tempered dragon, and his voice... if it could be compared, it was like a mix of thunder trapped inside a steel barrel.

"You hold it like you're about to dance, not fight," he said in a flat tone. "Repeat. Fifty times." And I repeated. Without protest. Because in Master Orvin's training, every word of rebuttal was a direct ticket to additional punishment.

Time and again I struck the air, slashing with the techniques he taught. Foot position, hip rotation, swing direction. Everything had to be perfect. "It's not strength that kills your enemy, but precision," he once said. I still remember the quote he uttered afterwards, "Sadgard Invalen, the great swordsman of circle 8 from the Alven continent, once said: 'A thousand days to train, ten thousand days to master.' You haven't even touched your hundredth day." Sadgard. I had heard of him. And that quote slapped me elegantly. Because it was true. I didn't just want to be strong. I wanted to be sharp. Like a needle. Like a needle that knows exactly where to pierce. Morning sword training wasn't just shaping my body. It was shaping my conviction. I learned that my body was a tool, and my mind was a compass.

After sweat flowed and my body almost collapsed, Master Orvin finally nodded slowly. "Bathe. You smell like defeat," he said, then simply left.

....

The second session of the day was with Magistra Elaira. A seemingly calm sorceress, yet full of inner pressure that seemed to flow from her sharp, black eyes like old ink. I sat in a warm study room filled with the aroma of herbal candles. A small crystal ball floated in the air, and a magic book lay open wide before me. "Today we learn to form mana circuits in the air," she said, raising her hand. Magic symbols glowed in the air like streaks of light. Complex. Beautiful. Frightening.

"Mana is the voice of the heart that you translate into the language of the world," she stated. "If your soul is chaotic, then your magic will be chaotic. You must regulate your breath, feelings, and purpose."

I tried. Many times. My first rune failed. My second rune—exploded like a water balloon. My third rune... almost made it. Elaira simply nodded, then opened a thick magic tome and redrew the diagram. "You know, Socrates, a circle 8 wizard, master of the dark age tower, once said, 'I know that I know nothing.' And that made him wise. What differentiates you from a foolish child is not the number of your mistakes, but the awareness of your mistakes."

Slowly, I began to understand that magic wasn't just an art. It was a conversation between will and reality. And sometimes, reality doesn't want to hear you if you're not paying attention. Our lesson that day lasted almost two hours. My hands trembled. My soul was weary. But when I managed to form one full circuit and lit a candle from across the room, I saw Elaira smile. Faint. But real. "That's just the beginning," she said.

That night, I mused on the balcony of my room. Pondering the long day. About mistakes. About small successes that felt like big victories. The training today, the previous days, and the days after, all must be recorded, remembered, and made into important lessons. All of this is a gradual process towards the goal I have set for the future. In the sky, the moon hung like a silent overseer of all who learn on Earth. And I promised, in my heart: To achieve my dreams, I must become someone capable of changing the world.

But first, I must change myself.