To Break Before the Rise

Theo left the school grounds without a word and made his way straight home. The moment he arrived, there was no rest—no time wasted. He headed directly for the training grounds nestled behind his family's estate.

There, seated cross-legged in quiet stillness, was Grandmaster Smoke, deep in meditation. Theo stood respectfully at a distance, waiting. Ten minutes passed. Then thirty. Only after a full hour did the Grandmaster finally open his eyes.

"What's the rush, young master?" Smoke said, voice calm like drifting ash. "Your session isn't scheduled until later today."

Theo met his gaze, conviction burning in his eyes. "I need to get stronger. Only you can help me do that."

Smoke raised a brow. "Aren't you plenty strong already?"

Theo's fists clenched, knuckles whitening. His head bowed low. "No. I'm weak. And I have much more to learn."

A small smile ghosted across Smoke's lips. "Good," he said. "Then let the real training begin."

From the ring on his finger, Smoke summoned a smooth metal ball—silver, dense, and perfectly round. He held it out toward Theo.

"Keep this afloat. With your mana alone."

Theo nodded without question. Mana pulsed gently around him, and the ball rose, hovering steadily above his open palm. It was heavier than it looked—but not unbearable.

"Not too heavy, right?" Smoke said knowingly, reading Theo's thoughts with uncanny accuracy.

"Then what about two more?"

With a flick of his wrist, Smoke tossed two additional spheres into the air. Theo caught them with his mana, straining to maintain control as the weight tripled. His forehead beaded with sweat, but the spheres remained aloft.

"Good," Smoke said, watching carefully. "Now… make them spin."

Theo blinked, confused. "Spin?"

"In a loop," Smoke clarified. "They should chase each other. Constant motion. Like orbiting stars."

Understanding clicked into place. Theo adjusted his control. Slowly, the spheres began to move—halting at first, then gradually finding rhythm, spinning around each other in precise, fluid arcs.

Minutes passed. Then more. Theo's sweat dripped onto the stone floor beneath him, his breath growing heavier with every second. The floating took a toll—but the spinning... that required real control.

"Now for the hard part," Smoke said, his tone shifting.

He tossed Theo a wooden training spear.

"If the spheres fall, you'll be punished. If they stop spinning, you'll be punished. Understood?"

Theo nodded, gripping the spear.

"Good."

Without warning, Smoke lunged. His wooden staff came down in a clean arc. Theo raised his spear just in time, catching the blow. The impact vibrated up his arms. He deflected, twisted, and retaliated—but Smoke had already shifted, catching the counter with fluid grace.

The sun was barely touching the edge of the sky, casting long shadows across the polished stone floor of the training ground. Dust swirled in the still air, golden flecks dancing in the shafts of light. Theo stood still, the smooth metal training spear resting at his side. Floating above him were the three silver orbs, held aloft by threads of focused mana. They spun slowly, orbiting one another like moons caught in gravitational pull — steady, delicate, precise.

Smoke stood opposite him, barefoot and silent, his weathered robe brushing the earth like mist. He moved first.

A blur. No warning. Just motion.

Theo barely raised his spear in time to meet the descending arc of Smoke's open palm. The clap of impact cracked the air like a branch snapping under weight. The force transferred through Theo's arms, threatening to unbalance him, but he held — grounding his heels, sliding one foot back to anchor his weight.

The orbs wobbled in their orbit.

Smoke didn't stop. He slid inside Theo's guard, pivoted with a dancer's grace, and aimed a sweeping leg at the back of Theo's knee. Theo lifted his leg just in time, hopping over the sweep, rotating midair, and bringing the butt of the spear around in a wide arc toward Smoke's ribs.

But the Grandmaster was gone.

Theo's spear hit only air.

A rush of movement behind him. He spun—too slow. Smoke's fingers struck his side in a five-point tap, precise and surgical. Theo gasped as his mana channels flared in rebellion — one of the orbs dipped in the air, its rotation faltering.

Strike one.

Theo ignored the pain, let instinct take hold. He adjusted his grip — left hand forward, right hand loose — and launched a thrust that blurred with speed. Smoke parried with his wrist, barely touching the spear, deflecting it off-course with maddening ease.

They traded motions — slash, block, feint, strike — in a rhythm too fast for untrained eyes to follow. Feet glided over stone, robes fluttered, and the whisper of steel broke the air in sharp slashes.

Sweat beaded on Theo's brow.

He dipped low, twisted into a rising strike aimed for Smoke's shoulder. This time, he caught the Grandmaster off rhythm. The spear grazed cloth—then Smoke vanished from his sight again.

A fist met Theo's gut with crushing precision.

He stumbled back, coughing, knees weak. The orbs above him trembled — the rotation hesitated, then steadied.

Not yet, he thought. I'm not done yet.

He spun the spear once around his wrist, flipped it behind his back, and launched a series of sweeping strikes — alternating low and high, laced with feints, eyes locked on Smoke's chest, not his hands.

Smoke smiled.

He ducked under one, caught the shaft between two fingers, and twisted. Theo's hands nearly lost grip. He turned with the twist, using it to pivot into a shoulder strike, driving forward with a roar.

They collided.

Theo's muscles screamed. His breath burned. The orbs spun above him, faster now — stabilizing under pressure.

Then Smoke broke the rhythm with a palm to Theo's heart.

A flash of pain.

The orbs stopped.

A surge of mana backlash flooded Theo's nerves. He dropped to one knee, eyes wide, chest heaving.

Smoke looked down at him, expression unreadable.

"You're improving," he said simply. "But not enough."

And just like that, the Grandmaster turned, vanishing into the wind-swept courtyard, leaving Theo in silence beneath the circling sky.

Theo, still sprawled on the floor, bowed his head weakly. When he looked up, Grandmaster Smoke was already gone—vanished like mist on a breeze.

"Allison," he murmured.

A quiet voice answered. "Yes, young master?"

Theo looked toward the hallway—and there she was. One of the estate's silent attendants, dressed in muted tones, her presence nearly ghostlike.

"Can you bring me to my room?"

She nodded, stepped forward, and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Space twisted.

In an instant, they arrived in his bedroom.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Anytime, young master," Allison replied. And with that, she disappeared.

Theo rose slowly, dragging himself to the bathroom. He let the water wash the day's pain from his skin, steam curling around his bruises and cuts. When he emerged, clean but sore, he picked up a familiar book and began to read, letting the words soothe him until the time came.

Then, he sat. Legs crossed. Back straight.

And he began to cultivate.

Meanwhile at Stella's House 

Stella stood facing her father, her posture tense, her body clad in a sleek, form-fitting training suit.

"We focused on combat at the start," Shaka said, arms crossed. "It built your body, taught you how to move—but time is short. We're shifting focus to your cultivation."

His voice was stern, but there was urgency behind it.

"Body training means refining every part of yourself to withstand mana's force. We take it step by step. Move too quickly, and your body could suffer damage it may not recover from."

He raised a finger.

"The first step is skin refinement. The fastest method I know is the masochist method—controlled self-inflicted damage, followed by accelerated healing using magic. We must rely on your body's natural healing process. Artificial healing won't yield the necessary results. And to get to the ultimate level, we'll need to repeat this process thousands of times."

"Ultimate level?" Stella asked, already bracing herself.

"Each Tier has levels," Shaka explained. "In order: Minimum, Average, Genius, Monster, and Ultimate."

"And why do those matter?"

Instead of answering immediately, Shaka walked toward the wall behind him. Pressing his palm against the surface, he infused it with mana. Swirling patterns bloomed outward like ink in water, unlocking a hidden doorway.

The wall opened—revealing a vast underground library. Rows upon rows of books stretched out into the distance, their spines whispering secrets of power, history, and fate.

Stella's jaw dropped. "How… how did you hide all this down here?"

"We didn't," Shaka said, stepping inside. "The library isn't here. It's linked to another space, one more secure—and far older."

He ran a hand along one of the shelves. "Your mother and I will need this place more often in the days ahead. And now, so will you."

"What's coming?" Stella asked quietly. "You call it the Resurgence. But what does it really mean?"

Shaka looked at her for a long moment, then turned away. "Are you ready to begin training?"

Stella frowned. "You're dodging the question."

"I am."

She pouted. But she knew she wouldn't get the answer yet.

"Your suit's healing functions are about to shift," Shaka continued. "It will still repair you—but you'll feel the accelerated healing. It's... itchy."

Stella rolled her shoulders. "I can handle a little scratch."

A smirk tugged at the corner of Shaka's lips. "We'll see."

He walked over to a long closet and opened it, revealing rows of weapons—blades, staffs, whips, and more. After browsing for a moment, he selected a thick, weighted club.

"Blunt weapons work best for this. We'll start here."

Stella began to sweat. She took an involuntary step back.

"Don't get nervous now," Shaka said, hefting the club easily. "It's only going to get worse."

And then he struck—not hard enough to break bones, not on anything vital, but with enough force to bruise, to tear, to hurt. Her skin flared in pain... and then began to itch.

The training had begun.

Damn. How is this training? Stella thought, biting back a groan as the club slammed into her shoulder. This feels like an excuse for him to hit me.

Shaka looked down at his daughter, face calm and unreadable as he delivered another strike. But inside, he winced. If only she knew how much this pains me.

Every blow that landed tore at Stella's skin. The pain was one thing—but the healing was worse. As the mana-infused suit triggered her recovery, it felt as though thousands of ants crawled beneath her skin, rebuilding the tissue from within. Her face contorted, her lips trembling, but no sound escaped her mouth. She refused to scream.

The hours passed in a haze of torment, pain, and silence. Her consciousness dulled, her eyes glassy and distant. Still, she stood—until she couldn't.

Eventually, Shaka lowered his weapon. "We'll leave it here for today," he said. "You need to eat. Healing takes energy, and you've burned through more than you think. Your mother has likely prepared something mana-rich to aid your recovery."

Stella groaned, collapsed on the floor. Every muscle ached. Her limbs twitched. Still, she forced herself to rise. Her body shook as she climbed to her feet. Shaka stepped forward to help her—but stopped himself short, pulling his hand back.

This is her path. She must walk it. Every drop of sweat she sheds here is one less drop of blood spilled on the battlefield.

He watched silently as she staggered up the stairs.

When Stella reached the kitchen, her mother was just placing the final dish on the table.

"Right on time," Nyasha said with a warm smile, gesturing to the seat nearest to her. "Sit. You must be exhausted."

Stella slumped into the chair. Across from her sat Shaka, calm and composed—the same man who had just beaten her half to death. She blinked. When did he get here? I didn't hear him at all.

Nyasha began piling food onto Stella's plate. "Eat," she instructed. "You've got more of this training ahead of you. You'll need your strength."

Too drained to speak, Stella simply nodded and began to eat. Her body, though weary, welcomed the warmth and energy of the mana-infused meal.

Shaka and Nyasha joined her in eating. The table was silent—no conversation, no comfort. Only the quiet clink of utensils on ceramic.

Once Stella was nearly finished, Shaka finally broke the silence.

"Your night isn't over yet," he said. "When you're done, go to the library and brush up on some common knowledge. We don't have time for me to walk you through everything, so you'll need to read on your own. If you have questions, you know how to reach me."

Stella perked up at the thought. Finally, something I can do myself. If I study enough, I won't have to ask Theo. I can even help Rachel. I wonder if they have tomes or something rare—something valuable.

"Did you hear me?" Shaka's voice cut sharply through her thoughts.

She blinked and quickly nodded. "Yes."

"Good," he replied. "I'll be meditating in my room." He stood, placed his plate in the sink, and walked silently upstairs.

Stella glanced at her mother. "What's with him? I was the one getting beaten all day."

Nyasha gave a tired smile. "It's not you. It's work. He had a rough day."

That caught Stella's interest. "Speaking of work… I'm guessing Dad doesn't actually work in an office, does he?"

Nyasha chuckled softly. "No. Your father works for an organization that oversees all cultivators in this realm. They keep peace and contain threats. But with the Resurgence coming, the threats are growing… and they're stronger than before."

Her expression darkened.

"Back then, the strongest we'd see were at Peak Normal Rank. Now… we're facing beings at Monster Rank. Imagine that—a Tier 3 Monster Rank beast. But I'm sorry. You don't even know what that means yet. Go down to the library. We can talk more tomorrow."

Her voice trailed off. She stood and began quietly clearing the table, fatigue clinging to her like a shroud.

Stella rose and headed toward the basement. Her legs still wobbled, but she pressed on. At the end of the stairwell stood the wall. She placed both hands on it, mimicking her father's movements.

No swirling patterns appeared this time. No symbols. Instead, the wall simply parted—two massive slabs sliding open like ancient stone gates.

And there it was again: the library.

Endless rows of shelves stretched into the distance, filled with books of every shape and kind. Her mouth parted slightly in awe. How does something so vast even fit down here?

She took a few tentative steps in, wondering where to start.

At that thought, the shelves in front of her began to shift, sliding and reordering themselves with uncanny grace. The section directly ahead was now labeled:

"Basics to Cultivation."

Her eyes widened. It reacts to my thoughts?

Curious, she thought again. What about the most powerful spells here?

Once more, the shelves shifted.

This time, the section in front of her read:

"Tier 3 Spells."

She reached toward one of the books, but before her fingers could graze its spine, a force repelled her like a hammer. She was launched backward—slamming into a shelf behind her with a dull thud.

She groaned, but to her surprise, she stood quickly. No broken bones. Not even bruised ribs. The earlier beatings must have hardened her more than she thought.

Message received. Not yet.

She dusted herself off and returned to the Basics shelf. After skimming through the titles, she selected a volume titled:

"The Cultivation System of the Realms."

She opened it.

The words pulled her in instantly. The more she read, the more pieces began falling into place—the levels, the tiers, the body refinements, the realms beyond her own.

She didn't even realize when her eyes grew heavy.

Moments later, her head drooped forward, resting gently between the pages. The book cradled her like a pillow.

And beneath the soft glow of the library's light, Stella drifted into sleep, surrounded by knowledge older than kings and deeper than time.