Chapter 6 – Determination

The stone corridor was silent, save for the faint echo of Luke's footsteps. He walked with his hands clasped behind his back, posture dignified, chin raised, and eyes distant. But internally, a tempest brewed.

"So, this is the cultivation world of legends…" he thought, eyes scanning the flickering torchlight. "A sect with floating candles, broomsticks, and staircases with an identity crisis…"

He frowned, disappointed. He had dreamed of mountains shrouded in mist, of elders who coughed blood and spat wisdom, and hidden valleys echoing with divine chants. Instead, he found a castle where the most terrifying danger was tripping on a mischievous staircase and getting scared shitless by ghosts.

He sighed deeply.

"Technology… cultivation… two different paths but same destination. At least I expected cultivation to look impressive," he muttered under his breath. "Where are the flying swords? The pill refinement cauldrons? The soul-sealing bamboo scrolls?!"

Luke rubbed his temples, frustrated. "Perhaps… I was simply too naïve. I assumed this world had matured in its dao. But maybe… this land was never meant to be from the beginning."

He remembered the tales passed down from the other worlds, the cultivation realms that existed for millennia or even millions of years, where legends forged heavens with a single palm strike. Compared to those, this so-called "magical" society felt like a curious toddler playing with sticks and calling it swordplay.

And the magical energy… so weak, so thin in the air, like trying to drink soup with a fork.

His steps slowed.

"…What am I even supposed to do now?"

He stopped in front of a tall door. A brass handle shaped like a snake curled around an emerald gem. Luke didn't knock and simply pushed the door open.

Inside, the chamber was warm. A fire crackled softly in the hearth. One bed stood neatly made in the corner and another was clearly already claimed, robes carefully folded beside it. A wooden bookshelf, half-filled with textbooks and the other half with what appeared to be romance novels, stood against the far wall.

His mother sat on an armchair near the fire with her back straight, posture regal, and a thick book balanced in one hand and a porcelain teacup in the other.

Luke stood in the doorway, staring at her.

He didn't say anything at first.

She didn't look up. "Close the door before the cold sneaks in."

He blinked, then obeyed.

Once the door clicked shut, he cleared his throat.

"This young master has returned from his inspection of the sect's–"

PONK!

A hardcover tome landed squarely on his head. Not enough to injure, just enough to humble.

"Ow!" Luke winced, rubbing the spot.

Elizabeth lowered her book and arched a brow. "What did I say about bringing that nonsense persona back into this room?"

Luke pouted, shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry, mother…"

He shuffled toward his bed and sat with a sigh, looking more like a mopey preteen than a celestial prodigy.

Then, after a few seconds, he muttered. "I'm happy you're here, although I didn't know the sect contacted you."

Elizabeth smiled back at him, studied him for a moment, then softened. "Tough day?"

He didn't answer right away. Just fiddled with the hem of his robe.

"I… I thought it would be different," he finally admitted. "I thought coming here, to this sect, would be a turning point, that I'd meet fellow cultivators or that I'd find people who… understood the path."

Elizabeth put her book down and walked over, taking the seat beside him.

"But instead…" Luke's voice lowered, almost a whisper, "They're all frogs in a well. Obsessed with bloodlines. Proud of their ancient castles and candlelight as if it's the pinnacle of power. They… they're happy with stagnation."

He looked down at his hands.

"I thought I'd cultivate alongside you. But it turns out… this is a world where you can only follow the path if you're born with the right spark. It's not like the other worlds…"

Elizabeth rested a hand on his.

"There are many ways to cultivate, Luke. Maybe this world doesn't follow your expectations. Maybe it's messier or less dramatic. But that doesn't mean your path isn't real."

Luke chuckled bitterly. "Tell that to the talking hat that threw me in a snake pit."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "It threw you in a house of status-obsessed teenagers… That's… well, at least it's full of young masters and young ladies..."

Luke chuckled faintly.

"I suppose the act of pretending to be a young master might have helped," he mused. "They accepted me quickly. Though I sense they all want collars and leashes… obsessed with blood and name. It's pathetic."

"They want to be pureblood puppies?" Elizabeth asked, raising a brow.

"I would say… yes. Elegant, bigoted puppies." Said Luke, gesturing with his hand as if he were patting the little animal.

Elizabeth laughed, ruffling his hair. "I raised you well."

They talked for a while longer, the flames flickering as shadows danced across the walls.

Eventually, the conversation faded.

Luke changed into his nightclothes. The room darkened. He lay in bed, facing the ceiling. Eyes wide open.

He wasn't afraid. Not exactly. Well, yes…

He was uncertain and restless, with many more emotions…

Everything was changing, and the future loomed with questions he had no answers for and dangers he was not prepared for.

The mattress shifted beside him. Elizabeth had climbed into his bed, pulling him gently into her arms.

"Mama…" he whispered.

"I know," she murmured, stroking his hair. "You're strong. So strong. But even strong boys get scared sometimes."

He didn't reply. Just closed his eyes.

Elizabeth held him tighter.

She knew her son, knew his brilliance and his intelligence. But she also knew she was only a human, a normal, powerless woman in a world of magic and danger.

And that terrified her.

Because she couldn't protect him.

All she could do was be there.

Luke trembled slightly in her arms, so softly she almost didn't notice. But she did.

And she said nothing.

Because sometimes, the only words that matter are the ones left unspoken.

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No Pain, no Strength

Before dawn's pale fingers could touch the turrets of Hogwarts, Luke TianLong Heaven-Smith stood alone on the mist-shrouded lawn. His breath rolled out in silver plumes as he stretched his limbs.

"Today," he whispered, "the Dao of Body shall be tested."

In the past, his exercises had been gentle, like sun salutations in the park and fingertip push-ups on a stone rail. These movements were just enough to awaken his spirit, without ever draining his youthful energy. But here, in the sect's embrace, he would abandon restraint. With Dumbledore's support, he had nothing to fear. He could simply order medicines to assist his practice.

He bowed to the silent castle, gripping the chill grass beneath his bare feet. Then, without another thought, he launched into motion.

Stance Training

He assumed a low horse stance, muscles trembling. His inner qi flowed, but his legs quaked beneath the weight of discipline. "My body, an instrument," he reminded himself. For two full minutes he held there, breath steady, sweat beading along his hairline. When his knees threatened to buckle, he willed them stronger, until finally he rose, shaking, but undefeated. Dynamic Movement

He sprinted laps around the courtyard's perimeter, each footfall measured, each breath controlled. The wind bit at his lungs; his vision swam with exertion. He nearly collapsed more than once, but each time he murmured, "Pain is but proof of potential," and forced another step. Core Tempering

At the stone fountain's edge, he launched into fifty crushing sit‑ups without pause. His abs burned; his back ached. Still he counted each motion, pivoting slowly, forging endurance in fire. By the fortieth, his body shook with exhaustion, but his will remained resolute. Strength Forging

He dropped into twenty push-ups—two dozen more than he had ever attempted at home. His arms trembled, and his face brushed against the cold flagstones with each descent. By push-up number eighteen, his elbows buckled, and he gasped, his chest heaving for air. Face down, he tapped the ground once, gathered every ounce of strength, and with a roar, powered up into the final two reps.

When his hands left the ground the last time, his arms wobbled like saplings in a storm. He allowed himself a fleeting smile of triumph.

A Mother's Worried Discovery

Back in the warm chamber, Elizabeth stirred. She reached for the slender bedside clock and blinked.

"Luke?" she called softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Luke, dear?"

Silence answered her as the room grew thick and heavy, settling into an unsettling stillness. The window stood open, with curtains billowing gently like silent warning flags. At the foot of her bed lay a single note, written in neat script:

"Morning cultivation. I build the Dao through flesh. Do not worry. 

Your favorite Young Master."

Her heart fluttered as she unfolded the paper with trembling fingers. Realizing there was no time to linger, she rose, draped her robe over her shoulders, and hurried outside.

As distant pounding echoed across the courtyard, she hurried toward the noise. When she rounded a crenelated tower, she beheld her son already in motion.

There he was, pouring the last vestiges of his young strength into another set of push-ups. His robe had been cast aside, and now only a simple tunic clung to his torso. Sweat gleamed on every contour of his slender frame.

Elizabeth's breath caught as she watched him transition seamlessly from one exercise to the next, moving through lunges, pull ups on an unseen ledge, and burpees that sent him skimming across the grass. Each movement was precise, ruthless, and inexorable.

When he sprinted again, his legs quivered like springs on the verge of collapse. At one point, he stumbled and fell against the dirt floor; yet, without hesitation, he wrenched himself upright, his face pale and his eyes aflame.

Elizabeth's motherly instinct surged, and she tried to lift her voice, trembling, but no sound came out.

Luke shook his head as he tried to shake off the fatigue; his inner voice was strained but determined. "I must… I must grow stronger."

Tears welled in Elizabeth's eyes as memories flooded back. She saw the little boy hunched over his books for hours with eyes red from exhaustion, refusing to rest. He had pushed himself so hard that he needed special eye drops. She remembered the countless nights she spent coaxing him to sleep. Her heart ached with a mixture of pride and fear.

In that moment, Elizabeth realized she had never truly understood her son's determination. While she only saw a child playing and imagining things, he saw a goal he had to achieve at all costs.

She did not know how to deal with the situation, how to support him, or what to do, and that terrified her.

Yet here he was, punishing his body as though it were a sacrificial altar. She wanted to intervene, to cradle him and shield him from this self-inflicted torment, but her legs would not move.

Dumbledore's Vigil

Unbeknownst to them, from the highest turret window, Albus Dumbledore observed the courtyard below. His half-moon spectacles caught the first blush of dawn as he watched a lone figure moving with relentless purpose across the pale flagstones."So much will," he murmured. "Even Tom Riddle never displayed such relentless devotion."

Dumbledore's chest swelled with both admiration and concern. He had trained many prodigies in his time, guiding numerous gifted children who wielded power long before they understood mercy. He had even witnessed Tom Riddle shape himself into Lord Voldemort, a talent so formidable that it had toppled entire nations. Yet Luke's determination surpassed everything Dumbledore had encountered. This was not raw ambition. It was something far deeper. It was what he had always believed to be the most powerful magic of all: love.

Shifting his gaze slightly, Dumbledore looked toward Elizabeth Heaven Smith. Her hair was gathered in its signature elegant bun, and her eyes remained fixed on the courtyard below, as though she could feel each thunderous strike. Her lips, drawn tight with fear, formed a pale, unyielding line.

He turned away from the window, his resolve hardening."I have done right," he whispered into the empty room. "Because if something were to happen to her, the chosen one would break, and the world would be consumed by a nightmare."

Facing the gathering dawn, he drew a breath."Thank heavens Elizabeth remains. Here, she can be safe. No… she must be protected."

---------

Luke pressed on through a final series of handstand push-ups. His vision blurred, and each heartbeat pounded like a drumroll of catastrophe.

His muscles no longer responded. He toppled forward, landing face first in the dew-moistened grass, while every nerve in his body burned with exhaustion.

He lay still as his chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. The world wavered above him. Lights flickered through the mist, the morning fog drifted lazily across the grounds, and a single droplet of dew glistened on the edge of a nearby blade of grass.

He tried to rise, but his limbs felt impossibly heavy, and his thoughts reeled in a daze.

Then, at last, understanding dawned. He could not continue alone. He needed help.

A rush of footsteps broke through the quiet. Elizabeth dropped beside him, her eyes wide with fear.

Without speaking, she wrapped her arms around him, lifted his limp form into her embrace, and carried him back toward the castle with unsteady urgency.

Luke remained silent. He let himself be carried, while pain and gratitude swelled within his chest like twin tides colliding.

In the infirmary, Madam Pomfrey hurried forward as soon as they entered.

"What on earth happened here?" she cried, her eyes widening at the sight of his trembling body.

"He… he was training," Elizabeth answered, her voice strained and trembling.

Pomfrey raised her wand and scanned him with a soft murmur. Her expression grew pale with alarm.

"Every muscle is torn. How could this possibly have happened?"

She turned quickly and reached for a shelf, where she grabbed a small vial.

Luke stirred. His eyes opened slowly.

In a voice barely above a whisper, yet filled with quiet resolve, he said, "Madam… I must grow strong."

Pomfrey froze for a moment, her brow creased in thought. "You are right. If I give you a standard restorative potion, your body will heal quickly, but the strain will have been for nothing. Your muscles will not gain anything from the damage."

Luke forced himself upright, swaying slightly. "Then give me something different. Please… change it."

Pomfrey's eyes shimmered as she hesitated. She waited through two long heartbeats before placing a slender vial in his hand.

Luke drank it without complaint, though his body shuddered as the magic took hold.

In the end, she had chosen a potion that would not erase the pain, but would allow his body to recover through its own effort. The healing would be slow, yet it would strengthen him in ways no shortcut ever could.

Comfort in the Midnight Hour

He lay back trembling as Elizabeth sat beside him in silence. When Madam Pomfrey opened the door, she whispered that the ward must rest, yet upon seeing Elizabeth's determined expression, she only nodded and slipped away quietly.

Elizabeth reached for Luke's hand, and he opened his eyes full of fierceness and pride, though now softened by exhaustion. "Mother," he rasped, "please do not look so sorrowful."

She forced a small smile and replied that even champions needed their rest. He squeezed her hand and said, "Then smile. After all, I am only doing what I want."

Her lips curved into a genuine grin as tears glistened in her eyes. "Tomorrow I will train by your side," she promised. "Although I don't think I can keep up with you."

He gave a gentle nod before his eyes drifted closed.