Ch.4

Before the Trial of the Beast they needed to pass at the age of nine after summoning their totem beast, Basara children were housed in the servants' quarters, so they learned how common folks lived.

Well, they had a butler taking care of them. However, Caliber was mainly here for his protection.

Assassins from subordinate clans, the Celeste Empire, the Uzel Magic Kingdom, or anyone else who sought to overthrow them could try taking a Basara child's life.

Only a few were crazy enough to attempt this in the Basara family's stronghold, though, not that they'd bother killing the ninth son.

Truly a perk that came with being considered worthless: no assassination attempt.

Red hair fell on his eyes when Erik cleared the table. He pulled them aside.

'Having hair still feels weird.'

In the past, he had constantly shaved his head. Waving his red hair around was like showing he was from the Basara clan. A few other families on Nurmen had red hair, but none could compare with the Basara's flamboyant crimson color.

Annoyed, Erik grabbed a pair of scissors normally used for disemboweling chickens and did a rough job cutting these nuisances short then shoveled the snow at his doorstep and headed out for the training grounds—he cared little about his own appearances so long as it was practical.

Amidst falling snow, grunts of pain and the smell of sweat, Erik saw the cadets training their hardest, sparring amongst themselves, repeating drills until they dropped from fatigue, lifting heavy weights.

The temperature was around -15°C, still, they were all poorly clothed like Erik, it was part of the training. If they hadn't already, they would naturally develop a body type resistant to cold weather or leave.

But unlike a Basara who had a resilient body with an increased resistance to low temperatures, they were normal people.

Erik warmed up, running once around the huge track field, his bare feet on the chilling stone pavement.

None took notice of him, as usual, his popularity as a worthless axeman gave him the "privilege" of silence and indifference.

Then he stopped in a corner. Stones and boulders of different sizes lay next to buckets. Some big, thrice his size, others tiny like fingernails.

He put the smallest ones in two buckets fitting his frame, grabbed one in each hand, and started running again.

Erik had done so every day. No day-long breaks were needed in between training days when you were a cultivator.

An hour passed, gasping for breath, the child lowered the buckets with his already callused palms, channeling the basic martial art unimaginatively named [Warrior's Breath] to help him recover stamina faster and withstand the terrible training regime uncommon for a child this young.

'Better. A year ago, I couldn't even run for thirty minutes. Should I increase the weight tomorrow?'

Taking ragged breaths, he walked to another corner of the training grounds where worn out wooden training dummies have been standing there for who-knows-how-long.

Along the way, he took his time to admire the great tiger head naturally carved in the mountain guarding the stronghold's back.

The stone head's jaw was wide open, as if it was roaring its indomitable spirit to the world.

It was the guardian beast of his clan, the great snow tiger, Munin.

Around him, cadets between 10 and 18 years old kept training with axes as if he was invisible. They didn't even bother stealing glances.

Good, it was better this way.

'It's still a bit cold even after this exercise.'

There would be no mercy during the Trial of the Beast for him if he didn't train his body to bear the cold. He wanted to develop a Cold Resistance body type before the Trial.

That was an absolute requirement.

Erik hurried to his training dummy to break more sweat—even a blessed physique couldn't ward off the Northern continent's freezing weather.

The child arrived beneath a wooden poll four times his size, dusted off the snow hiding recent tiny fist marks amidst scratches and activated [Durability], a low rank martial art that hardened one's bones; something he had practiced thousands of times as a pugilist.

If he didn't channel this martial art, his bones would break because of his harsh training. No sparkly flashy aura manifested atop his skin so no one would notice he used such art.

Erik could not cover the surface of his hands with wyrd before reaching the Manifestation Realm, making it harder to fight armed opponents until then. Weapons naturally increased a warrior's power, be it a cultivator or not. Erik's path was a difficult one for that reason, but not an impossible one. He had done it before, he could do it in this life.

He started hitting the pole. On the outside, he did not complain despite the cold gnawing at his bones and the pain of punching and kicking a hard surface with his tiny hands.

BAM!

'Again.'

BAM!

'Again.'

BAM!

Each time he encouraged himself to continue, hoping, no, certain he'd surpass yesterday's limit, even if it was one more hit, he'd be content but not satisfied.

Never satisfied.

His thirst for glory pushed him further than his body allowed.

Taking brief breaks in between while channeling two Basara secret art, [Soothing Pain] to stop the bleeding, slightly heal his injuries and harden his body one step further, [Soaring Wrath] to extract wyrd from physical exhaustion, anger and pain.

With it, Erik could also feel others' anger and pain as long as they were within arm's reach, a short distance that would increase, eventually. It was also possible to convert those two emotions into wyrd if he was the instigator, the origin.

'Again!'

Elbow, knee, heel, sheen, palms, he threw every technique in his arsenal at the wooden dummy, taking care not to hit too hard, fearing his bones might break even with [Durability], such injury might hinder his training for a day or two.

When his tiny body couldn't handle the required dexterity for such moves and lost balance, he would make minor adjustments to fit his current body.

Erik was supposed to train with a child's axe. However, no matter what the family said, he had decided to train as a pugilist, axemanship would only drag him down considering his talent.

Damn the axe, praise the fists!

And whatever other parts of his body he used in a fight.

Erik stopped delivering a barrage of punches and kicks, instead he launched himself on the pole like a masochist eager for pain.

Abdominals, back, head, he didn't spare any body part, only stopping when his entire body was scathing outside as well as inside.

Two hours passed in the mean time.

'I think that's enough for this morning,' he thought, looking at his bruised sheen, bloodied elbows, shredded knuckles.

Pain was a long-time friend. He still felt it, but embraced the feeling.

If he weren't a cultivator and didn't have access to a supply of healing bandages, Erik wouldn't train that hard, it'd be suicide—well, he was already going easy on himself, if he had the means, he'd break every bone in his body every day, simple healing bandages wouldn't heal such wounds overnight though.

Reaching the early-Bronze tier for his Physique was crucial before nine years old when his family would send him live in the wild for two years; at least that was his goal.

In the Fate System, Physique was graded differently than Agility, Strength and Stamina.

It was harder and took longer to cultivate, partly—but not only—because it had nine known tiers instead of seven like the others.

Wood, Bronze, Stone, Iron, Steel, Titanium, Silverite, Mythril, Durelite.

Like the other physical stats, each tier was separated into three stages, Early, Mid, Late.

The early-Bronze tier was a bare minimum he wanted to reach before nine years old. Only, the resources he had at hands would barely allow Erik to attain his goal if not at all.

Another issue would be accumulating at least 200 wyrd if his physique was to breakthrough to the Bronze tier.

'Alright,' Erik pondered his training regime. 'Strength and agility training this afternoon. But I first need healing, then eat my second breakfast, then cultivate using [Spiritual Requiem] again, and eat my first lunch.'

Intense physical training coupled with his unusually fast growth required a lot of nutrients. Usually he'd eat five meals a day, sometimes six.

He limped by the sparring cadets, suffering from his injuries in silence, looking for signs of his older brother, Ogram, whom he shared the servant quarters with.

'Lazy ass, like usual. He'd train only in the afternoon. Either that, or he is in the Nursery. Well, not that I'll complain. Ogram always plays childish pranks on me.'

Erik took a turn for the alley linking training ground and servant quarters. He couldn't leave or go for a walk elsewhere, because rules.

It was to prevent assassination attempts, or so the family said.

Truth was, they wanted him focused on his training until he turned nine—his butler supposedly supervising.

Any normal child would resent that kind of treatment, but that's all he was asking for.

Eat, train, rest, repeat; and occasional chores, he somehow managed to turn into training sessions.

———

Lore Extract:

"Mana art, aura arts, martial arts, blah-blah-blah arts, etc. arts, they are all cultivation arts. Cultivators categorize them under different names to distinguish their own cultivation arts from others. Why? Kahahaha, pride! Fortunately for us, the Fate System acknowledges it."

—Caliber Wolf

___

System Extract:

Cultivation Art: [Soothing Pain]

Grade: Legendary

Host's Wyrd Cost: Low

Description: Your wyrd is channeled into your injuries, sewing the wounded parts, replacing the useless, and improving your physique one step further.