26. TRAINING - 2

Training Grounds

Three weeks had passed since Arthur began his grueling physical training under Owen. Each day started with running laps around the Nolan estate grounds, carrying weighted packs on his back that seemed to grow heavier by the day. Following the runs were strength drills: lifting boulders, flipping massive logs, and pulling ropes tied to sleds loaded with iron. The final task, however, was always the same—attempting to lift Owen's massive great sword from the ground.

Every week, Arthur tried, and every week, he failed.

Owen had noticed something peculiar during these weeks: Arthur's recovery rate was nothing short of miraculous. No matter how exhausted or injured he was by the end of the day, Arthur always returned the next morning looking like he had rested for a week.

"You're healing unnaturally fast," Owen commented one day, his sharp eyes narrowing.

Arthur grunted as he flipped a massive log. That damned skill, he thought. It was the Blessing of the Sun, constantly working in the background, accelerating his recovery whenever he was exposed to sunlight. At first, Arthur was ecstatic about its passive benefits. But now? He cursed its effects. The faster he recovered, the harder Owen pushed him.

"Don't slack, brat! Another ten laps!" Owen's voice cut through the air like a whip.

Arthur sighed but obeyed, the massive weights on his shoulders threatening to crush him. His grumbles were drowned out by the pounding of his boots on the dirt track.

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Six Months Later.....

Half a year into his training, Arthur stood before the training grounds, his body transformed. His once-frail physique had become a canvas of chiseled muscle. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick with sinew, and his chest rippled with the strength he had painstakingly built. Even his face had matured—his jawline sharper, his cheekbones more defined. He wasn't just strong; he looked the part of a young noble destined for greatness.

The sun beamed down on him, and his Blessing of the Sun worked its quiet magic. He flexed his fingers and took a deep breath, feeling the raw power coursing through his veins. His growth over these months was nothing short of astonishing.

"Alright, brat," Owen said, standing nearby with his arms crossed. "It's that time again. Go on, give it a shot."

Arthur approached the great sword buried deep into the ground, its hilt glinting in the sunlight. This was his weekly ritual—to test himself against the immovable weapon. He gripped the hilt, his fingers tightening around the cold steel.

"Don't embarrass yourself," Owen muttered, though there was a flicker of anticipation in his eyes.

Arthur closed his eyes, focused his breathing, and pulled. The ground resisted him, the weight of the sword defying his every effort. His muscles screamed, veins bulging against his skin. For a moment, it seemed like he would fail again.

But then, with a triumphant roar, the sword broke free from the earth, sending dirt and rocks flying in every direction. Arthur stumbled back, holding the massive blade aloft. His chest heaved, sweat dripping from his brow.

"I… did it," he said, disbelief and pride mingling in his voice.

Owen's lips curved into a sharp grin, his eyes glinting with something akin to satisfaction.

"Not bad, brat," Owen said, though his voice betrayed the pride he felt. "Took you six months. Thought it would take a year at least."

Arthur, still catching his breath, shot him a mischievous grin. "Guess I'm better than you thought, old man."

Owen smirked but said nothing. His thoughts, however, were racing.

He's monstrous, Owen thought. To pull that sword out in just six months… And he hasn't even awakened yet. His talent in runes has already has gained attention of my big brother Victor. If this is what he can do now, what will he become after his awakening?

For a moment, Owen's gaze softened. He was Arthur's uncle, though the boy didn't know it. Victor Nolan had insisted on keeping it a secret. Owen himself had agreed—it was better for Arthur to see him as a strict instructor than a family member who might show him leniency.

"Listen up," Owen said, his tone firm. "Starting tomorrow, your official sword training begins. No more running and lifting logs. Now, you'll learn how to fight like a real warrior."

Arthur's eyes lit up with excitement. "Finally!" he said, a mischievous sparkle in his gaze. "I thought you'd never stop making me do manual labor."

Owen's grin widened. "Don't get cocky, brat. You're still years away from being able to touch me in a fight."

"We'll see," Arthur shot back, his confidence growing with each passing day.

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Meanwhile, in White Coal City

Sebastian, disguised as Kael, walked through the bustling streets of White Coal City, his red and blue warrior robes fluttering in the breeze. His fame had spread like wildfire after his heroic defense of the city during the beast tide. Now, he was heading to the baron's office, summoned by the lord himself.

The office was a grand room adorned with ornate furniture and tapestries. The baron, a rotund man with a greedy glint in his eyes, sat behind a massive oak desk. He gestured for Kael to sit, his tone oily and overly familiar.

"Kael," the baron said, leaning forward. "You've done this city a great service. The people speak of you as a hero."

Kael inclined his head politely. "I did what needed to be done, my lord."

"Yes, yes, very noble of you," the baron said, waving a hand dismissively. "But let's talk business. Your efforts have been commendable, but they've also disrupted… certain operations."

Kael raised an eyebrow. "Operations?"

The baron's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You see, the beast tides drive demand for equipment—armor, weapons, provisions. If you keep saving the day, the people won't feel the need to stock up. And that's bad for business."

Kael's expression didn't change, but a cold glint appeared in his eyes.

"What are you suggesting, my lord?"

The baron leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. "I'm suggesting you take a step back. Let the tides run their course. The people will panic, they'll buy more equipment, and everyone profits. Including you, of course, if you play along."

For a moment, the room was silent. Then Kael smiled—a cold, predatory smile that sent a chill down the baron's spine.

"My lord," Kael said softly, his tone almost mocking. "I'm afraid you are misunderstand. I serve the people, not your pocketbook. And I'm certain a man of your stature wouldn't want a subordinate like me."

The baron's face darkened, but Kael didn't give him a chance to respond. Rising from his seat, Kael inclined his head respectfully before turning and walking out of the office, leaving the baron fuming.

As Kael stepped into the sunlight, his smile widened. "finally found a sacrificial lamb".

Soon the night descended over White Coal City, the streets grew eerily quiet, the usual bustle of merchants and townsfolk silenced by the veil of darkness. Inside the baron's mansion, all was still—except for the faint sounds of breathing emanating from the chambers of the man who had once thought himself above consequence.

Baron Raiken slept soundly in his opulent bed, unaware of the danger lurking within the walls of his own estate. The night air seemed unnaturally still as if even the wind was holding its breath. In the far corner of the baron's lavish study, the shadows began to warp, twisting into a form that would have been impossible to perceive had anyone been awake to notice.

With a whisper of energy, Sebastian's figure emerged, his true form revealing itself in the dim light. The blue and red warrior robes he had worn during the day were gone, replaced by the dark, almost ethereal attire that allowed him to blend with the night. His eyes gleamed coldly, glowing with the same unearthly gold that spoke of his deepening power.

In the darkened room, he was a predator among prey, and Baron Raiken—self-important and insufferably greedy—was about to become his newest victim.

Sebastian's expression was unreadable as he moved silently toward the bed where the baron lay in a deep, contented slumber. He stood at the edge of the baron's bed, his eyes glowing faintly as he focused his mind on the man before him. His hands hovered around the baron's forehead

Sebastian could feel the fear and lust for power that dominated Raiken's heart—the lust for control, the hunger for more wealth, and the unshakable fear of losing his grasp on his riches. These were the threads Sebastian needed to pull, the weaknesses he would exploit.

Sebastian spoke softly, his voice barely a whisper, "Baron Raiken, get ready and feel grateful that you are being sacrificed for the great purpose of serving my lord's will"

With those words, the fingers of his hands unfurled like black tendrils, curling around the baron's soul, digging into the core of his being. Raiken's breath hitched for a moment, his body shifting uncomfortably as the shadows dug deeper. The skill worked its magic, and soon the baron was under Sebastian's control—helpless, his will no longer his own.

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