The days blurred together.

I barely left the house.

The enclosure? I didn’t step foot near it.

I told myself it was because Bobo still needed me. That his recovery came first, that my focus had to be on him, on making sure he got better. But deep down, I knew the truth.

I wasn’t ready.

Not to see the other monkeys. Not to walk through the place where it happened.

Not yet.

So I stayed home, pouring everything I had into Bobo’s recovery.

Every night, I let my grimoire cultivate, absorbing mana, refining itself. And every day, I used that mana to heal, strengthen, and enhance Bobo. I cycled through all my skills—Adaptive Growth Factor, Neural Acceleration, Vital Surge. Everything except Alpha Pheromones.

That one, I didn’t touch.

Bobo wasn’t something to control.

He was my partner.

And yet…

Something was different.

Even after his wounds were gone, after his body was fully healed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.

At first, I thought it was just my own paranoia. I kept checking him, overanalyzing every movement, making sure he wasn’t still hurting. But it wasn’t just that.

Bobo wasn’t as playful as before.

He still clung to me, still followed me everywhere. But sometimes—just sometimes—I’d find him sitting alone, quiet.

Like he was thinking.

But was he?

Did monkeys even do that?

I didn’t know.

But I knew that whatever had changed in him… it wasn’t something I could undo.

And then—one day—I found him training.

At first, I thought he was just playing. He ran around the yard, leaping onto the wooden beams near the house, swinging from one to another.

Then—he dropped down and grabbed a rock.

A large one.

Bigger than him.

I frowned, stepping forward. “Bobo?”

He grunted, gripping the stone tightly. His muscles tensed as he tried to lift it. His little body trembled with effort.

He couldn’t.

I moved to stop him, placing a hand on his back. “Hey, that’s too—”

He pushed me away.

Not violently. Not aggressively.

Just… firmly.

I blinked.

Bobo let out a small growl of frustration and tried again.

I could see it in his eyes.

He wasn’t just playing.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

He was trying.

Trying to be stronger.

My stomach twisted. “Bobo…?”

Again, he failed.

Again, he tried.

Again, he failed.

And then—he stopped trying to lift it.

And started punching it.

My chest tightened.

The way he struck it—again, and again, and again—it wasn’t just training.

It was frustration.

It was something deeper.

Something raw.

I swallowed hard. “Bobo, stop—”

He didn’t.

His little fists kept slamming into the stone, his teeth clenched, his breath ragged.

This wasn’t a game.

This wasn’t just play.

This was a decision.

Bobo wanted to be stronger.

Bobo didn’t want to lose again.

Bobo didn’t want to feel fear again.

Bobo didn’t want to be weak again.

I felt something in my chest twist painfully.

“…I understand,” I murmured.

Bobo stopped.

His breathing was heavy. His little hands curled into fists, dirt and dust clinging to his fur.

Slowly, he turned to look at me.

And I saw it.

The same thing I felt that day.

The same burning, unshakable, desperate need—

To never let it happen again.

I stepped closer, kneeling beside him.

I placed a hand on his head.

“If you want to be stronger…” My voice was quiet, steady.

“I’ll help you.”

Bobo didn’t move.

Then, slowly—he nodded.

Bobo wanted to train.

Not play. Not climb trees for fun. Not wrestle like before.

He wanted to train.

And I had no idea what to do about it.

For the past few days, I watched him. I saw how he moved—how he carried himself differently. His energy was still there, but it was sharper now. Focused.

He wasn’t just running around anymore. He was testing himself.

Jumping higher, landing harder. Gripping branches longer than before.

Lifting rocks—way too big for him—with trembling arms, over and over, until his body gave out.

During his training, I kept using my skills to help him grow, recover, and learn.

Slowly, he started to change.

Even his posture was changing. He sat still more often, his brows furrowed in a way that made me swear he was thinking.

And then, one morning, I saw him do something that made my stomach twist.

Again.

He stood in front of a boulder, clenched his tiny fists—

And started punching it.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until his knuckles turned red, until his little body wavered from exhaustion.

I rushed over, grabbing him before he could hurt himself.

"Bobo! Stop!"

He wriggled in my grip, shaking his head, making small, frustrated noises.

He wasn’t just pushing himself.

He was angry.

I knew why.

I knew exactly why.

And that was the moment I realized—this wasn’t something I could just do alone.

Bobo needed to get stronger. But I needed guidance.

So I went to the only person I trusted for guidance.

I went to my father.

He listened quietly as I explained, arms crossed, face unreadable.

When I finished, he let out a small hum.

"Isn’t Bobo a little too young to train?"

I hesitated. "I thought so too… but he doesn’t."

That made him pause.

His gaze softened just slightly.

"Every creature finds their own path," he murmured. "And if Bobo has already chosen his… then we should respect that."

A long silence stretched between us. Then—

"Alright," he said, nodding. "I know someone who can help."

I blinked. "You do?"

He smirked.

"Who do you think brought you that monkey in the first place?"

It hit me instantly.

"Rhyzar?"

Rhyzar didn’t make us wait long.

That evening, he arrived at our home, sharp-eyed as ever, his gaze flicking between me and Bobo with quiet amusement.

"So, the little guy wants to get strong, huh?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

He studied Bobo for a moment, then grinned.

"Good."

And without another word—he summoned his grimoire.

It flickered into existence, dark leather crackling with mana.

Then—

A brilliant golden light burst forth.

The air trembled. The ground felt heavier.

And then I saw it.

A massive figure emerged from the light.

My breath caught.

A grimoire?

Was he also a Raiven?

Bobo stiffened.

The creature before us was a golden body monkey.

But not like Bobo.

This one towered over us, nearly as tall as Rhyzar himself. Its thick frame pulsed with raw strength—every muscle honed, every movement precise. Its golden fur shimmered under the moonlight, but its presence wasn’t just majestic.

It was powerful.

Bobo didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

His tiny hands gripped my sleeve so tight it hurt.

Rhyzar watched him, then chuckled.

"Yeah," he said, smirking. "This is what you’ll become."

Bobo let out a tiny, almost soundless exhale.

I didn’t need our bond to know what he was feeling.

He wasn’t afraid.

He wasn’t intimidated.

He was entranced.

"This guy," Rhyzar gestured to his beast, "has been through several evolutions already. That’s why he’s this big. But your Bobo?" He tilted his head. "He’s still in his first stage. He hasn’t evolved even once yet."

I swallowed, looking at my tiny companion.

"Then… when he reaches maturity, how tall will he be?"

Rhyzar hummed, thinking. "If he follows the normal growth patterns, he’ll be around Lina’s height."

I blinked.

Lina. My five-year-old sister.

That small?

Bobo seemed to deflate a little.

But then—

Rhyzar grinned.

"That’s if he follows normal growth patterns."

His eyes gleamed.

"But Bobo doesn’t seem normal to me."

I glanced down at my companion again.

His tiny hands had relaxed. But his eyes? They burned.

Admiration.

Determination.

Hunger.

He wanted this.

He needed this.

And I wasn’t going to let him do it alone.

I turned to Rhyzar, setting my jaw.

"When do we start?"

Rhyzar’s smirk widened.

"Right now."