Third Person's POV
"Are you ready, sonny?"
"Yeah!" Alaric's voice was eager, barely containing his excitement.
He and Elowen stood on the training grounds, a vast expanse that had mostly been the playground of the butlers and maids honing their own strength. It wasn't unusual to find a few guards using the space after hours, though it was labeled private, anyone living on the estate could use it.
To Alaric, the grounds felt immense, almost daunting. Rows of weapons lined the walls—some real, some dull practice pieces—along with training dummies that looked far too lifelike. There were contraptions whose purpose he could only guess at. He bounced on his feet, the anticipation humming through him.
Not far off, seated in a shaded arbour, Xironia and Novius watched. Caelum and Valen stood beside them, silent, ever-present.
"Heh, look at him," Xironia chuckled, her eyes crinkling at the sight of Alaric wobbling slightly on his heels, his excitement barely contained.
Novius sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just hope he stays that enthusiastic..."
Xironia glanced at him, raising a brow. "What do you mean, honey?"
Novius shook his head, a shadow of fear flickering in his eyes. "Mother's training... it's not exactly about learning to fight. It's about learning to train. Alaric's young, too young, and already has a core. He's going to be pushed past his limit—way past, I am pretty sure she is going to push him way more than any of us. Mother... mercy's never been her strong suit when it comes to these things. You two know what I'm talking about, right?"
Caelum and Valen exchanged a glance, the early morning light catching the shared, weary look in their eyes. Even after all these years, the weight of those memories hadn't left them. They nodded in unison, a soft sigh escaping Valen as if he'd been holding onto it for too long.
"That bad?" Xironia's voice held a trace of concern now, her smile fading.
"Bad, huh? Can't say it is the best word for it," Novius muttered, eyes distant, as if dredging up memories he'd rather forget. "It's just... the goals she sets—the cultivation of people she trains—don't really align. That's why no one who finishes her training is 'normal' afterward." His expression tightened, exhaustion creeping in from the past as if he could still feel the ache of those impossible days.
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Away from the arbour, Elowen and Alaric continued their conversation, standing amidst the training grounds.
"Alaric, to excel at something, knowledge always comes first. So, tell me—how much do you know about the cultivation stages?" Elowen asked, her voice calm but with an edge of expectation.
Alaric straightened, ready to impress. "Strength-wise, if an average person's strength is a 1, then Black stage cultivators are 1.25 in that scale, Dark Red stage cultivators are 1.5, Red stage cultivators are 1.75, and Dark Green stage cultivators are 2. This very low difference between the early stages is also the reason cultivators sometimes win against another cultivator who is at a stage above them but that is only till Dark Green stage. Stages after that, Green, Orange, Yellow, Blue and the stage which is said to haven't been achieved for years, the White stage are 5, 8, 10, 15 and 20 times stronger than an average person and because of this high difference it is said to be impossible to defeat a cultivator in these stages if they are above yours."
Elowen paused, one eyebrow rising as she stared at her grandson. "You've been reading too many books."
Alaric grinned at the compliment, but it quickly faded as she continued.
"That's all in theory."
"What do you mean, Granny?" His brow furrowed in confusion. Weren't books written to teach facts? Alairc has always believed in that.
"The numbers are right—only for 'normal' cultivators, in 'normal' conditions. Listen to this incident," She leaned closer, her eyes gleaming with the amusement she was gaining from the doubt that had seeped into Alaric, visible in his gaze. "I know of this one person, no cultivation whatsoever. He stopped a falling carriage with his brute strength."
Alaric's eyes widened in disbelief. "What?! A carriage weighs at least four hundred kilograms! A normal human can't lift that weight."
Elowen's smirk deepened. "That's what you'd think. But when a person's situation is dire, something clicks inside them. Desperation gives them strength beyond what's measurable. A fight to the death is nothing like a friendly duel. So, Alaric, could you defeat the man who can lift four hundred kilograms for his children who were about to be crushed by the falling carriage just because you have a core?"
Alaric swallowed, staring at his grandmother. The answer was obvious. No, he couldn't.
"So, the analogies are wrong?" he asked, his voice quieter now.
"Not exactly. They just aren't the full story. The numbers you've read are true for most people—most doesn't mean all. What I want you to aim for isn't 1.25 or 1.5. I want you to aim for 2—twice as strong."
"Won't that mean I'll be stronger than those in the higher stages?" Alaric asked, his curiosity piqued.
"Where's the problem in that?" Elowen's eyes glinted. "It's better to be a 'freak' who never looks over his shoulder than a 'normal' person who has to check after every two steps to ensure their own safety."
She made it sound so simple, yet Alaric couldn't wrap his head around it. Being twice as strong as a normal human seemed impossible.
As Alaric's thoughts swirled, Elowen's voice cut through. She was surveying the training ground, almost absently.
"This place... the perimeter must be around eight hundred meters." Her gaze returned to him, sharp and focused.
"Alaric, run around the perimeter until I tell you to stop."
Alaric obeyed, starting his run without a word.
Alaric's feet tapped rhythmically against the ground, the soft thuds swallowed by the vastness of the training grounds. The first lap felt easy enough. His grandmother stood at a distance, watching him closely. She didn't shout commands or cheer him on—just observed, her eyes like a hawk tracking his every movement.
Alaric continued running, and soon enough the reality started catching up as the number of laps increased along with the strain. His breath becoming ragged, Alaric tried not to glance at the daunting stretch of land he still had to cover.
"Eight... hundred meters," he muttered to himself. It felt like more than that—like miles upon miles. His head pounded, heart drumming too loudly in his ears.
Completing the eleventh lap, Alaric glanced at his grandmother wishing for her to call him back but she continued to look at him and Alaric could tell that he wasn't going to be called back, with a defeated look he turned his attention back to running, it was better to simply run and wait for her call then watch her and end up running for a longer time.