003 Training Arc No One Wanted - Mark’s POV

Year one of my hellish training arc.

Preparation to romance the heroine?

That was the excuse.

The real reason?

My mom was a psycho.

Most kids got tutors, etiquette lessons, and maybe some fencing practice if they were preparing for high society. I got survival training, combat drills, and the privilege of being chased through the woods by cryptids.

At first, I thought she was joking.

Then she dropped me in the middle of a forest with nothing but a knife and told me to "figure it out."

By the time I was nine and a half, I could start a fire, set traps, and throw a punch that actually hurt. Not that it ever worked on her. The one time I landed a hit, she just grinned like a proud lunatic and threw me into the river as a reward.

And then, I turned ten.

"Mom! Mommy~! It’s my birthday! Give me some slack!"

"Run, boy! Run! Or the wolves will get you!"

Behind me, Dire Wolves.

Too big. Too fast. Too many teeth.

I pumped my legs harder, the cold morning air burning in my lungs. My boots barely missed a root as I sprinted through the underbrush. The wolves weren’t even trying. They were playing with me, keeping pace, waiting for the moment I’d trip.

I risked a glance back. Bad idea.

One of them lunged.

I dove forward, rolling as its claws slashed where my back had been a second ago. Dirt and leaves smeared my face. I scrambled up, heart hammering.

"Mom!" I yelled, panic creeping into my voice.

She stood on a branch above me, watching like this was quality entertainment.

"Figure it out!" she called back, completely unfazed.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to sit down and cry and demand a normal childhood.

But mostly, I wanted to not get eaten.

So I figured it out.

Mostly… by running faster than them. Somehow.

Year two of the training arc that absolutely no one wanted—except Mom.

Apparently, if I wanted to bag the heroine, I needed to be stronger than ninety percent of the student body at ESPer Academy. That meant I needed combat experience, survival skills, and reflexes sharp enough to dodge an attack before I even saw it coming.

Most kids my age were worried about pop quizzes and weekend cartoons. I was worried about what fresh nightmare my mother had cooked up for training.

At nine, it was basic survival—hunting, tracking, and fighting off cryptids barely bigger than me.

At ten, she threw Dire Wolves at me like it was a normal Tuesday.

And then I turned eleven.

"MOMMY~!"

A big, bad dog that smelled like a barbecue gone wrong threw a fireball at me.

I barely dodged. The explosion singed the tips of my hair, heat searing against my skin as I hit the ground and rolled. My heart pounded. The thing in front of me was twice my size, black fur flickering with embers, its glowing red eyes locked onto me with pure hunger.

A Hellhound.

Mom’s voice rang out from somewhere above me. "Run, boy! RUN! That’s a Hellhound!"

I scrambled to my feet, lungs burning, adrenaline kicking in full force. "No shit, Mom!"

"Also, hold your breath! The noxious fumes could accidentally knock you out!"

What?

I barely had time to process that before the air hit me—thick, heavy, reeking of sulfur and something toxic. My head swam.

Oh, hell no.

I pinched my nose shut and bolted, my legs moving faster than they ever had before. The Hellhound growled, low and guttural, before its mouth started glowing again.

Oh, come on.

Another fireball shot toward me.

I ran faster.

Year three of the training arc from hell.

At this point, I knew better than to trust my mom. The moment I saw her making preparations, I knew she was about to drop me into another horrific situation and call it “education.”

So, naturally, I tried to run.

Key word: tried.

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She caught me by the ear before I even made it fifty feet, dragged me back, and flung me straight into the middle of this year’s nightmare.

A horde of alpacas.

With human heads.

And piranha teeth.

It was an Alpaca Apocalypse.

I was twelve now. A full year older, stronger, and somewhat wiser after barely surviving a Hellhound. But that did not prepare me for the sight of dozens of freakish alpaca things, their gaping maws full of serrated teeth, their hollow eyes locked onto me like I was prime steak.

"I HATE YOU, MOM!" I screamed.

"YOU WILL LOVE ME FOR IT!" she yelled back from behind the horde, holding up a bag of something that smelled like a hobo’s underwear. "RUN, BOY! MOMMY'S CHEERING FOR YOU!"

Whatever it was, the alpacas hated it.

Which meant they were now charging straight at me.

Also, fun fact: these things spit acid.

And not just any acid—multiplying acid that stripped bark and leaves off trees in seconds.

I dodged left. A glob of green goo splattered where I had just been, hissing as it burned straight through the ground.

I dodged right. More acid.

I learned from the past years.

This time, I wasn’t helpless.

"PARKOUR!" I screamed, launching myself up the nearest tree.

For a split second, I felt victorious—until the acid multiplied across the trunk, and the whole damn tree started collapsing.

I landed, rolled, and bolted before the alpacas could tear me apart.

Behind me, Mom laughed like a maniac.

Year four of the training arc I never signed up for.

At this point, I was done.

I had survived Dire Wolves, dodged Hellhound fireballs, and barely made it out of an alpaca apocalypse with my skin intact. Enough was enough.

So I did what any sane, abused child would do.

I tried to run away. Again.

I tracked down the orphanage I used to live in, ready to beg them to take me back. I even had a whole sob story prepared, complete with fake tears and everything.

I didn’t make it far.

Mom caught me again, bagged me like a damn criminal, and dumped me straight into a lake.

Not just any lake.

A lake filled with wild cryptids.

IN ALL KINDS OF SPECIES!

With too many teeth that made Dire Wolves look like children.

The water was freezing, the air knocked out of my lungs the second I hit the surface. I flailed, kicking upward, only for something big and scaly to brush against my leg.

My panic skyrocketed.

"Mom!" I coughed, treading water as best as I could.

"You can do it, kiddo!" she cheered from the shore. "I believe in you! Draw in the power of love or whatever ESP functions on. These guys are nothing, compared to what Florida has to offer!"

What the hell even was Florida?

A cryptid lunged.

I barely dodged, water splashing around me as I kicked off and swam for my life. My muscles burned, my breath short, my heart pounding against my ribs.

I was going to die.

I was actually going to die this time.

Something grabbed my leg, yanked me downward, and just as my head slipped below the surface—

Everything stopped.

The cryptids went still.

Their eyes passed over me like I wasn’t even there.

Like I didn’t exist.

I wasn’t sure how, but something in me had clicked. A strange sensation washed over me, like I was… absent. The cryptids lost interest, drifting away as if I had never been in their territory.

I had awakened my ESP.

And I did what any reasonable person would do—I cried as I swam to shore.

"Mom! I did it!"

I was crying and laughing.

Mom pulled me into a hug, fed me a health potion, and then—

She tossed me back.

"MOM! THAT’S CHEATING! I WASN’T READY!"

"Your acting could use a bit of polishing," she said, completely unfazed.

Year five of the training arc.

At this point, I had something I never had before—confidence.

Thanks to my ESP, I could make people forget I existed. I wasn’t just running away blind this time. I planned.

A full week before my birthday, I gathered supplies, mapped out an escape route, and set everything up. When the time came, I’d vanish without a trace. No more cryptids, no more dungeons, and no more psychotic training.

Then I turned fourteen.

And Mom found me anyway.

Not only did she find me, but she used the supplies I prepared to set up a camp.

I just stared at her.

She stared back.

I sighed, immediately giving up.

Ironically enough, we spent the day like a normal birthday.

Actually, we spent the whole week like that.

From Monday to Friday, we celebrated. We ate real food, we played games, we just… existed. No training, no fighting, no running for my life.

By Saturday, I didn’t feel like running anymore.

"Thanks, Mom," I muttered.

She smiled. "And I am sorry."

I expected her to suddenly throw me into a dungeon.

She didn’t.

She just had a wistful expression that day.

Year six of the training arc.

At this point, I had stopped fighting it.

Running never worked. Complaining never worked. Mom was going to train me, no matter what.

So I started cooperating.

She taught me how to handle all kinds of weapons—blades, staffs, guns, even the occasional explosive. At first, I was just going through the motions, but over time… I got into it.

Then I turned fifteen.

For my birthday, Mom handed me a butterfly knife.

It was rad as hell.

She even showed me some tricks, flipping it open and closed in a blur of silver. When I tried, I nearly took my own fingers off, but that was beside the point.

Later that day, we hit a shooting range.

Mom casually picked up a pistol and—bang bang bang bang bang—landed every shot dead center.

I just stood there, jaw slack. "Whoa~ can I do something like that someday?"

"Probably not," she said, setting the gun down. "My power, Mind’s Eye, gives me incredible insight and mastery over any weapon I touch. I don’t even need that much training."

That was kind of unfair, but whatever.

She glanced at me. "So, any idea what to call your power?"

I shrugged. "Still thinking about it. Is it really necessary?"

"Not really," she admitted. "But ESP abilities tend to follow certain themes, and naming them helps ESPers strengthen their belief in those themes. It can actually improve your abilities."

I frowned, flipping my knife open and shut. "So I just name it something cool?"

Mom smirked. "The cooler, the better. Might impress the heroine. I don’t know."

Year seven of the training arc.

Mom called it a confidence builder.

I called it insane.

For the whole year, we worked various jobs… violent jobs.

We entered dungeons. We hunted cryptids. We fought people.

People could get hurt. People could die. Sometimes, they did.

I learned how to handle real fights—not just against monsters, but against people who were desperate, ruthless, or just plain evil. There was no sugarcoating it anymore.

Then I turned sixteen.

And for the first time, I really thought about it.

"Mom," I asked, watching the sunrise after another long night. "Is the world really so violent?"

She sipped her coffee. "What do you think?"

I hesitated. "...I don’t know."

She laughed, shaking her head before looking at me with that sharp, knowing gaze.

"Mark, if you want an answer, don’t ask me—ask yourself. You’ve seen this world with your own eyes. You’ve fought in it, bled in it, survived in it. You know better than anyone whether it’s violent or not. So tell me… what do you think?"

Year eight since Mom had her accident.

And just like that, the crazy, brutal training arc ended.

Mom bought an entire apartment building for us.

We lived a fairly normal life for the first time. No cryptids. No dungeons. No people trying to kill us. Just… peace.

She faked all sorts of documents, making sure we had proper identities. She drilled a backstory into my head—who I was, where I grew up, what I should say if anyone asked too many questions.

Then, for the first time in my life, I went to high school.

Not for long, though.

Mom hired a tutor and had me cram everything I missed over the years. Math, science, history—it was like she was trying to squeeze an entire childhood’s worth of education into my brain in a single year.

And then I turned seventeen.

Mom honked from the driver’s seat, grinning. "Come on, Mark, you’ll be late. ESPer Academy awaits!"

For the first time ever, the car she was driving wasn’t stolen. It was actually hers.

I adjusted my uniform, took a deep breath, and grabbed my bag.

"Coming, Mom."