“Give up on swordsmanship,” said the man with dark red hair, his beard neatly trimmed, as he sat in his imposing chair.

His words echoed in my head as I stared at the floor. Give up on swordsmanship? The thing I wanted most? How could I? Did dreams have limits? Did failure mean abandoning them entirely? Should I listen to my father and let go of the one thing that gave my life purpose?

But I didn’t have a choice. He was the head of this family, and disappointing him would mean sealing my fate as nothing more than a disgrace.

Before I could respond, his voice cut through my thoughts. “You don’t have what it takes to be a swordsman. Our family is renowned for its swordsmanship, and I heard your younger brother defeated you in a spar. Aren’t you ashamed?”

My younger brother? The same brother who had practiced Essence Flow, one of the forms of Myogen, since the age of eight? Losing to him wasn’t shameful; it was inevitable. But I couldn’t say that. Pride—my fragile pride—kept me silent.

My father shook his head, his disappointment palpable. “That’s why you must take another path. Never wield a sword again. As for your course, drop it. Shift to something else. Do what I say, and you won’t disappoint me any further.” His tone left no room for argument.

I lowered my gaze again, my hands trembling. Slowly, I tried to meet his eyes. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t face the cold, judging stare of a father who had controlled my every move since childhood. In this family, we were taught that greatness wasn’t just expected—it was demanded. We weren’t allowed to fall short. We weren’t allowed to fail.

But I wasn’t like them. I was the son of a different mistress, a child they barely acknowledged, a constant reminder of my father’s indiscretions. To them, I wasn’t family—I was a blemish to be hidden away.

“Just stay out of sight,” they’d say, every time I tried to push myself, every time I worked hard to improve.

I lacked talent.

I lacked skill.

I lacked luck.

And in their eyes, I lacked worth.

All I have is determination, the stubborn resolve to improve, even if I’m the only one who sees it. But determination isn’t enough, and at my lowest, when I was drowning in self-doubt and teetering on the edge of despair, I met her.

I was painting when I first saw her. A noblewoman. Beautiful. She seemed like a vision, something out of one of my own works of art. I didn’t have the courage to approach her, let alone tell her how stunning she was or ask her name. Instead, I stood there like a fool, frozen and dumbfounded.

And then she saw me.

She approached me with the kind of confidence I could never hope to mimic. We talked, and somehow, we became friends. She’d often watch me paint or sculpt, her presence like a quiet encouragement I didn’t know I needed. I thought I admired her, but somewhere along the way, that admiration turned into something deeper—something I’m too scared to say out loud

Then came the announcement. My father arranged her marriage—to my older brother, Cilian. She didn’t know until he told her, and from that moment, everything changed.

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We stopped seeing each other. She became part of Cilian’s life, and I became a spectator, watching them grow closer.

At first, it felt unfair—like the world had taken the only spark I’d ever known and handed it to someone else. But over time, I became numb to it. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I never had been.

That’s when I threw myself into painting. I poured everything into it—the frustration, the longing, the emptiness. Art became my refuge, and I retreated from the public eye, just as my family always told me to do.

But I wasn’t lonely. Or maybe I was just convincing myself I wasn’t. I told myself I was happy, even if it wasn’t true.

Huff.

Huff.

"AGGGHHH!" I yelled, jolting awake like I’d just been dropped into reality from a thousand feet.

Breathing heavily, I realized I was still in the bed at Roran’s place. The same place I slept out last night. The memory appeared as I sat; the spar, losing consciousness, and that ominous warning about my bond, Nix, slowly dying inside me.

Before I could piece it all together, Roran appeared, moving quickly with a mug in his hand. "Take it easy," he said, his tone calm but firm as I scrambled to sit upright, still dazed. "Drink this." He handed me the mug.

I stared down at the concoction inside. It was green. No, wait—purple? "What is this, sir?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He chuckled. "It’s for your recovery."

This was something I would never drink randomly. This looks like the potion you’d give your worst enemy while grinning and saying, ‘It’s for your own good.’ But then I knew I needed it.

He crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed. "You must drink it."

I sniffed it, immediately regretting that decision. It smells like a swamp and regret had a baby.

Roran gave me a deadpan look. "You’ll feel better after you drink it."

I sighed, holding my breath as I tipped the mug back and swallowed. The taste—bitter, sour, and somehow spicy all at once.

Roran laughed, patting my shoulder. "If you’re well enough to react this much, it’s already working."

He stood up again, walking over to the table where the wooden swords were kept. He grabbed one, examined it briefly, and placed it back in its spot, his movements deliberate. Then, turning to face me, he said, "Your bond is slowly dying."

So, he already knew. He knew about Nix, my bond, fading away inside me.

“It’s because you’re too weak to handle a bond,” he continued, his tone blunt but not unkind. “Individuals with bonds need to develop strong bodies and practice myogen if they want the bond to survive or reach its full potential. But as far as I can tell, your internal energy is stagnant. You haven’t practiced myogen at all.”

I clenched my fists, biting back the urge to argue. He wasn’t wrong. I already knew how weak I was, how far behind I had fallen. But I didn’t know a bond could die because of a weak host. I thought they’d just… rest until I got stronger. Apparently, that wasn’t the case.

He studied me for a moment, then asked, “And your bond—is it a soul bond?”

I nodded slowly. “Yes. A fox.”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “A soul bond.” His voice carried a weight that made my chest tighten. “Then you need to start practicing myogen—specifically Essence Flow, one of its three forms. It’s the bare minimum if you want to keep that bond alive. Without it, you risk not just your bond dying, but yourself as well.”

Essence Flow.

Essence Flow.

What exactly is it again?

《Appear》

[State your question.]

《What is Essence Flow?》

[Are you referring to one of the forms of Myogen?]

《Yes.》

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[Essence Flow]

• One of the three forms of Myogen, sometimes referred to as Internal Flow.

• Used by practitioners to enhance their physical bodies.

• Heightens strength, speed, healing, and durability.

• Practicing Essence Flow unlocks unique skills, which vary depending on the individual.

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In short, Essence Flow is like a buff—a power-up for practitioners. And judging by my current state, I desperately needed it.

"How could I... learn it?" I asked, my voice tinged with both curiosity and urgency.

Roran smiled knowingly. "I can teach you but it will take long time, the good news is I know someone who could teach you far more efficiently."

I tilted my head, a bit skeptical. "You’re a practitioner of Myogen too, sir?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer. I just wanted to hear more from him.

He nodded but quickly shifted the conversation. "You need to go to him as soon as possible," he said firmly.

"Him?"

He pointed outside, his gesture vague. "Janga’s Temple."

Janga’s Temple?

"You can train there—or rather, you must—if you want your bond to survive," he said, disappearing briefly into his room. When he returned, he was holding a piece of paper and started writing on it.

I watched him carefully. "Where....exactly is this temple?"

He didn’t look up as he wrote. "Head northwest. Once you’re out of this forest, you’ll see a mountain. At the very top, that’s where the temple is." He said handing me the paper. "Give this to him when you two met.

I nodded.

《Appear》

《Janga’s Temple》

[Janga’s Temple]

• Located at the peak of Coropuna Mountain.

• The mountain is famous for being the residence of Janga, the great teacher.

• The area is also infested with low-level goblins inhabiting its caves.

《How long is the trip on foot?》

[Calculating...]

[Approximately 20+ kilometers.]

This would mean about seven hours or less of continuous walking through the forest and the mountain.

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