In the days that followed, Lucas's training with Melius intensified. Every sparring session pushed him to the edge, his body aching from the relentless barrage of attacks. Though he had begun to anticipate Melius's brutal and efficient fighting style, countering those strikes was another matter entirely. Understanding an opponent's movements and executing a proper response in battle required a balance of speed, strength, and split-second timing—a balance Lucas was still struggling to find.

Meanwhile, Lucas's growing eagerness to practice mana spells had become a source of constant pestering for Silas. One afternoon, as Lucas pressed him yet again to try his hand at the basic level-zero spells, Silas responded with his usual calm patience.

"Listen, Lucas," he said, his voice firm but not unkind, "when an apprentice conjures mana for the first time, it requires far more than usual. You still don't have enough mana to safely cast even the simplest spell."

Lucas's AI chimed in to confirm Silas's assessment.

"Mana levels currently insufficient. Current total: 8 mana points. Required: 10 mana points for stable spellcasting."

Sitting cross-legged on the training grounds, Lucas caught his breath after another exhausting session of tempering. His mind whirred, calculating how long it would take him to reach the necessary mana threshold.

Just a few more days, he thought, feeling a surge of determination. His Aura, however, was progressing much faster, already sitting at 16 points—double the growth of his mana.

Melius, watching from the sidelines, had been quietly impressed with Lucas's rapid progress. One evening, while Lucas practiced his sword forms in the dying light, Melius turned to Silas with a thoughtful look.

"Kid's a prodigy," Melius muttered, unable to hide his admiration. "Doesn't complain, learns quick."

Silas's lips curled into a knowing smile.

During one of their more grueling sparring sessions, Lucas, panting and drenched in sweat, managed to block another powerful strike from Melius's greatsword, Honeyblood. He couldn't resist asking between heavy breaths, "Compared to Grandpa… how strong are you, Melius?"

Melius swung his greatsword with ease, the blade crackling with his flaring Aura. The force of his strikes nearly knocked Lucas off his feet. "Stop talking, kid, and focus on the fight! Unless you want me to carve you up like a little pig." There was a harsh edge to his words, but his eyes twinkled with amusement.

Still, after a few more vicious exchanges, Melius grunted and finally answered, his voice strained from effort. "Good question, though. Your grandpa might be a novice apprentice Magus, but it'd take three Aura Knights like me to take him down in a fair fight."

Lucas's eyes widened in shock, barely dodging the next swing. "Three of you?"

Melius barked a laugh, loud and booming, as he pressed his attack. "Aye! Mages are crafty bastards. They've got tricks that can turn the tide of a fight before you even blink. But in a straight brawl, we Aura Knights stand a chance—until they start casting. Then we've got our limits."

His laughter filled the air, and Lucas, gritting his teeth, barely managed to block the next crushing blow. He parried, sweat pouring down his face, and with a teasing grin, he shouted over the clash of blades, "I'm glad to know Grandpa could whoop Uncle Melius's ass!"

The words barely left his mouth before Melius's Aura flared. With a roar, he swung his sword in a wide arc, sending Lucas flying backward. Lucas crashed into a nearby tree, the impact rattling his bones and knocking the wind out of him.

Melius approached, grinning down at him. "You were saying, kid?" His tone was mocking but playful, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

Lucas groaned, struggling to push himself up, wincing at the soreness in his limbs. His chest heaved as he caught his breath, but he couldn't help but grin back. "I, uh… I think I'll save the trash talk for after I win next time."

Melius chuckled. "Smart choice. Take a break. After you rest, we'll go again."

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

After a short but much-needed rest, Lucas stood once more. Melius wasted no time, and this round was even harsher. The Aura Knight pushed Lucas to his breaking point, punishing him for his earlier taunt with a relentless assault. Every swing of Honeyblood felt like it carried the weight of an avalanche, and Lucas struggled to keep up.

By the end of the day, Lucas was thoroughly beaten, bruised, and exhausted, but a smile still tugged at his lips. He had taken a beating, but he had also learned—painfully—that strength wasn't just about power. It was about patience, endurance, and the will to improve, no matter how harsh the lessons.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the clearing, the trio mounted their horses and began their ride back to the city. The cool evening breeze soothed Lucas's aching muscles as he rode, battered but not broken. Each day, he grew stronger, and each day, the power he sought felt just a little bit closer.

Sunset Mountains AI generated [1920x1080] : r/wallpaper [https://i.redd.it/qd0zyzb6hsnb1.jpg]

As dusk crept over the mountain path, painting the world in shades of grey, Lucas, Melius, and Silas travelled in silence. The rigorous training had worn Lucas down; he was barely awake, lulled by the rhythmic clop of his mare, Cookie. The mare's steady gait was comforting, her hooves clicking softly on the rocky trail as she followed closely behind Silas's horse, Biscuit.

Then, the sudden, urgent beep of Lucas's AI shattered the quiet.

"Movement detected. Multiple life-form signatures approaching. Classification: human. Host, please stay alert."

Lucas jolted upright, his body tensing. Melius and Silas brought their horses to an abrupt halt, eyes scanning the dim path ahead. The scent of damp earth and pine filled the cool evening air, but now a new presence stirred—danger.

"Rats in the shadows," Melius muttered darkly, his voice a low rumble.

Figures emerged from the treeline, moving with the deliberate confidence of men who knew how to kill. Twenty mercenaries stepped into the fading light, forming a blockade. The leader, a hulking figure in his forties, stepped forward. His bald head gleamed under the torchlight, and he wore fine leather armor—pristine, battle-worn but well-maintained, marking him as more than just a common thug.

"Nutface," Melius sneered, a twisted grin on his lips. "I figured you'd be crawling out of some hole."

The man's scowl deepened. "You old fucking fool, how many times i have told you my name—" He cut himself off, teeth grinding. "It doesn't matter. Tonight, I get to shut your mouth for good, and I'm getting paid to do it."

Beside him stood Pug Nose, his right-hand man. His sneer matched his leader's, his face disfigured by a long, jagged scar. He wore good leather armor, not as fine as the bald man's, but enough to make him dangerous. His eyes flickered toward Lucas, full of ill intent.

Behind them, the rest of the mercenaries fidgeted, eager to close in. The Aura Swordsmen in the front wore decent armor, clearly meant for combat. Some carried bows, poised to deal with any mage from a distance, while the others gripped swords, their blades faintly gleaming in the dim light. The lesser soldiers, further back, had armor that was sturdy but not as refined. Their movements were impatient, their gazes predatory.

Silas remained calm, his expression unreadable. "Who paid for our heads?"

Nutface sneered. "You can ask him in the afterlife."

Lucas's breath hitched as his AI buzzed in his mind, cold and calculated.

"Hostile count: 31. Eight Aura Swordsmen ahead, three behind. Two mid-level second-grade 'Blade of the Ember' swordsmen. The others are first-level 'Dawnblade Disciples'."

Lucas's heart pounded, his chest tight. "What's our chance of winning?" he whispered under his breath, hoping for reassurance.

"Winning rate: 70 percent. Warning: 80 percent probability of casualty involving your life."

His stomach churned. Eighty percent chance of dying. He felt his body betray him, his hands trembling violently. His breath became shallow, each gulp of air tasting like fear. Powerless—that's what he was. He cursed himself silently. He had trained, but this was real. Too real.

"Focus on the apprentice and the boy," Nutface barked to his men. "Leave the shit spewing loudmouth to me."

Lucas's vision blurred, the weight of the moment crushing him. His legs felt weak, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. The dread gnawed at him, threatening to consume him whole.

"Steady yourself," Melius growled, his voice like a lifeline cutting through the fog of fear. "It's not about brute force. Fight smart."

Melius drew his greatsword, the air around him growing heavy with intent. The steel caught the dying light, a cold gleam dancing along the blade's edge. Silas, staff in hand, stood ready, his gaze calm but fierce. He gave Lucas a small nod, a silent message: we've got you.

Lucas swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath, his heart racing. I can't die here. Not like this.

The mercenaries tightened their circle. He could feel their hunger for blood, the way they moved, poised to strike. His AI's voice buzzed in his head again, calculating, analyzing every possible outcome, but all Lucas could hear was the pounding in his chest. You're not ready for this.

And yet, something shifted inside him. Amidst the overwhelming fear, a flicker of resolve sparked to life. This is it. You've trained for this. Trust yourself. He had trained relentlessly under Melius and Silas. And he had his AI. Fear be damned, Lucas thought. I'll fight.