The morning sun had barely touched the estate, and yet Karlous was already gone.
Day after day, without fail, he vanished before the first light, slipping into the wilderness long before the estate stirred. It became a pattern no one could ignore.
The Phoenix estate, once indifferent to his presence, now watched him with wary eyes. The servants whispered. The knights frowned. Even the haughty nobles within the family started to pay attention.
But none dared approach him.
It wasn't just the bruises or the limp. It was the way he walked now. With purpose. With grit.
Still, curiosity brewed like a storm cloud.
Lady Lilliana, ever suspicious, dispatched knights to follow him.
Not once did they return with useful information.
The reason? Frey.
With his unmatched illusion magic, he cloaked both himself and Karlous in a veil even trained knights couldn't pierce. Karlous himself often grumbled, "I swear if I learn that spell, I'm vanishing for a week just for revenge."
Frey would laugh, that mysterious smirk never leaving his face. "You'll earn it. In time."
The training only intensified.
Frey pushed Karlous harder with every passing day. It wasn't enough to run—he had to run uphill, through mud, with weights strapped to his back. It wasn't enough to meditate—he had to sense the flow of mana in the leaves, the wind, even the insects.
And the combat? Pure torment.
Swords, spears, daggers. Barehanded. Weaponless.
Every evening ended the same—with Karlous crawling home, his body a symphony of pain.
Still, he never gave up.
One particular evening, he returned home barely able to keep his eyes open. His uniform was shredded, one shoe missing, and his left arm hung limp at his side.
He stumbled through the grand hall. Gasps echoed.
He didn't care.
All he could see was the velvet couch.
He collapsed onto it face-first.
"Maid…" he groaned. "Coffee. Strong. No questions."
The maids scurried into action.
And once again, the house watched in silence.
Even the troublesome duo—Karen and Kaile—had fallen silent. Their usual snide remarks replaced by uneasy glances.
But it wasn't long before Karen's voice returned, echoing through the corridors.
"He's just playing in the dirt. Watch—he'll break any day now."
Yet the knights knew better.
So did the elders.
And so did Sera.
That night, while Karlous lay on the couch, utterly drained, she approached. No words. Just a slow, focused walk.
She leaned down and poked his cheek.
He flinched. "Just… five more minutes, please…"
Sera's eyes narrowed. "Like hell. What in the name of the gods are you doing out there every day?"
Karlous grunted. "Training."
"With who?"
He didn't respond. Only exhaled and let sleep take him again.
Sera stared at him. Long and hard.
She could feel it—the subtle aura, the trace of spiritual mana around him. Whatever he was doing, it wasn't ordinary.
And it wasn't over.
The vacation days were drawing to a close.
Karlous had mentioned it casually during one of their training sessions, but Frey had clearly taken it seriously.
Everything changed.
"Enough with dodging. Enough with drills. It's time for you to learn something real," Frey declared one morning, his voice steely.
He introduced Karlous to mana compression breathing.
It wasn't flashy. It wasn't explosive. But it was deadly—if done wrong.
"The concept is simple," Frey explained. "You breathe in mana, compress it inside your core, and store it like coiled energy. When released, it becomes ten times more efficient. But one misstep—just one—and your core will explode like an overinflated balloon."
Karlous blinked. "That's… comforting."
Frey smirked. "You'll live. Maybe."
Training began.
Hour after hour of breathing exercises. Visualizing his mana core. Feeling the intake. Compressing it in his gut. Holding it. Controlling it.
Most people would take years to even touch the fundamentals.
But Karlous—thanks to the pendant around his neck—managed to reach the basics in mere days.
The spirit's quiet guidance, almost whispering in his subconscious, made a subtle but powerful difference.
On the final day, he sat beneath the same tree where it had all begun. He had sweat pouring from his body, his breathing ragged—but the mana in his core was stable, condensed, and glowing faintly.
Frey stood nearby, arms crossed.
"You've only grasped the surface," he said. "But that alone puts you above most first-years."
Karlous nodded slowly. "I'll keep practicing."
Frey stepped forward, reaching into his satchel.
"This was my first sword. I used it when I had nothing but grit and rage to carry me. It's rusty now, looks like trash—but it never broke. Not once."
He handed the sword to Karlous.
Karlous held it carefully. It was heavy, worn, but it felt… right.
"It's ugly," Karlous admitted.
Frey smirked. "So were you, two weeks ago."
They both laughed.
And with that, Frey turned and walked off into the trees, leaving Karlous alone—with a sword in hand, a new flame in his heart, and a future yet unwritten.
The vacation had ended.
But Karlous's journey had only just begun.