Now left alone in the vast and unfamiliar surroundings, Nerion wandered through the small house.
It wasn't truly small—more like a cottage built inside the massive cavern—but compared to the scale of the training ground outside, it felt almost cozy.
In the main drawing room, there was a large wooden table set for meals, surrounded by sturdy chairs. Five bedrooms branched off from the main hall, each simple and clean, prepared with care.
Nerion's eyes were drawn to something resting at the center of the table.
A single book.
He approached and picked it up. The cover was plain, but the title was clear:
Instructions.
Curious, Nerion opened it and began to read.
It was a detailed manual explaining how to use every part of the training ground—the pond, the moving dummies, the energy sources hidden in the waters, and even the rune kitchen.
As he flipped through the pages, a small smile appeared on his face.
It was clear now.
This book had been left for him.
Someone had taken the time to prepare everything, to guide him without speaking a word.
Nerion sat down at the table and read carefully, making sure not to miss a single line.
This was the beginning.
And he would not waste the chance given to him.
After finishing the book, Nerion leaned back in the chair, his mind already racing.
He knew what came next.
Before starting any real training, he had to set clear goals.
It was a habit hammered into him by his grandfather—always know what you are aiming for.
Nerion pulled out a notebook from his belongings and began to write.
He had 11 months before the Royal Academy train would arrive to pick him up.
And it would take at least two months of hard travel to reach Emberhold by road.
That meant, in reality, he had just 9 months to train here.
He wrote down his targets:
Raise both his skills—Ashstep Mirage and Fangcoil Sword Doctrine—to at least 10% mastery.
Increase all basic stats by 10 points to prepare for the upcoming trials.
Nerion stared at the goals for a moment, feeling the weight of them.
They weren't easy.
But they were necessary.
He closed the notebook firmly.
The day was almost at its end. Only few hours remained before nightfall.
Before resting, Nerion decided to visit both training grounds once again.
He walked through the massive cave, taking another look at the lotus pond and the line of moving dummies.
He studied everything carefully, committing it to memory.
After that, he returned to the small house.
There, he spent some time doing basic exercises—stretches, pushups, and light movement drills—just to get his body ready for the days ahead.
Then, he sat down and made his next day's schedule, writing it clearly:
Five hours dedicated to training the Ashstep Mirage skill at the pond.
Five hours practicing the Fangcoil Sword Doctrine against the moving dummies.
Breaks scheduled in between to let his body recover properly.
Satisfied, Nerion went to the kitchen.
He quickly prepared his dinner using the rune machine—simple but hearty food—and ate quietly.
Finally, he cleaned up, set everything in order, and went to bed, letting sleep claim him in the silent, mystical house.
The next day, at five in the morning, Nerion rose from his bed.
He splashed cold water on his face, clearing the sleep from his eyes.
Without wasting time, he took off his clothes and opened the large almere placed inside his room, recalling the instructions left for him.
Inside, there was a simple lower undergarment, made from a tough, durable fabric.
It wasn't ordinary—this garment was enchanted with basic Cleanse and Dry spells.
That meant it couldn't get dirty, wet, or torn easily, no matter how intense the training became.
Nerion changed swiftly, his mind already focused on the long day ahead.
After completing some basic needs, Nerion grabbed the pill box and made his way to the pond( which was more like a small lake) for the first training session of the day.
Before starting , he opened his status screen and took a look.
Almost all his basic stats hovered around 50.
His body was already close to the peak of what an average human male could achieve.
Seeing this, Nerion felt a little more confident.
He then opened the box carefully and took out three pills:
Windpulse — boosts and steadily increases Agility
Heartroot — strengthens Vitality
Stoneveil — fortifies Endurance
These pills were crafted especially for Ember Rank training.
They wouldn't cause explosive changes but would steadily strengthen his foundation with daily use.
He swallowed all three without hesitation.
The Heartroot and Stoneveil would support him the entire day, helping with stamina and body recovery.
The Windpulse would last for about six hours, giving him enhanced movement and helping push his Agility a little higher every time.
With that done, Nerion stepped toward the training pond, determination clear in his eyes.
After taking the pills, Nerion immediately felt changes within his body.
The rare substances used in their alchemy began to work, raising his body temperature slightly.
He could feel his muscles tighten, his blood flow quicken, and a subtle strength awaken inside him.
His vigor sharpened, and his focus deepened, as if the world around him became a little clearer.
The effects were not overwhelming, but steady and sure—perfect for the long road of training ahead.
Nerion carefully put the box of pills away and started getting ready for his first real training session.
He walked toward the edge of the massive pond, staring at the flower pads floating on the surface.
Before jumping onto them, he decided to warm up.
He used his movement skill, Ashstep Mirage, and practiced a few jumps on the ground.
At first, he didn't notice much difference, but he could feel mana gathering around his lower body, slightly boosting his speed.
After a few tries, he felt a little more confident.
Taking a deep breath, Nerion locked his eyes on the nearest pad—only one meter away—and jumped.
It didn't even take a second.
The moment his foot touched the pad, it sank instantly, dragging him into the water.
Nerion struggled, quickly realizing this wasn't normal water—it was much denser, heavier.
He used all his strength to swim back to the land, gasping for air as he pulled himself up onto the bank.
Breathing heavily, he looked down and noticed blood dripping from his foot where it had scraped against the pad.
Nerion sat on the ground for a few minutes, breathing heavily, trying to understand what had just happened.
The water… it wasn't just dense. It sucked him in like a vacuum, dragging his body downward with an invisible force.
And those pads—when he looked closer—he realized they were covered with tiny thorns, sharp enough to pierce skin with even a slight touch.
That was why his foot was bleeding.
But despite the pain, there was something else.
When he had swum back through that dense water, he felt mana flooding into his body, filling him like never before.
It wasn't just physical training. This pond was designed to temper both the body and the mana flow at the same time.
Nerion wiped the blood off his foot roughly, gritting his teeth.
He didn't even think about giving up.
He got up again.
And again.
And again.
For the next five hours, Nerion threw himself at the training with everything he had.
Every jump ended the same way—
The pad would sink the moment his foot touched it, the thorns would tear at his skin, and the vacuum-like water would swallow him whole.
He swam back each time, lungs burning, muscles aching, skin scraped raw by the pads and the rough pond bottom.
The water clung to him, dragging at his limbs with every movement.
The pads seemed to mock him, vanishing under his weight again and again.
His feet were bloodied, his arms trembling, his whole body sore beyond belief.
But he kept going, driven by the memory of his family's faces, the weight of their hopes, and his own burning will.
Every time he dragged himself out of the water, the mana inside the pond filled his veins, restoring just enough strength to try one more time.
He knew this was more than just learning a skill.
This was forging himself into something stronger.
By the end of it, Nerion could barely stand.
He collapsed at the edge of the pond, gasping for air, his vision blurry from exhaustion.
But even then, a small, stubborn smile crossed his face.
He hadn't succeeded yet.
But he hadn't run away either.
After hours of brutal training, Nerion dragged his weakened body back toward the small house.
Every step felt like lifting a mountain. His muscles screamed. His feet left faint smears of blood on the floor.
Nerion forced himself to eat something light. His movements were sluggish, every muscle in his body aching from the grueling training.
He collapsed onto the bed, letting out a low breath. Without wasting time, he began to circulate his mana, activating his meditation skill Breath of the Inner Flame to relieve the strain and slowly recover the drained energy and mana.
Even as he meditated, the pills' effects worked quietly in the background. They hadn't faded or lessened with time — they were always there. The Heartroot and Stoneveil pills kept reinforcing his body, like a slow, relentless tide. His cells seemed to breathe with more life, his blood carried strength with every beat of his heart. Windpulse sharpened his senses and kept his limbs responsive, a subtle undercurrent flowing through his nerves.
Even when he was still, even when he rested, the alchemical strength inside him never stopped building, pushing him little by little toward the warrior he needed to become.
After more than two hours of meditation, Nerion stood up. He drank some water. The pain in his body had numbed because of the Heartroot and Stoneveil pills that were always working in the background.
Now feeling energetic, he walked toward the second training ground where the dummies were placed. It was time for his next training session.
Nerion had picked up the pill box and carried it with him, just like before.
When he reached the dummy ground, he could feel that the effect of Windpulse had worn off. So he opened the box again and took out a new pill:
Titanbone — boosts Strength
He swallowed the pill and waited for a few seconds, feeling the familiar warmth spreading through his body.
For the next six hours, it would pulse through his blood, quietly fortifying his Strength stat, especially as he pushed himself through combat training.
After taking the pill, Nerion could feel a slight heat building inside his muscles, making them feel more firm and responsive.
Nerion summoned his sword from his soul inventory. A soft shimmer flickered, and the familiar weight settled into his hand.
Before starting with the dummies, he activated his sword skill.
Mana surged from his heart, flowing into his arms and legs, connecting with the sword. It was meant to feel natural — a weapon becoming a part of the body itself.
He swung the sword in the air, practicing the movements carefully.
Each arc followed the doctrine's design — snake-like, fluid, deadly — just as he had learned from his skill. The blade coiled and struck through empty space with graceful precision.
But something was missing.
Unlike his brothers, Nerion could feel no real power in the skill.
There was no peer in mana strengthening his movements, no sharp burst of energy driving his strikes.
It felt hollow — like swinging an ordinary sword, without the living force that should have been there.
Still, Nerion didn't stop.
He continued practicing again and again, letting the rhythm and technique burn into his muscles, determined to build the connection .
After practicing for some time,
Nerion turned toward the first training dummy without hesitation.
He activated his sword skill and lunged forward with a strike.
But in the same motion, the dummy moved.
Its wooden arm struck him hard across the side.
The blow sent Nerion sprawling onto the ground.
He gasped, pain flashing through his ribs, but he didn't lose hope.
Gritting his teeth, he stood up and charged again.
Again, the dummy met him with precise counters.
Again, Nerion was beaten back, his arms and legs bruised, his body slowly turning red and blue under the strain.
But he didn't stop.
For 6 hours straight, Nerion fought.
Falling, getting hit, standing again, over and over.
His pills and training skills worked in the background — healing his stamina, keeping his body strong — but the pain never truly faded.
Still, he pushed forward, never giving up, never letting himself stay down for more than a few seconds.
It was like the dummy wasn't just fighting him — it was teaching him.
Every strike, every blow, corrected his mistakes.
Whenever his stance wavered, the dummy struck his legs.
Whenever his grip loosened, it targeted his hands.
When his posture broke, it hit his core.
By beating him black and blue, the dummy was forcing him to fix his form.
Nerion realized this slowly between the clashes.
He clenched his jaw, endured the pain, and kept swinging.
After six hours of relentless training, Nerion's body finally gave out.
He collapsed near the stage, beaten badly by the dummies.
Bruises and small cuts covered him; he had lost over and over without even landing a clean hit.
Gritting his teeth through the pain, he forced himself to sit cross-legged and activated his meditation skill.
Mana slowly flowed through his battered body, easing the sharp aches and helping him breathe normally again.
The pills he had taken earlier worked silently in the background, speeding up his healing.
Strength began to return, but the sting of defeat remained sharp in his chest.
After some time, once he had recovered a bit of his strength, Nerion slowly dragged his battered body back toward the house again .
Each step was heavy, his muscles sore and bruised from the endless beatings.
The training grounds behind him seemed silent now, almost like they were waiting for his return.
Reaching the small cottage, he stumbled inside, heading straight for the kitchen.
He needed food, rest, and a few hours of recovery before he could even think about tomorrow's training.
Nerion sat on the bed, his whole body aching, and broke down in silent tears.
The pain was everywhere—his muscles torn, his skin bruised, his mind exhausted.
For a moment, he wanted to give up.
The doors were open; all he had to do was tell his family that he couldn't do this.
But he knew.
Every member of his family had faced far worse.
His father, who had nearly died countless times in battle, had never once complained.
His elder siblings, who fought every day in the dangerous towers, never showed weakness.
What right did he have to give up?
They fought, bled, and endured so he could have this chance.
He had to train.
He had to grow stronger, not just for himself—but for them, for everyone who had worked for his happiness.
Wiping his tears away, Nerion gritted his teeth and prepared himself for tomorrow.
Now with a new vigor and excitement, Nerion smiled.
He would complete this training.
He would show everyone what he could do.
Determined, he took out the last pill of the day—a healing pill meant to repair his body through the night.
Swallowing it with a gulp of water, he lay down on the bed, letting the gentle warmth of the pill spread through his battered muscles.
Nerion followed the same training schedule for five weeks.
At first, there were no results, but he continued every day without stopping, pushing through the pain and exhaustion.
He trained and trained, refusing to give up.
After five weeks, he finally began to see small improvements.
He could now jump to the next pad without falling immediately.
He could land a single strike on the dummy before getting knocked down.
Nerion felt happy with these small victories, but he didn't slow down.
He knew he had to achieve much more, and he wasn't going to stop.
Time dragged on, slow and merciless.
Each day, Nerion woke to the same cold air, the same lonely training grounds.
Each day, he bled and fell, crushed by failure.
Each day, he stood back up.
The pond tore at his skin.
The dummies beat him black and blue.
The ground grew used to the sight of his blood.
Weeks blurred together into months.
Pain became normal.
Loneliness became a friend.
There were nights when he lay curled on the cold floor, too hurt to move, eyes open but not seeing.
There were mornings when even lifting his sword felt impossible.
But he never called for help.
He never walked away.
He remembered his father's worn hands.
His brothers' tired smiles.
His sister's laughter.
He remembered the dreams they carried for him—the love that had carried him through the hardest days of his life.
And so he trained.
Eight months passed.
The boy who had once cried alone in his room was gone.
In his place stood someone forged in silence, failure, and pain.
His hands were rough. His muscles carved by battle.
But it was his eyes that had changed the most.
They held a quiet fire now.
Not the fire of anger or pride—
—but the slow, stubborn flame of someone who refused to break.
The doors were still open.
He could have left at any time.
But he never did.
He stayed.
And he endured.
Until the world itself would have no choice but to recognize him.