The memory of the monster attack lingered in Ethan's mind for days. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw the creature's massive form charging through the trees of Greenhaven Forest, watched Ling being thrown against a tree trunk, and felt the crushing weight of his own uselessness. Though Ling and Lily had been kind about his contribution, Ethan knew the truth—he had been moments from death, saved only by Grey's timely intervention.
In the week that followed, Ethan threw himself into his kitchen duties with even greater focus, as if the perfect stew or perfectly baked bread might somehow compensate for his failings in battle. The children ate his meals with their usual enthusiasm, but Ethan found little joy in their appreciation.
One evening, as twilight painted the sky in deepening shades of purple, Ethan stood at the kitchen window, watching the shadows lengthen across Rivermoor's courtyard. The younger children played a game involving pebbles and chalk circles, their laughter drifting through the partially open window. Nearby, Grey sat on a wooden bench, his massive sword propped beside him as he meticulously ran a whetstone along its edge. The boy's face remained impassive, focused entirely on his task.
"He doesn't hate you, you know."
The voice startled Ethan. He turned to find Garrick standing in the kitchen doorway, his weathered face thoughtful as he observed Ethan. The old man's eyes held the wisdom earned through decades of survival in a world filled with monsters and hardship.
"Grey," Garrick clarified, stepping into the kitchen. "He doesn't hate you—he's just cautious. They all are, in their own ways."
Ethan sighed, turning back to the window. "I'm a liability to them. In the forest, when it mattered most, I couldn't do anything helpful."
"Is that what you believe?" Garrick asked, coming to stand beside him. Outside, Grey had finished with his sword and was now supervising a training session between two younger children, correcting their stances with surprising patience.
"It's what I know," Ethan replied, the words bitter on his tongue. "I threw some rocks at a monster. That's not exactly heroic."
Garrick was quiet for a moment, his gaze thoughtful as he studied Ethan's face. "Come with me," he finally said. "There's something I want to show you."
Curiosity piqued, Ethan followed the old man out of the kitchen and through a series of corridors he hadn't explored before. They descended a narrow staircase that wound deeper into the foundation of Rivermoor, until they reached a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands.
Garrick produced a key from within his shirt, hanging on a leather cord around his neck. The lock turned with a solid click, and the door swung open to reveal a room that made Ethan catch his breath.
It was an armory—not large, but meticulously organized. Weapons of various types hung on the walls or stood in racks: swords, spears, axes, and bows. A workbench stretched along one wall, cluttered with tools for maintenance and repair. The air smelled of oil and metal, with undertones of leather and wood polish.
"This is where I spent much of my youth," Garrick said, stepping inside and lighting several lamps that cast a warm glow throughout the space. "Before I became caretaker of Rivermoor, I was a hunter—one of the best, if you'll forgive an old man's boasting."
Ethan followed him inside, eyes wide as he took in the collection. "I had no idea."
Garrick smiled, running a hand along the flat of a sword with obvious fondness. "Few do, these days. The children know I trained them, but they've never seen me in my prime." His smile faded slightly. "Time claims us all eventually."
He moved to a cabinet at the far end of the room and unlocked it, revealing shelves of smaller weapons—knives and daggers of various designs. With reverent hands, he selected one and held it out to Ethan.
The knife was unlike any Ethan had seen before. Its blade, about the length of his hand, bore intricate carvings that seemed to shimmer with an inner light. The handle fit his palm as if made for him, the balance perfect.
"This is a Phantom Blink," Garrick explained as Ethan examined it. "A teleportation knife—one of my most valued possessions from my hunting days."
"Phantom Blink?" Ethan echoed, turning the blade to catch the light. The carvings along its surface appeared to shift and flow, like water beneath ice.
"It allows the wielder to instantly travel to wherever the knife lands," Garrick said. "But first, you must establish a link with the blade—bond your essence to it so that only you can use its power. Once bonded, you throw Phantom Blink to your desired location, and you'll appear where it strikes in the blink of an eye."
Ethan looked up, meeting the old man's eyes. "Why are you showing me this?"
Garrick's expression grew serious. "Because I see something in you that you don't yet see in yourself. When you cook, Ethan—have you noticed what happens?"
Ethan frowned, unsure of the connection. "I don't understand."
"Your telekinesis," Garrick prompted. "The way utensils move at your command, the precision of your knives as they slice and dice. You conduct an entire orchestra of tools without touching them."
"That's just cooking," Ethan said dismissively. "It has nothing to do with fighting monsters."
Garrick shook his head. "That's where you're wrong. You've already mastered telekinetic control—your precision in the kitchen is flawless. The challenge isn't learning to move objects with your mind; it's learning to use that mastery as a weapon." He tapped the knife in Ethan's hand. "Your telekinesis gives you advantages most fighters spend decades trying to develop. You simply haven't learned to apply it beyond the kitchen."
Hope flickered in Ethan's chest, but doubt quickly smothered it. "Even if that's true, I'm already twenty-two. Ling, Lily, Grey—they've been training since they could walk. How could I ever catch up?"
"You don't need to become them," Garrick said firmly. "You need to become the best version of yourself. And I believe that version is capable of far more than you imagine." He gestured to the knife. "This is for you. I want to train you."
Ethan stared at the knife in his palm, feeling its weight—both physical and symbolic. "Why would you do this for me?"
Garrick's eyes softened. "Because every person in Rivermoor has lost something precious. You're not the only one seeking to reclaim what fate has taken." He placed a hand on Ethan's shoulder. "And because these children need protectors who understand what they're fighting for."
The mention of loss made Ethan's heart clench with memories of Emberlyn—her smile, her laugh, the way her eyes would light up when she spoke of her dreams. If there was even a chance he could become strong enough to protect her, to help her recover her memories...
"When do we start?" he asked, his voice firm with newfound resolve.
Garrick smiled, a spark of his former warrior self visible in his aged eyes. "We already have. First, you must bond with the blade."
***
The bonding process was unlike anything Ethan had ever experienced. Garrick guided him through the ritual in the armory's dim light, instructing him to focus his essence—his very being—into the teleportation knife.
"Feel the weapon's energy," Garrick said, his voice low and steady. "Let your life force flow into the blade, creating an unbreakable connection."
Ethan closed his eyes, holding the knife with both hands. At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, he felt a warmth spreading from the blade into his palms, up his arms, until it reached his core. The knife's carvings began to glow with a soft blue light, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
"Good," Garrick murmured. "The bond is forming. No one else will ever be able to use this blade's power now—it belongs to you alone."
When the light faded, Ethan opened his eyes. The knife looked the same, but he could feel its presence in his mind, a constant awareness of its location and condition.
"Now comes the real training," Garrick said.
***
The following morning, before dawn's first light touched the eastern sky, Ethan met Garrick in the courtyard. The air was cool and damp, mist curling around their ankles as they faced each other.
"Your telekinetic precision is already masterful," Garrick began, his voice low to avoid waking the sleeping children. "The way you control multiple utensils while cooking shows incredible skill. But there's a difference between moving a spoon to stir soup and using a blade to strike a vital point."
He handed Ethan six small knives, each balanced for throwing. "These will be extensions of your will, just as your kitchen knives are when you cook. But now, instead of preparing food, you'll be preparing to defend lives."
Ethan held the knives, feeling their weight, the balance of blade and handle. They were similar to his kitchen knives but designed for a deadlier purpose.
"Show me your telekinetic control," Garrick instructed, setting up several targets across the courtyard.
Ethan focused, and the six knives rose smoothly into the air. He guided them through complex patterns—figure-eights, spirals, precise formations. His control was indeed flawless, each blade responding to his mental commands with perfect accuracy.
"Excellent," Garrick said, genuine appreciation in his voice. "Your precision rivals that of hunters with decades of experience. Now, the challenge—strike those targets with killing force."
This proved far more difficult. When Ethan sent the knives forward, they moved with his usual cooking precision—controlled, gentle, designed not to damage. Even when he consciously tried to make them strike harder, something in his mind held back.
"You're thinking like a cook, not a warrior," Garrick observed as Ethan's knives barely penetrated the practice targets. "In the kitchen, you protect your ingredients, handle them with care. In combat, that same care will get you killed."
For the next hour, Ethan struggled with this mental barrier. His telekinetic control remained perfect, but he couldn't bring himself to use it with lethal intent.
"Imagine the monster from the forest," Garrick said finally. "Picture it threatening Ling, Lily, the younger children. Your gentleness won't save them—only decisive action will."
With this mental image, something shifted in Ethan's mind. The next volley of knives struck the targets with satisfying force, embedding themselves deep in the wood.
"Better," Garrick nodded. "But you need to master this instinctively, not just when you're thinking about it."
By the time the sun crested the horizon, painting the courtyard in gold, Ethan's face was slick with sweat, his concentration fraying at the edges. Yet he had made progress—the knives now struck with genuine force, though his control still wavered between his cooking precision and combat necessity.
"Enough for today," Garrick said, noting Ethan's exhaustion. "Tomorrow, we'll work with the teleportation knife."
Ethan wiped his brow with his sleeve. "It doesn't feel like enough."
Garrick chuckled. "It never does. But mastery comes from consistent effort, not single bursts of intensity." He collected the knives, returning them to a leather case. "For now, the children will be waking hungry."
As they walked back toward the main building, Ethan caught sight of Grey watching from a window. The boy's expression was cold, disapproving, before he turned away with obvious disdain.