(Marcus pov)
The next day, I went to our training spot as usual. Lina arrived soon after, settling into her place with a book in hand. The staff Evelyn had crafted for her rested at her side. From what I could gather, the staff contained a few spells—fireball, minor heal, and heal. Lina could also channel her own magic through it, the staff amplifying her strength. Even a simple fire bolt became more dangerous because of that.
Meanwhile, Evelyn was teaching me how to create my own weapon. It was harder than I imagined. Still, with her guiding me, each step forward became possible, though not without effort. By the time we finished, I was so tired I could barely stand. Yet I kept pushing forward. I couldn't forget how useless I had been against that bandit before. I never wanted to feel that helpless again.
After resting for an hour, I finally managed to form a proper weapon. Evelyn congratulated me, and just like that, all the frustration I'd felt washed away. Cycling through the different weapons I could make, I eventually chose a heavy spear as my main weapon. The shaft looked like steel, though it was formed entirely from mana I drew from the atmosphere. To make it versatile, I could also adjust the length and density to suit the situation.
Evelyn was impressed, but she wasn't herself without pushing me further. Even with my new weapon, she made me realize just how wide the gap between us was. She didn't just deflect or evade my attacks—she pointed out every flaw in my stance and movements. She drilled into me that footwork was as important as my hands. That my posture, balance, and reactions all needed to flow together.
I wasn't being trained by a child. I was being trained by someone with the sharp eye of a veteran.
Hours passed with Evelyn correcting me and drilling me again and again until I began to grasp what she meant. Only then did I notice something odd: there were many children watching us from the sidelines. Even a few adults lingered nearby.
Lina looked uncomfortable with so many people around, but the villagers seemed impressed—by me, yes, but more by Evelyn. Not just her talent, but the way she explained things, the way she carried herself.
Later, Evelyn told us she wanted to give the other village kids some pointers, and that she wanted me to help her. I knew it would be troublesome, but I also felt… proud. Proud that she trusted me enough to ask.
The kids swarmed us eagerly, some of them holding sticks as makeshift weapons, others bouncing on their heels with bright eyes. Evelyn handled them with effortless ease, explaining the basics, demonstrating simple footwork, and even correcting their postures with gentle patience.
It was strange watching her. She wasn't commanding like a strict teacher, nor did she bark orders like a soldier. She just… shined. Every word she spoke made the kids lean closer, every smile of hers lit up their faces. Even the adults in the crowd nodded along, murmuring about her talent.
And there I was—standing beside her, trying my best not to trip over my own explanations while the kids looked at me with half the enthusiasm they gave her. At first, it stung a little. She was ten years old, yet carried herself like someone who had lived lifetimes more.
But as I watched her work, the sting faded. Instead, I felt a swell of something else. Pride, maybe. Or gratitude. Evelyn wasn't just a prodigy—she was someone who lifted people, someone who made you want to do better just by being near her.
As the lesson ended and the children scattered, still buzzing with excitement, I caught myself thinking:
No wonder everyone is drawn to her. No matter where she goes, she'll always stand out.
I tightened my grip on the spear I had formed earlier.
And then I made a quiet vow to myself:
Even if I can't shine like her… I'll fight to stand beside her.