The following morning arrived colder than the last. Mist rolled heavily through the mountain paths surrounding the cavern while Shadow sat near the fire sharpening one of the worn training blades Neto had left beside him earlier.
For a while neither of them spoke.
Neto adjusted the straps securing a travel pack near the cavern entrance before finally glancing back toward him. "We begin physical training today."
Shadow nodded once, though his attention remained fixed on the blade in his hands.
Neto noticed immediately.
"You still have questions."
It wasn't really a question.
Shadow hesitated briefly before setting the blade aside. "You said my parents were powerful," he said. "If that's true, why have I never heard of them before? Not once. No stories. No rumors. Nothing."
The fire crackled softly between them.
"Because Archibald made sure of it," Neto replied. "The estate where you were raised sits far from the larger cultivation territories. Most people there know very little about the forces shaping the rest of the world, and Archibald spent years controlling what information reached you."
Shadow frowned slightly. "But if they're really that important, shouldn't people still talk about them?"
"They do." Neto's expression remained calm. "Just not in places like that."
Shadow stayed quiet.
Neto settled beside the fire before continuing. "The world is much larger than the valleys and estates you grew up around. Entire sects, kingdoms, clans, and cultivator alliances exist beyond these mountains. In those places, the names Gracey and Marvin Pierce carry weight."
"Then why didn't they come for me?"
The question came more quietly than Shadow intended.
Neto's gaze lowered briefly toward the flames. "Because they believed you were being prepared properly." He looked back toward Shadow afterward. "And because people at their level cannot simply abandon their responsibilities whenever they wish. The higher a cultivator rises, the more enemies, obligations, and political pressures follow them."
Shadow's jaw tightened slightly. Part of him understood the explanation logically.
Another part still hated it.
Neto seemed to recognize that conflict immediately. "You don't have to forgive them right now," he said calmly. "But don't mistake absence for indifference. If your parents truly didn't care about you, Archibald would never have gone through so much effort to hide you."
The words settled heavily into the cavern.
Shadow looked down toward the fire again while old memories surfaced faintly through the quiet. The scent of lavender. A warm voice. Gentle hands brushing through his hair before the memories disappeared again beneath years of isolation and punishment.
He barely remembered them.
That realization hurt more than he expected.
Neto eventually rose to his feet again. "You'll have time to ask more questions later," he said. "Right now you need to survive long enough to reach the world they come from."
Shadow let out a slow breath before standing carefully himself. Most of the lingering weakness from the river had faded now, replaced instead by nervous anticipation tightening through his chest.
Neto studied him briefly before tossing him a weighted vest.
Shadow nearly stumbled catching it.
"This weighs more than I do."
"That's the point."
For the first time in days, the faintest trace of humor crossed Neto's expression before it disappeared again beneath his usual composure.
"Come on," he said. "Your body won't build itself."
The following months stripped away whatever softness still remained in Shadow's frame. Training began before sunrise each morning and rarely ended before nightfall. Neto pushed him through long runs across uneven mountain trails until breathing itself became painful. Weighted stances followed afterward, forcing Shadow to hold his balance while his muscles trembled hard enough to threaten collapse. By midday his arms often felt too heavy to lift, yet Neto still placed a blade in his hands and corrected every mistake with relentless precision.
At first Shadow hated it, not because the training was difficult, but because it exposed how far behind he truly was. His movements lacked refinement. His endurance failed too quickly. Even simple exercises left his muscles burning harder than he wanted to admit.
Neto never mocked him for it. Strict corrections came constantly, but never humiliation. When Shadow collapsed, Neto forced him back up. When frustration built too heavily behind his mistakes, Neto broke techniques down patiently until he understood them properly.
Progress mattered. Excuses did not.
That difference slowly changed everything.
The seasons shifted gradually around the mountain valleys while Shadow's body hardened alongside the training. Lean muscle replaced the thin frame left behind by years of neglect while old scars layered across his hands and arms from sparring, climbing, hunting, and repeated drills with the blade.
Mana training became part of the routine as well. Each evening Shadow sat beneath the open sky forcing himself to guide mana carefully through his body while Neto observed nearby. At first the process felt clumsy and unstable, like trying to direct water through cracked stone, but over time the flow gradually steadied.
More importantly, Shadow began noticing patterns, mana responded differently depending on emotional state. Anger made it violent and harder to control. Fear disrupted focus entirely. Calmness strengthened precision.
Neto noticed Shadow studying those reactions long before he mentioned them aloud. "You're paying attention properly now," he said one evening while adjusting the bindings around Shadow's forearms after sparring. "Most beginners focus only on power. They ignore control until it's too late."
Shadow flexed his sore fingers carefully. "Power without control sounds useless."
"It's worse than useless," Neto corrected calmly. "It becomes dangerous."
The fire crackled softly between them while darkness stretched through the mountains surrounding the camp.
Shadow lowered himself beside the flames more slowly than usual that night, exhaustion weighing heavily through his limbs after hours of drills and mana circulation. Even so, something about the fatigue felt satisfying now in a way he never expected.
For the first time in his life, suffering carried purpose.
Neto sat across from him sharpening one of the training blades in silence before eventually speaking again. "You've adapted faster than I expected."
Shadow glanced up slightly.
"That doesn't mean you're ready," Neto continued. "It means you've finally stopped thinking like a survivor and started thinking like a cultivator."
The words lingered with Shadow long after the conversation ended.
Two years passed that way.
The mountains became familiar. Training became routine. Pain became expected.
And Shadow changed alongside all of it.
By the end of the second year, the thin, uncertain boy dragged from the river no longer existed. His frame remained lean, but strength now moved naturally beneath it. His silver eyes carried sharper focus, his movements steadier control, and the hesitation that once followed him had gradually been carved away through discipline and hardship alike.
Neto watched him closely during the final sparring match before dawn one cold morning. Shadow's wooden blade cut cleanly through the air before stopping inches from Neto's throat.
For a moment neither of them moved before Neto lowered his own weapon slowly. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"Good."
The single word carried more weight than any praise Shadow had received in the past two years.