Noel awoke to the sunlight filtering through the narrow window, warmth spread across his face, gentle at first, but it only made the sharp pain stand out more, cutting through the constant, dull throb buried deep within his muscles, reminding him how much his body had been pushed past its limits. His shoulders ached like they'd been hammered, his legs heavy from that overdriven pounce. Sore as hell. But damn, he felt alive, buzzing under the skin, like last night's high hadn't fully crashed yet.
He stretched carefully, wincing at the pull in his side. Those kills were replaying in his head, unbidden. The spear goblin's head giving way under his thrust. The sword one's sloppy thrust slapped aside like it was nothing. "My thrust was sloppy compared to his," muttering to himself. "Faster than I thought, yeah, but Gramps would call it luck, not skill. Half-assed form, too much noise. No shortcuts, idiot. You got the win, but next time? do better."
Victory tasted sweet, but complacency was poison. He wouldn't let it settle. Not with halved excelia breathing down his neck. "I have to push myself harder than anyone else could ever dream of, otherwise I'll never catch up to people like Zald."
"If even geniuses like Zald are grinding this hard, I've got no choice but to push myself even further. Their talent's a birthright, something they were handed at birth, but my desperation? That's a fire I chose to ignite. It has to eclipse their genius, outstrip their relentless work. Matching them isn't enough, I need to surpass them entirely. I'll train harder than anyone else dares, shove myself past limits no one else would touch, because if I don't, I'll never catch up."
His gaze lingered on the wooden beams above, thoughts drifting to the soup. Still warm when he'd gotten back. Gramps knew. Had to. That old fox didn't miss much. "First time someone believed in me without saying it," Noel thought, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
He sat up slowly, panel flickering open in his mind's eye. Stats stared back, unchanged since last night. But that magic tick... I000 to I001. "Magic? Me? After one scrap with bum-ass goblins?" He frowned, rubbing his temple. "Nah, probably a glitch". Half excelia means I grind twice as hard for scraps. But if that's real... what the hell does it tie to? That redacted blessing bullshit? Nah it couldn't be."
Focusing on the panel, I stumbled upon Divine Protection of the Death God. "Wounds inflicted previously will reopen once Noel is close enough. Effective distance scales with Magic. Current range: 0.5 meters." This makes more sense now. If the size scales upwards with the Magic stat, then it's applying some kind of magic based effect, something that stops wounds from properly regenerating. A grin slowly spreads across my face. "I'm a fucking genius." I let out a quiet laugh that grew louder. "Hahahaha… and I thought I'd have to level up just to acquire magic… hahaha…"
After calming himself down, Noel got up, shaking off the stiffness with a few careful rolls of his shoulders. Breakfast smells were already drifting from the kitchen, simple, hearty stuff, like always. He headed that way, panel still hovering in the back of his mind like a nagging reminder. Push harder. Obsess over it. If he didn't, that halved excelia would bury him before he ever touched real power.
Arthur was already at the table, stirring a pot of oats with that steady, unhurried rhythm. No rush. No fuss. Just the old man being the old man. But when Noel sat down, Arthur's eyes flicked up, sharp and knowing. No words at first. Just that stare, like he was reading a book. It made Noel's chest tighten a little, not from fear, but from that quiet weight of someone knowing you did something you shouldn't have, like stealing cookies from the cookie jar when you were a kid.
Noel cleared his throat, spooning some oats into his bowl. "The Soup was good last night, Thanks Gramps."
Arthur grunted, not looking away. "Figured you'd be hungry after... whatever you were doing." He paused, stirring once more, then added flatly, "You reeked of the forest when you snuck back in. Wet leaves. Blood. Goblin stink."
Noel's spoon froze halfway to his mouth. Busted. His face heated up, a mix of embarrassment and something warmer, relief, maybe? The old man knew. Had probably heard the door creak or spotted the missing gear. Trusted him enough not to barge out and drag him back. That hit harder than any lecture could. "Yeah," Noel admitted, meeting the stare with a nod. "Went hunting. Two goblins. Clean kills." A small grin crept up despite himself. "Felt good. Real good."
Arthur nodded once, slow, like he was weighing every word. "Being alive is good." He leaned back, arms folding across his scarred chest. "But reckless. That forest doesn't forgive twice, ever." His tone wasn't scolding, just tired, like someone who'd seen too many mistakes turn fatal.
Noel set his spoon down, the grin fading as he absorbed that. Reckless. Yeah, maybe. But necessary. Still, hearing it from Gramps stung a bit, because damn it, he respected the hell out of the old man. Arthur wasn't just some farmer; those scars told stories Noel could only guess at. And here he was, risking it all without a word. "I get it, Gramps. I do. But... that's why I need more from you. Train me sincerely, harder than before. I want to obsess over this. No holding back. And weight training. Heavy loads, carries, logs on my back, whatever it takes. It'll build my strength, make me more durable. If I'm gonna survive out there, and not let you down, I can't just swing a sword. I need to grind everything."
He said it all in a rush, voice steady but eyes locked on Arthur's, hoping the respect showed through. Please get it. You've been there. You know what this takes.
Arthur's brow twitched, but he didn't interrupt. Just watched, assessing, like he always did. Then, a faint huff, almost a laugh, but softer, warmer. "Weights, eh? Basic. Brutal. Builds the foundation most skip it." He unfolded his arms, leaning forward slightly. "You got edge today, subtle, but there. Confidence in how you move. A couple thousand swings? Child's play now. Today, we add footwork. Dodges. Pivots. And yeah, weights after. Stones from the field, chained logs if you don't break first.
Noel nodded, fire igniting in his chest, but tempered with a swell of gratitude. He's testing me. Good. Push me till I crack, then rebuild stronger. "Thanks, Gramps. I mean it. I won't waste this."
Arthur stood, heading toward the shed, but paused at the door. His voice dropped lower, rougher, carrying the weight of years. "Lost a fool once, to that forest once. Kid thought he was ready. Charged in like a imbecile, never came out. Thornwatch was fuller then, before the whispers of that Level Six beast drove everyone off. Don't make me lose another, lad. I ain't as young as I was in my adventurin' days." He flexed a scarred hand, like the memory ached, staring at it for a beat before letting it drop. "Pre-Orario times. Guild wasn't so tight-fisted. But scars remind you: strength ain't just levels. It's survivin'."
Noel swallowed hard, the words landing like a gut punch. The old man's eyes had gone distant for a second, pained. Noel felt a lump in his throat, respect mixing with something deeper, like sorrow for what Arthur had carried alone all these years. This wasn't just advice; it was a piece of the man himself, shared quietly, without fanfare. "I won't, Gramps," he said, voice quieter now, almost a whisper. "I Promise. I... I appreciate you telling me that. Means a lot. You've got my back, I won't throw that away."
Arthur grunted again, but there was a flicker in his eyes, something like approval, or maybe relief. He stepped outside without another word. "Then eat up. Training starts today."
Noel watched him go, spoon forgotten in his hand. The oats had gone cold, but he didn't care. Gramps's story lingered, fueling him more than any stat gain could. Survivin'. Yeah. I'll make you proud, old man.
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30 minutes later
The field behind the shed wasn't a field at all. It was a graveyard of broken things, half-rotted logs scattered like forgotten bones, stones worn smooth from endless lifts and drops, rusted chains coiled in tangled heaps, a massive beam split clean down the middle as if some force had tried to crack the earth itself and nearly won. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp soil and old wood, a quiet testament to years of unseen effort.
Arthur stood in the center, arms folded, his weathered face as unreadable as ever. He didn't glance up when Noel approached, barefoot on the cool morning grass, each step sending fresh protests through his aching muscles. Shoulders tight, legs leaden from last night's endeavor, sore didn't even cover it. But beneath the hurt, a spark hummed in his veins, that lingering buzz from the kills, the stat ticks, the quiet trust in a bowl of soup.
Noel stopped a few paces away, eyes flicking over the setup. This wasn't playtime. This was real grind, the kind that separated survivors from statistics.
Arthur nudged something forward with his boot, a thick, dense log, dark with age, wrapped in iron chain. Crude handles bent from old hooks gleamed dully in the light.
Noel stared. "…You're joking, right?, that shit looks mad disgusting"
Arthur's brow didn't twitch. "Pick it up, you dam brat."
Noel bent down, fingers wrapping around the cold iron. He lifted. The weight slammed into him immediately, a brutal anchor trying to drag him into the dirt. It barely moved, an inch, maybe two. His shoulders screamed, fire tearing through the joints. He grunted, teeth grinding, and forced it higher. To his knees. His back protested violently, a sharp warning that made his vision blur and his stomach twist.
He dropped it with a thud, hands trembling. Damn, that hurt. But quitting now wasn't an option. He was the one who asked for this. The one who said he'd do whatever it took. And Gramps was watching. He refused to let the old man see him break.
Arthur's voice was flat. "Again."
Noel sucked in a breath, ignoring the shake in his limbs. He lifted. Dropped. Lifted again. Each rep blurred into the next, muscles shifting from burn to something numb and wrong, like his body was trying to detach from the pain. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping into his eyes. Why does it feel heavier every time? Push through. No shortcuts.
After what felt like an eternity, twenty lifts, maybe more, Arthur finally gestured toward the far end of the field. "Carry it," he said. "To the tree over there."
Noel glanced up. The tree loomed at the far end of the field, roughly thirty meters away. It might as well have been a mile. His arms already felt like jelly. "No time to complain". Noel bent down anyway and attempted to lift it. His spine buckled under the strain, knees wobbling violently as the weight slowly rose, inch by inch, until it finally locked against his body. He forced a step forward, the chain rattling like a curse, then another, and another, his vision pulsing in time with his heartbeat, his breath turning ragged as his body screamed at him to stop. By the time he reached twenty meters, his grip was failing, his forearms trembling so badly he could barely hold on. His right knee suddenly gave out, and the log tore free from his grasp, slamming into the dirt and dragging him down with it.
Noel hit the ground hard, pain exploding through his shoulder as the air was ripped from his lungs. He lay there shaking, staring at the remaining distance. Ten meters. That was all. Ten pathetic meters. Arthur's boots came into view beside him, but the old man said nothing at first, just stood there, watching. Then, calmly, said "Pick it up." Noel's body refused to listen. His arms felt torn apart, his legs useless. But he was the one who asked for this. The one who said he'd do whatever it took. His teeth clenched as he forced himself onto his hands and knees, crawled forward, and grabbed the chain again.
His muscles screamed in protest as he lifted, something inside his shoulder burning, threatening to give way completely, but he forced himself up anyway. Step by step, shaking violently, vision blurring, he dragged the weight forward. With threat's like, the Behemoth. The Leviathan. The one eyed Black Dragon. If I were to break here, I would die pathetically when it mattered the most. That thought alone forced Noel's legs to move. Somehow, impossibly, he crossed the final distance. The moment he reached the tree, the log slipped from his numb hands and crashed into the ground, and Noel collapsed beside it, chest heaving, body completely spent. He couldn't move. Couldn't even lift a finger. Arthur stepped beside him, his shadow falling across Noel's broken frame, and after a moment, he spoke, his voice steady and unreadable. "Good. Now carry it back."
He looked down, expression unchanging, then turned away. "Five more carries. Back and forth."
Noel's stomach dropped. Five? But he pushed up, ignoring the tremble in his legs. Respect for the old man burned hotter than the pain. Arthur didn't baby him; he believed he could take it. So Noel would.
The next rounds blurred into agony. Back to the start. Lift. Carry. Drop. Repeat. By the third, his grip slipped constantly, chains biting into his palms. Blood mixed with sweat. Human enough to want to quit? fuck yeah. But the old him would've. The new him? hell the fuck no. No pain no gain.
Arthur didn't let up. After the carries, he pointed to a pile of stones, smooth, fist-sized to head-sized, stacked like forgotten ammo. "Lifts. Start small, build up. Chest to overhead. No dropping control the descent."
Noel nodded, his throat too dry for words. He grabbed the smallest stone first and pressed it overhead, his arms shaking as they locked out above him. It felt easy. Too easy. So he reached for a bigger one. Then another. By the tenth rep with a melon-sized rock, his core burned violently, his abs screaming for mercy as his body trembled under the strain. His breathing turned ragged, but his thoughts burned hotter than the pain. This is just the foundation. Monsters like Zald and Alfia already stood at the peak, and someday Bell Cranel, the real monster, would be born into this world. Compared to them, he was nothing. Not yet. But his hard work, his effort, his desperation… it would surpass them all. It had to. That was his oath. An oath sworn to himself, and to the world.
Sweat poured from Noel's body, soaking through his shirt and dripping from his chin as his arms trembled under the weight. Arthur watched closely, his sharp eyes missing nothing, offering only the occasional grunt of correction. "Slow it down. Feel the burn. Control it. The stretch is the most important part, brat." Noel obeyed immediately, forcing himself to slow despite every instinct begging him to finish the rep and drop the stone. He respected the wisdom in every word. This wasn't guesswork, this was experience carved into flesh. Arthur was a man who carried the marks of real fights and real losses, scars earned in moments where weakness meant death. Compared to that, this pain was nothing. Who was he to complain?
Next came the chains, rusted links dragged across the grass like reluctant snakes. Arthur looped one end around Noel's waist. "Pull. To the fence and back. Don't stop till I say to stop."
The drag was vicious, resistance yanking at his hips, quads igniting with every step. Grass tore under his feet. Halfway, his legs wobbled, breath coming in gasps. Why chains? Builds everything—legs, back, grip. Human reaction: This sucks. But damn, it works. keep Pushing.
By the end, Noel was on his knees, lungs raw, body a map of bruises and tears. Arthur let him catch his breath, barely, then walked to the edge of the field. He bent down, grunting as he hefted something massive: a boulder, rough and unyielding, easily twice Noel's size. He tossed it forward with a thud that shook the ground, like it was nothing.
Noel stared, wide-eyed. What the fuck?
Arthur straightened, his eyes hard but not unkind as they settled on Noel. "You might've learned shitty basics, brat, but a real sword ain't that twig you've been swingin'." He stepped forward and pointed towards the massive boulder, its surface jagged and unyielding, like it had never known the meaning of damage. "A real sword is this," he continued, grabbing Noel's forearm and squeezing it firmly. "The sword of your arms. Your fists. It'll be your greatest weapon." He released him and jerked his chin toward the boulder. "Punch it. Over and over. Don't stop till it breaks. No matter how many days it takes. From now on, we spend an hour a day on this. Just you… and that rock."
Noel's heart pounded, a mix of awe and dread twisting in his chest. Punch a rock? Until it breaks? It sounded insane. But when he looked at Arthur and at the scarred knuckles, the thickened bone, the quiet certainty in his eyes, doubt didn't matter. The old man wasn't joking. He believed in it. He believed in him. Noel swallowed, stepped forward, and raised his fists. The first strike hurt. The second hurt more. After that, the pain stopped being something he could measure. It simply became apart of him.
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Noel lay on his bed, the rough straw mattress creaking under his weight as he shifted slightly. His breathing came calm and steady, in through the nose, out through the mouth, like Arthur had taught him during those endless reps. Pain flared everywhere, a deep, insistent burn that radiated from his shoulders down to his fists, his lower back screaming in pain, his legs heavy as if the chains were still dragging at them. Every inch of him screamed for mercy, but he didn't fight it. He let it wash over him, a reminder that he'd pushed, really pushed himself hard.
Damn, that boulder. His knuckles throbbed just thinking about it, raw and split from punch after punch. The rock hadn't cracked, not even close, but his hands felt like they'd tried to shatter the world. Human enough to regret it? Yeah, a little. But the ache felt. earned. Like proof he was changing, one brutal session at a time.
Arthur's words echoed in his head, clear as the old man's gruff voice: "Tomorrow's rest, lad. You need to get used to the pain. Half the battle's still restin', body rebuilds when you let it." Noel had nodded then, too exhausted to argue, but now, lying here, it sank in deeper. Gramps wasn't just talking training; he was talking life. The old fox knew pain wasn't the enemy, pushing without recovery was. Respect swelled in Noel's chest, warm against the hurt. Arthur didn't have to share those pieces of himself, the lost apprentice, the scars. But he did. For me.
He exhaled slowly, letting the smile linger. Then, with a thought, the panel flickered open.
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Noel Xerlectus
lvl 1
Strength: I092 → I095
Endurance: H104 → H108
Dexterity: H129 → H130
Agility: I054 → I055
Magic: I001
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Damn. that's a lot more stats than I expected, Noel smiled faintly at the panel before letting it fade, his aching body sinking into the bed as exhaustion took over, knowing now that rest wasn't weakness, it was preparation for a better tomorrow.