It's been five years now, half decade since this wild journey kicked off. The deity that dumped me into this world, wide-eyed and clueless. I look back on it all, remembering the old days: the rough start, getting rescued by Arthur when I was half-dead and lost, the endless frustration at my snail's-pace progress. I'd forgotten the key lesson he drilled into me early on, that fifty percent of training is the rest, the recovery that rebuilds you stronger.
But in my stupidity, I ignored it, charging into that damn forest like a fool chasing quick gains. It nearly broke me, but it led me to begging Arthur to train me properly, no holds barred. Glancing at my stats now, I can honestly say it was all fruitful, every bruise and breakthrough. But it's time to move forward, to step out from this safe haven and chase the real horizon.
Its time to level up
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Noel Xerlectus
Lvl: 1 → Lvl: 2
Strength: SS1147 → I000
Endurance: SSS1276 → I000
Dexterity: SS1068 → I000
Agility: S989 → I000
Magic: D527 → I000
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skills and development abilities will be on the next chapter to counter clogging.
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It didn't start with some epic breakthrough or lightning-strike moment. Nah, it kicked off with straight-up failure. The kind that hits you in the gut and makes you question if you're even cut out for this shit.
Arthur's "real training" began the day after I begged him for it. I thought I was ready, all hyped up and full of fire. Spoiler: I wasn't. That first week alone shattered whatever ego I had left. My arms felt like lead weights, refusing to lift after a few reps. My legs wobbled just crossing the yard. My lungs burned like I'd inhaled smoke, and every damn move felt like my muscles were ripping apart at the seams.
And Arthur? He didn't pat me on the back or say "good try, kid." No pep talks, no easing up. He just stood there, watching. Not mean about it. Honest in that quiet way of his, like he was letting the truth do the talking.
I collapsed more times than I care to admit. Sometimes before lunch, hell, sometimes before the sun was even fully up.
I hated it all, the pain, the grind. Hated him for pushing me. Hated myself the most, because deep down, I knew he wasn't the problem. I was just weak. Plain and simple.
But weakness, like Arthur said once over breakfast, isn't a life sentence. It's a phase. You either push through it or get stuck forever. So I pushed. Gritted my teeth and kept showing up.
The next few years weren't some dramatic montage. They were boring, honestly. Repetitive as hell. Wake up sore, train till I couldn't think straight, eat whatever Gramps slapped on the table, crash for a bit, then train some more. Sleep like the dead, rinse and repeat. No magic shortcuts, no overnight superhero vibes.
Just tiny wins that snuck up on you, a swing that didn't feel as clunky, a step that landed lighter, breaths that came easier without that stab in the chest.
It was slow. Frustratingly slow. But it was happening. Arthur started correcting me less, not because I'd nailed perfection, but because I'd built something solid underneath. A real foundation, the kind that doesn't crumble when shit gets heavy.
Then, around year three or four, things plateaued. My body adapted, and the easy gains dried up. Every inch of progress felt like pulling teeth.
Some days, it seemed like I wasn't moving at all. Those were the rough ones, not from the physical hurt, but the mental crap. The doubt that creeps in late at night: Is this enough? Am I just spinning my wheels here, wasting my life on a pipe dream?
Arthur never fed me answers. He'd let me stew in it, maybe grunt something like "Doubt's part of it" over dinner. And eventually, I got it. The questions didn't need perfect resolutions.
I wasn't grinding because it was fun or guaranteed. I was doing it because I chose to. Because stopping felt worse than the ache.
By year four, training stopped feeling like a battle against my own body. It turned into refinement, sharpening edges, smoothing out the rough spots. Moves that used to wipe me out became second nature, no wasted energy. Arthur talked even less, whole days going by without a single fix from him. At first, I worried he'd lost interest. Then it hit me: he didn't need to babysit anymore. I'd learned to spot my own screw-ups, adjust on the fly.
The last year blurred into that quiet rhythm. No big "aha" moment, no fireworks. Just a gradual shift, like waking up one day and realizing this place—this life with Gramps—had given me all it could. Solid ground to stand on.
And then, in year five, I finally broke that stupid boulder. My fists had turned to iron from the endless punches, knuckles thick and callused like they'd been forged in a smithy. The rock itself was a mess by then, caved in deep from years of punishment, craters where my strikes had chipped away at it bit by bit. That final punch? It cracked clean through, splitting with a sound like thunder. Dust and shards everywhere. I stood there, breathing heavy, staring at the wreckage. Arthur just nodded from the porch, like he'd known it was coming all along.
One morning after that, Arthur didn't bark orders or point to the field. He just sat on the porch, staring at the sunrise with his coffee, like he was content to let the day unfold. I trained alone that day. And the next. And the one after. He didn't interfere, didn't critique. He knew. And so did I.
Which brings me to now, five years later. Standing here in the yard, looking back at the house that saved my ass, and the old man who turned me from a lost kid into... well, whatever I am now. I reach up, fingers brushing the old pendant around my neck. Gramps handed it to me a few days back, no fanfare. "Keep it," he said, and that was that. Didn't explain, didn't need to. It means something, maybe from his past, maybe just a token. But it's his, so it's mine now.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and let the truth settle in, the one I've felt coming for a while.
It's time to move on.