The next morning, after their usual chores and a sip of sunblossom tonic, Ash stood barefoot in the clearing, gripping a wooden practice sword tightly in both hands. The worn grip was smoothed from daily use, stained slightly darker where his palms always held it.
Justin stood opposite him, holding a similar wooden blade, his stance relaxed but firm. His eyes, however, were sharp—watching everything.
"Again," he said, stepping forward with a light swing.
Ash moved quickly to block, wood clacking against wood. He followed with a lunge, but Justin sidestepped easily and tapped Ash on the shoulder with the flat of the blade.
"Too much weight in your front foot," Justin said calmly. "You're throwing yourself off balance before you even strike."
Ash grit his teeth and reset his stance.
They moved again—step, block, strike, parry. The air was filled with the rhythm of clashing wood, shuffling feet, and Justin's steady stream of corrections:
"Keep your elbows in."
"Don't swing for power—swing for precision."
"Watch my hips, not my hands. They'll tell you more."
Sweat began to bead on Ash's brow as he focused, absorbing every word, every adjustment. Justin wasn't cruel, but he didn't go easy either. Every mistake was pointed out, corrected, repeated.
Ash swung again, this time controlling his movement better—lighter on his feet, blade tighter to his body. He managed to graze Justin's arm.
Justin gave a small nod of approval.
"Better. You're starting to feel it, not just think it."
Despite the soreness already creeping into his muscles, Ash couldn't help the flicker of pride that rose in his chest. These sessions were hard—but they were his favorite part of the day.
After their sparring session ended, Justin stepped back, lowering his wooden blade. He took a deep breath and then pointed to the center of the clearing with the tip.
"Now," he said, voice calm but firm, "the stances. Go through them. A thousand times each, just like I taught you."
Ash didn't argue. He moved to the center of the training patch where the grass was worn down into packed dirt—evidence of how many mornings had begun just like this.
He planted his feet, gripped the sword, and began.
"First stance—Stone Root." Feet wide, back straight, sword held low and firm across his body.
"Second—Wind Arc." He pivoted, blade sweeping in a half-moon.
"Third—High Guard." Arms raised, tip angled just forward of his brow.
"Fourth—Coiled Fang." A crouch, blade tight against his side like a spring ready to snap.
"Fifth—Piercing Branch." Lunge. Hold. Return.
Each stance flowed into the next with quiet discipline. His breathing became steady, movements more refined. He had done these thousands of times—and he would do them thousands more. His father had once said:
"Repetition isn't just training. It's how the body learns what the mind forgets."
Justin watched in silence, arms crossed, eyes following every shift, every adjustment. Occasionally, he stepped in to nudge a foot or correct an angle by tapping Ash's elbow lightly.
Ash kept going, sweat beading again on his skin, but his focus never broke. These stances weren't just drills. They were foundation. Ritual. Preparation.
And somewhere, in the repetition, Ash felt it—that quiet strength building in his limbs, in his stance, in his heart.
As Ash cycled through the final stance, sweat dripping from his brow and his arms trembling slightly, Justin finally spoke again—his tone quieter this time.
"Your awakening isn't far now," he said, stepping forward and planting his wooden sword in the ground.
Ash paused mid-stance, breathing heavily. He looked up, curious but calm.
Justin continued, voice steady, though edged with something deeper. "You know how it works. Commoners aren't meant to awaken. Not unless the nobles allow it... and they rarely do."
Ash nodded slowly. He'd heard it all before—but hearing it from his father carried more weight.
"Most kids like you?" Justin went on. "They work their whole lives and never get the chance. Only those with 'innate talent' get plucked up by the noble houses—and when they do, it's not freedom they're given. It's a leash. Contracts. Oaths. Service for life." He spat on the ground. "They call it honor. I call it ownership."
Ash didn't flinch. He had no dreams of bowing to some highblooded lord. He had grown up on stories of merchants bought off, villages crushed, talents buried—all because someone without a title dared to shine too brightly.
Justin pointed toward the small crest branded on his old leather armor, half-faded: the sigil of the Adventurers' Guild.
"This is your real chance," he said. "The Guild doesn't care about your blood, only your strength. If you get in, they'll protect you—even from the nobles." He paused. "But it won't be easy, Ash. Not even close."
Ash looked at his father and simply nodded.
"I know."
He wasn't worried. He didn't care about power for its own sake. What mattered was survival, strength, freedom—and staying close to those he still had.
He returned to his stance and began again.
After the long morning of training and drills, Ash and Justin sat under the shade of a large oak at the edge of the clearing. The sun was high now, casting short shadows as a warm breeze rustled the grass. For a while, neither of them spoke—just resting, breathing, letting their muscles settle.
Eventually, they made their way back home. Their small cottage greeted them with the familiar scent of stew still warm from earlier. Lunch was simple—vegetable broth with bits of dried meat and fresh bread.
Ash ate quietly, grateful for the rest. But just as he finished his bowl, Justin pushed back his chair and stood.
"Get your boots," he said, grabbing his worn leather pack from the corner. "We're heading into the forest."
Ash looked up, surprised. "Now?"
"You're strong enough now to start gaining experience in the wild," Justin added, tightening the straps across his chest. "Herb gathering, tracking, listening, moving quietly. All of it matters. Not just the fighting."
As they entered the forest, Ash instinctively shifted his footing—light, deliberate steps that barely disturbed the fallen leaves beneath him. It was a simple footwork technique his father had drilled into him for months now, designed for basic stealth.
It wasn't advanced—not enough to sneak past sharp-eyed predators or anything magical—but against small beasts, the kind that bolted at the sound of a careless snap of twigs, it worked well. And more importantly, it taught discipline. Rhythm. Control.
Justin glanced over his shoulder and gave a brief nod of approval.
"Good. You're remembering the quiet steps. Don't rush it."
As they moved deeper into the green, Justin began pointing things out—the way a broken branch curved unnaturally, or how tufts of fur clung to a tree's bark. He spoke evenly, teaching as he went.
"This trail here? Probably a horn-tail boar. See how the roots are dug up? They go for root bulbs this time of year."
Ash nodded and pulled out a small leather-bound notebook, carefully jotting it down. He already had pages filled with observations: claw shapes, nesting signs, territory markers. Most of it was gathered from his father's lessons, but some were his own—a few humble entries based on direct sightings or near misses.
Justin continued, tone low but firm.
"If you see claw marks going up a tree, keep your eyes high. That means it's a tree-lurker. Don't let the silence fool you—they wait, then pounce. Never walk under a dark branch without checking it first."
Ash scribbled more notes.
Along the way, Justin explained every precaution—from the safest distances to observe from, to how to listen for warning calls from forest birds, to the signals beasts gave before they fled or attacked.
"The forest doesn't care who you are," he said. "It only respects those who respect it. The second you get careless, it reminds you."
The underbrush rustled again—closer now. Ash held his breath, muscles coiled, his wooden sword steady in front of him. Justin stood motionless, eyes fixed on the dense patch of green.
The leaves parted—
—and out burst a wild hen, feathers flapping in every direction. It let out a shrill screech:
"Cawk! Cawk! Cawk!!"
It skittered across the path in a panic, flapped once more, and disappeared into the deeper brush.
Ash stared for a second—then burst into laughter, lowering his sword. "A hen?! All that tension for a chicken!"
Justin didn't smile. His gaze remained fixed on the place the bird had come from, scanning the area. Only after a long moment did he speak.
"I knew it was just a hen. But you didn't."
Ash's laughter faded.
Justin looked at him, voice calm but firm. "Never let your guard down just because the danger turned out small. The forest doesn't give second chances when you guess wrong."
Ash nodded, a little more serious now. He raised his sword again, eyes sharp.
Lesson learned.
As they moved deeper into the forest, the trees grew taller—massive trunks, gnarled and ancient, rising high above and weaving together into a dense canopy. The sunlight thinned, dimming into a muted green glow that painted everything in soft shadows. The air grew cooler, heavier. Even the sounds of birds and insects seemed to fade the farther they walked.
Eventually, they reached a small clearing, barely touched by light. Moss blanketed the ground like a carpet. Nestled between tree roots and clusters of stone grew the herb they had come for—Cleanser. Rare, valuable, and used in potions to purge toxins and impurities from the body.
But more importantly—its roots were fragile. Disturb them even slightly, and the plant would wither on the spot, losing all potency.
Justin said nothing—he didn't need to. This was a test.
Ash crouched low, his breath steady. Slowly, carefully, he slipped his small blade into the moss just beside the stem, angled away from the roots. With featherlight movements, he began trimming the base of the herb, separating the stem from the soil with surgical precision.
The root network remained untouched.
With one last breath, he lifted the severed plant free and placed it gently into a soft pouch lined with cloth.
Justin watched from nearby, expression unreadable. After a pause, he gave a single nod.
Ash allowed himself the tiniest smile. He'd done it perfectly.