Author Note:
It is time for a timeskip. Hope you guys liked the story so far, we will be skipping some years, not months, but years. Powerstones please. I want to reach the top 200.
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At Jons' mansion, Serik—almost fully healed—rose from his bed to stretch his body. He had been lying there for more than a week, and the stiffness in his limbs made it clear he needed some exercise. After a short routine to refresh himself, he headed straight for the kitchen in search of a snack.
He froze.
On the kitchen table sat a mountain of books.
Serik gulped, a bad premonition crawling up his spine. Slowly, he approached the table and picked up the book on top.
Physics for Dummies.
His heart sank straight to his stomach.
The premonition had been correct. All of these books were for him.
Out of nowhere, a hand settled gently on his shoulder.
"Young master."
"Aaah!"
Serik jumped away, nearly tripping over himself, then relaxed when he saw who it was.
"It seems you are still on edge," Jons observed calmly.
"You're just too elusive," Serik replied without a moment of hesitation. He pointed at the table, secretly hoping his fear was unfounded. "Are these books all for me?"
"Of course not."
Jons walked to the table and picked up a single book, turning it so Serik could read the title.
The Art of Cooking.
"I plan to learn some new recipes," Jons said evenly. "The rest, however, are meant for you."
Serik collapsed to his knees.
"Nooooooo! How could you do this to me?!"
After his scream of horror and despair, he began rolling dramatically across the floor.
"I don't wanna! I don't wanna! Bad butler!"
Jons followed Serik's movements with his eyes, calm and observant. A faint thought crossed his mind.
I suppose you are not quite as similar as I believed.
He coughed once.
No reaction.
He coughed again.
Still nothing.
His expression did not change, but he decided it was time for a more decisive approach.
Kick.
The impact came without warning. Serik was launched backward, his body slamming into the wall with enough force to crack the stone and leave a shallow crater behind.
Before he could even register the pain, the sound of metal slicing through the air followed.
Four utensils shot forward like bolts.
Each struck with terrifying precision—one pinning the sleeve of his right arm, another catching the left, a third embedding itself through the fabric of his leg, and the last nailing the other leg in place.
Serik hung against the wall in a crude cross shape. The kick itself had not hurt much—Jons had clearly held back—but the collision with the wall left his vision spinning as he saw Jons calmly approach.
"I apologize, young master," Jons said. "I attempted the gentle approach, but you did not listen. I therefore took a page from your grandfather's playbook."
"Ugh… Grandpa is a weirdo," Serik muttered.
"He certainly is," Jons agreed. "But so are you. You cannot ask for knowledge and then wail when its weight overwhelms you. Remember this well: a building is only as strong as its foundation."
Serik lowered his head in shame.
He's right, he thought. I almost gave up because of some books.
Then his eyes drifted back to the towering pile on the table, and his resolve crumbled again. This time, his voice was softer.
"But it's just too much… Look at that. It's bigger than both of us combined."
"Do not worry, young master," Jons replied. "I will stand beside you and guide you through all of it. I possess a professional teaching license and extensive experience educating children."
Serik imagined Jons standing behind him with a ruler, ready to strike his head at the slightest mistake.
He sighed.
Serik felt a sense of defeat that was difficult to describe. It was like envisioning a bright future in vivid detail—clear, attainable, inevitable—only to be confronted with the unavoidable process required to reach it.
Tear.
The strain finally caused his clothes to rip. His weight dropped fully onto his feet, his back sliding down the wall until he sat slumped on the floor in quiet defeat.
"Young master," Jons said gently, "allow me to tell you a story."
Serik did not lift his head. His gaze remained fixed on the floor.
"Once upon a time," Jons began, "there was a man who heard rumors of a rare bird living near the peak of one of the highest mountains in the known world. Driven by curiosity, he rushed from his home without packing supplies or preparing himself in any way."
"When he reached the foot of the mountain, he asked the locals whether the rumors were true. They confirmed it. After thanking them, he immediately ran toward the mountain."
"One of the locals called after him, saying there was more he needed to hear—but the man did not listen."
"With only thin clothes on his back, he began to climb. Hours passed. Hunger set in. His excitement faded, replaced by the weight of reality. There was no food, no shelter, yet he gritted his teeth and continued."
"Step by step, he climbed higher. Dizziness followed. His strength waned. Eventually, his grip failed, and he fell."
Jons paused briefly.
"A miracle seemed to occur. A bird caught him in its talons before he struck the ground. Too exhausted and starved to even comprehend what had happened, the man lost consciousness."
Serik finally raised his head.
"Was that man you… or Grandpa?" he asked weakly.
"No," Jons replied flatly. "We are not fools."
"…Did the man survive?"
Jons shook his head.
"Years later, we found a journal in a nest near the mountain's peak—surrounded by a pile of bones. The man became food for the bird."
Silence followed.
"Then… what's the moral of the story?" Serik asked.
"Think about it," Jons said, offering nothing more.
Serik's thoughts stirred.
That man and I are the same, he realized. We both wanted something great. We both rushed forward without proper preparation. Like him, I tried to charge ahead—but that isn't the way.
Jons observed him quietly for a moment.
"It seems you have calmed down," he said. "Good. Now pack your bags."
Serik blinked. "Why?"
"We are going to the mountain."
Serik let out a long sigh.
"…I really hope I don't become bird food."