Tyrius hated this blindfold exercise the most.

  He swiveled sharply only to be struck in the chest by a different mana sphere before he could dodge. The blow made him grunt, but didn't break his form.

  “You need to be prepared for everything,” his master commented sternly. “Lean on your ability more. Let it guide you.”

  Several more balls of mana flew his way as he dodged around them, relying only on his skill and instincts. He continued to fall back into this ritualistic sensation he had developed over the years.

  He stepped left, then right, his feet gliding around the slick boulder as he maneuvered through the compact projectiles his master was sending at him from all directions.

  The heavy fog clung to his every movement, making him feel slower than he should be—but that was part of the exercise. Tune it all out. Feel and avoid.

  The incoming threats continued to speed up and grow in number. His brain felt like it was working in overdrive as his [Spiritual Sensitivity*] guided him. He had been able to actively use the ability to some degree ever since it had become an Elite lesser skill.

  His master had yet to explain much about magic, insisting Tyrius focus only on training. When Tyrius pressed, he’d get the same answer every time: “When you’re ready.”

  It frustrated him, but what could he do? The man owned him—for now.

  So Tyrius listened and did what was asked. But he had learned the meaning of the asterisk his skill had earned. It marked what was known as an ‘Elite’ skill. These were abilities beyond what a given tier would normally allow. Not quite rare—but certainly uncommon.

  This was especially significant for intrinsic abilities. Normally, the lesser skills granted by intrinsic abilities couldn’t be used at will. But in rare cases, if the lesser skill was an Elite, the wielder could access it—albeit to a limited degree.

  That was why his master pushed this ability so hard. Tyrius had been told that when he turned twelve and underwent the Soul Well Ceremony—when he would infuse his soul with mana—the Ethereal Words would reveal themselves again.

  He had seen them only twice; Once when he acquired his innate skill, and then when it had upgraded to Elite after being saved by his master.

  He then explained that the soul would be analyzed during the ceremony, and several skills would be presented. Training this skill—and his body—to such extremes was meant to ensure he got the best possible choices. Most people saw an average of five, and everyone could only choose three. The rest had to be earned through hard work.

  Tyrius understood now—this training wasn’t just punishment. It was preparation. All of it, just so he might be offered something better.

  He sensed five energy orbs coming at him from all directions, each at a different angle. He slid his feet and contoured his body to bend away, focusing his core to stay grounded.

  He felt the orbs pass by—but then, something else.

  A new sensation.

  The heavy mist clinging to his arms lightly parted—and he felt it.

  Another orb—one that he couldn’t detect immediately. It brushed against the fine hairs on his forearm.

  Tyrius didn’t know why he hadn’t sensed this one coming. Or why he was reacting so quickly. But the moment it touched him, he listened to his body.

  He shifted gently, letting the orb roll down his arm and away. With a fluid motion, he rotated over himself, guiding it downward until it slapped harmlessly into the ground.

  Excited, Tyrius jumped and yanked off the blindfold.

  “Hey, did you see th—”

  Before he could finish, several more of these invisible undetectable orbs slammed into him from all sides. Each carried more force than the earlier ones, staggering him as he was knocked around.

  Disoriented, he stumbled forward—his master stepped from the fog into his path.

  Tyrius raised a hand reflexively—but he was too off-balance, and it was easily swatted aside. With his guard broken, a fist drove deep into his diaphragm.

  Then the old man vanished back into the mist.

  Tyrius collapsed, coughing violently as the mist thickened in his lungs, turning every breath into a struggle.

  “Did I say you could remove your blindfold?” his master’s voice rang out sharply. “Hurry and collect yourself, Tyrius.”

  Tyrius didn’t answer right away. He just wheezed on the floor for a few long moments.

  Eventually, equilibrium returned and he caught his breath.

  But he still didn’t move to rise. With a groan, he tilted onto his back and stared up at a sharp stalactite above. His eyes were heavy. His limbs refused to move. His master hadn’t pushed him this hard in a while—and lately, every session only seemed to grow harder. Tyrius pushed himself too, trying to keep up, but it never felt like enough.

  No matter how much effort he gave these last few weeks, his master acted like it meant nothing—or like he wasn’t trying hard enough.

  Finally, his lips parted, hesitant. He decided to risk it.

  “Are you mad at me?” he asked the haze above, voice uncertain.

  The silence that followed made him flinch.

  He tightened his grip on the blindfold.

  “Did I do something wrong?” he asked again, quieter this time.

  Still no answer.

  With a shaky groan, he forced himself upright, legs trembling. He pulled the soft cloth back over his eyes, casting himself into darkness once more.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Then he slid his left foot and hand forward, bracing with his right—his other hand held close, ready to strike or defend.

  He was back in his ready position.

  Best to just get up and keep going. Don’t want to make him any angrier than he already is.

  I wonder what I did wrong though… I haven’t done anything outside my usual antics lately.

  Tyrius stood still, head tilting from side to side as he pushed [Spiritual Sensitivity*] around him. His knees felt weak. His arms shook.

  Any second now.

  He was completely braced for the orbs—but to his surprise, nothing came. Instead, a quiet sigh echoed through the mist.

  “You may remove your blindfold, Tyrius,” his master commanded. The low tone made Tyrius hesitate, but he obeyed moments later—he couldn’t risk further angering the man.

  The rolling fog began to peel away, revealing his master standing beside him. It swirled outward until it vanished at the far edges of the cave.

  Tyrius blinked in confusion but remained ready, waiting for the next strike.

  But the instant he blinked, the old man vanished. A heartbeat later, he reappeared before Tyrius and tapped a finger to his forehead before he could react.

  That was all it took. Tyrius’s body was too weak to resist; he toppled over with a dull thud.

  “No, Tyrius. I’m not mad at you,” his master said as that warm healing sensation enveloped him once more.

  Normally, his master only healed immediate damage—never the fatigue. He always said that had to recover naturally. But this time, Tyrius felt something different. Every muscle fiber was massaged by invisible hands, each knot and cramp eased one by one.

  He shivered at the sensation and nearly groaned from the relief. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before.

  Still, he didn’t let it fully cloud his mind.

  “But… ever since I turned ten, you’ve been pushing me harder,” he muttered. “Every day more difficult than the last.”

  He heard his master sigh again. The warmth continued to flow through his body, lifting him gently into the air. It was surprisingly comfortable—like the air itself was cupping him.

  “Yes. I’ve been pushing you extra hard lately.”

  “Why?” Tyrius asked, eyes half-lidded his body quickly losing the battle against the magic.

  “Because your body has finally started to absorb mana naturally. That usually happens around ten years of age for humans.”

  His master’s voice had softened—rarely did he speak this gently. He was already walking toward the cave’s exit.

  “You’re getting closer to the age when we can infuse your soul with mana,” he continued. “Your body is changing for that. The ambient mana in the air is already seeping into you.”

  Tyrius floated along, cradled by the magic, eyes growing heavier. The sensation was divine—even his brain felt massaged.

  “But what does that have to do with the training?” he asked, barely able to focus.

  “You’re absorbing mana through every pore,” his master said. “Every swing of a sword. Every kick. Every breath. All of it pulls in ambient mana. I’m pushing you hard now to maximize how much you absorb during this stage.”

  The rhythmic clicks of his master’s footsteps echoed through the cave.

  So… it’s all for me… again.

  “What does that mean for me?” Tyrius asked softly, genuine curiosity lacing his voice.

  But his limbs were heavy. His body hummed with exhaustion.

  “It means you get stronger,” his master said. “Your muscles will heal better—and stronger. Everything will become easier. And in two years, we’ll infuse your soul with mana. You’ll reach Tier 1.”

  “I want to make you as strong as possible before you turn twelve. So I push you.”

  It all made sense to Tyrius. But he couldn’t help asking one last question.

  “Why are you doing all this for me?” he murmured, his eyes beginning to droop.

  The clicking of his master’s footsteps paused—just for a moment—then resumed.

  “Ah. You’ve learned so much, yet still see so little. But you already have the answer to that question. You are alive because of your mother’s sacrifice. She died so that you could live.”

  “And as I told you from the beginning… I’m here to ensure that you do.”

  The words didn’t really register. Tyrius’s eyes had already closed, and his master’s voice felt so far away now.

  He wouldn’t fall asleep, though. He trusted himself on that.

  I’ll just rest my eyes until we are back. I won’t fall asleep…

  -

  Tyrius’ eyes shot open, but he dared not move. He could hear the faint sounds of chirping birds. He knew no other life forms lived in his master’s Sanctuary—but the man still made it sound like they did.

  Glancing around, he noted he was indeed in his bed, in the room his master had created for him. Outside the window on the far wall, he could see the sun beginning to shine. He was relieved to see that.

  Phew! I’m not late.

  Ever so gingerly, Tyrius reached for the edge of the blanket like it was wired to explode and began pulling it back. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he gently peeled it away and moved his legs toward the edge.

  Just as his foot was about to touch the ground, the bed and blanket vanished—and he collapsed to the floor with a thud.

  God damn it! Every. Time.

  He whined internally, picking himself up from the floor.

  That’s when he remembered—he’d fallen asleep yesterday. His stomach dropped.

  Tyrius began shaking out his hands, taking measured breaths, and bouncing from foot to foot, trying to loosen up.

  Today’s gonna be hell, isn’t it? I should not have fallen asleep. Nope. Should not have fallen asleep.

  After a moment to collect himself, he carefully peered out of his room into a small adjoining space. It held only a simple table and four chairs. Though they looked like basic craftwork, Tyrius could see the masterful precision in each one.

  His master had made everything in this Sanctuary, after all.

  Tyrius noted two objects in the center of the table and took one last glance around.

  With no signs of master’s presence or foul play—Tyrius moved.

  Carefully, he approached. The objects didn’t move. Didn’t respond.

  He reached out and grabbed the apple. Before lifting it, he held his breath, closed his eyes—and yanked it above his head.

  Carefully he cracked one eye open, then the other.

  Okay. No trap this time.

  Exhaling he took a big bite of the apple and opened the letter with care.

  “Dear Tyrius,

  No training today. I have left my Sanctuary to take care of some business. I will be back before the day is over.

  Please take today to recover and focus on meditation, al—”

  WOO! No training today! Maybe today won’t be hell after all.

  He cheered inwardly, continuing to read:

  “—so be sure to use your skill while meditating to try and feel how the ambient mana is affecting you. After you finish eating, please proceed to the meditation boulder.”

  I’ll just meditate out here. It’s not like he’s here anyway.

  He rustled the paper when he noticed a smaller sheet tumble out onto the table. Tyrius, brow raised, snatched it up and unfolded it.

  P.S. Metz will be here to watch you and make sure you don’t slack off.

  Tyrius’s hand trembled as the sheet slipped from his fingers and drifted to the ground.

  Oh no.

  He left me with that damn tort—

  Thump.

  Tyrius flinched, gasping as he turned toward the doorway.

  Something smacked against the bottom edge of the door before it slowly slid open. Light poured in—and there stood the overly large and imposing figure of a tortoise.

  Tyrius’s breath caught, and he took an instinctive step back as the waist-high creature placed its first foot inside. The weight of its presence pressed down on him, its glowing purple eyes locked squarely on his own.

  Metz had old, wrinkled skin and looked like he’d lived for hundreds of years. His shell was a semi-translucent dark green, streaked with glowing purple lines that divided its hexagonal patterns.

  With a second step, the tortoise entered fully, each footfall sounding like a mountain shifting.

  Tyrius stumbled back onto his butt and scrambled against the far wall. Metz’s eyes pulsed with what could only be described as glee at Tyrius’s reaction.

  The tortoise advanced at a slow, deliberate pace. Tyrius shoved the rest of the apple into his mouth, knowing he wouldn’t get another chance.

  Metz loomed over him, staring down. His gaze flicked to the apple core—then it vanished from Tyrius’s hand.

  Slowly, Tyrius raised his hands in surrender.

  “Good morning, Metz. You know, I was thinking that maybe today I could walk myself—?” he began.

  The glowing lines on Metz’s shell pulsed angrily. Tyrius’s mouth snapped shut.

  Hello, Tyrius. We have quite the extensive day planned. Best not to dilly-dally.

  The elderly voice of the overgrown reptile echoed directly into his mind, each word as slow and deliberate as his steps. The implications turned Tyrius’s veins to ice.

  Now, let us get a move on now shall we.

  Without pause, Metz leaned down and clamped his mouth around Tyrius’s pant leg—the fabric tightening around his ankle like a prison clasp.

  Today’s going to be hell after all.

  Metz began dragging him across the ground as he turned to leave the cabin.