Three weeks had passed since Asher left the capital and returned to the Wargrave estate. Within this time, Asher’s name had spread rapidly among both noble households and commoners alike.
Some claimed he had been pretending to be weak all along and had only unleashed his true abilities at that very moment. Others argued that he was simply that talented from the beginning.
There were even wild rumors saying he had killed a thousand Emovirae on the day of his awakening. Numerous stories and exaggerated rumors started to spread like wildfire, igniting curiosity and awe across different regions.
But within the Wargrave estate, nothing had changed. No one congratulated Asher. No one praised him. No reward was given, not even from Azeron, who had earned thousands of platinum coins through his tenth son.
As a Wargrave, winning was expected. It wasn’t something to be rewarded or to be surprised about. Victory, for them, was tradition, an obligation, not an accomplishment.
Still, although the Suns and Moons wouldn’t speak of it openly, they had indeed been surprised. After all, the only ones who truly knew the full extent of Asher’s capabilities were Azeron, who had watched from a distance, and the instructors at the First Training Ground who had personally witnessed him breeze through each stage of training.
Within these three weeks, Asher had made remarkable progress with every area of his training. He had pushed his body to its absolute limits, increasing his mastery of both lightning and Astra control while also striving to raise his Life Rank.
Day by day, hour by hour, he moved with discipline and purpose. His dedication never wavered.
Tomorrow, Asher would be fighting his first monster within the First Training Ground’s Monster Subjugation Training. At this moment, he was currently sparring with Clinton, the weapons instructor, the only one capable of keeping up with Asher at this point in his growth.
Asher no longer wanted to continue holding back just so he could spar with other students and gain combat experience from them. He realized it was far more effective to go directly to the source, Clinton himself.
Whenever he finished digesting the gains from a sparring session and Clinton was unavailable, Asher would approach the other instructors who were often observing from the sidelines and propose a spar. He knew he had much to learn from each of them.
From Harold, he learned how to channel raw power and brute force with extreme precision and efficiency.
From Elowen, he learned movement techniques and the fine details of application.
From Virek, he discovered deeper insight into Astra and its usage, observing the man closely as he used the energy during their spars.
As for the three talented seventeen year olds in the First Training Ground, Asher had made quick work of them with utter ease. If Ryan had appeared helpless in front of him, then these three were even more powerless, mere obstacles rather than challenges.
With a heavy boom, two silhouettes clashed with detonating force, then vanished once more. Their figures flickered across the entire expanse of the First Training Ground.
Only sound echoed in the air, and showers of sparks illuminated their paths as they moved with breathtaking speed and precision.
Their forms tore through the atmosphere, crossing distances in the blink of an eye without even pausing or slowing. Their attacks were consistent, deliberate, and remarkable, each one carrying intent and execution honed through unceasing repetition.
Clinton moved smoothly as he sparred with Asher, his face expressionless and calm. His black eyes followed every one of Asher’s movements as if they had been printed and posted on a noticeboard.
He blocked, parried, sidestepped, and countered with seamless and fluid motion, like a master dancer performing to an invisible rhythm.
Throughout the entire three weeks of sparring, Clinton had never once corrected Asher on anything. He simply observed, allowing the boy’s talent to guide him.
He could feel Asher’s intense gaze, those piercing purple eyes, boring into him with every exchange, as though Asher sought to absorb and devour every fragment of knowledge he possessed.
But Clinton didn’t object. He moved without resistance, feeding Asher’s curiosity and hunger for skill. Asher learned through observation and instinct, improving with each step and swing.
Clinton couldn’t help but smile internally at the progress.
Still, assisting Asher in his growth did not mean they were equals. In fact, throughout many of their spars, Clinton had thrown Asher around like a ragdoll.
He had inflicted numerous injuries on Asher’s body. After all, if Asher truly wanted to learn, he had to be willing to pay the price.
Pain, after all, was part of growth. And Asher needed to get used to it.
At this moment, Asher was struggling. His body trembled from exhaustion, sweat dripping down his back and face. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, trying to regulate his breath and maintain balance. His muscles burned. His limbs ached.
But his purple eyes remained calm and unwavering. He didn’t frown. He didn’t speak. He didn’t complain. He simply continued pushing his body to its limits with each passing day, with every rising of the sun.
Suddenly, Asher’s gaze snapped upward. From above, a broadsword dropped like a meteor in free fall. But Asher knew better. It wasn’t random or uncontrolled.
Exhaustion weighed heavily on his limbs as he tried to defend. Virelass, his weapon, flashed upward, intercepting the attack at the last possible moment.
A violent jolt ran through his body. One of his legs buckled, and he fell to one knee, but he instantly rolled to the side, narrowly dodging the follow up strike.
Clinton gave him no time to rest. His broadsword swung again, the air splitting apart as it roared toward Asher’s flank. Asher’s footwork saved him, guiding him backward with expert timing, but even then, the attack grazed his side.
A thin line of blood appeared where his skin tore.
Still, neither of them paused. They didn’t speak. Their blades did all the talking.
Asher counterattacked this time. Virelass thrust forward in quick, successive bursts of speed, but Clinton parried each one effortlessly, as though dealing with a beginner. His broadsword then streaked toward Asher’s chest, stopping just inches away as Asher stood frozen, unable to react further.
"Nice work today," Clinton said, finally breaking the silence as he looked at the small monster in front of him.
"Thank you, sir," Asher replied, barely standing.
He knew he was on the verge of collapsing, he had pushed himself to the brink as always. But he also knew that after a little rest and sleep, he would return to peak condition once again.
"From tomorrow onward, you’ll begin your monster subjugation training. I wish you luck, Tenth Sun," Clinton said with a small smile.
"Thank you for your guidance, Instructor."
Asher responded, turning and slowly heading toward the exit.
Every step he took made his body feel like it weighed a thousand pounds, like he was dragging a mountain behind him. But he moved without complaint, without pause.
"Don’t you think it’s cheating at this point, Tenth Sun?" a voice called out from the side.
Asher didn’t need to turn to recognize it. It was Ella, one of the three talented students within the First training ground.
"It’s all thanks to the Wargrave bloodline."
Asher replied simply, flashing a smile.
"We’ll finally see you in the Monster Subjugation Training. I could offer some tips, if you’d like?"
Another voice chimed in. It was Tom, the second of the trio.