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The forest was alive in a way the estate had never been.
Cael moved between the trees with controlled steps, his breath steady despite the uneven terrain beneath his boots. Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy above, breaking into fractured beams that danced across moss-covered roots and ancient stone. Every sound mattered here—the crunch of leaves, the distant cry of a beast, the subtle shift of mana in the air.
This was no longer structured training.
This was survival.
He had been coming here alone for weeks now, venturing deeper each time. Orion had insisted on it—said Cael needed to learn how to fight without guidance, without a voice correcting his stance or timing. At first, Cael thought it was just another lesson.
Now, he wasn't so sure.
He slowed, crouching near a set of clawed tracks pressed into damp soil. Small. Shallow. An E-rank mana beast, maybe a low D if it had recently fed. His fingers brushed the ground, senses stretching outward.
The mana here was dense, wild, unrefined.
Good.
Cael inhaled—and didn't stop moving.
Mana flowed into him as his body advanced, threading through his limbs instead of pooling uselessly in his core. The technique was still new, still awkward, but it was working. Instead of halting to meditate or stabilize, he gathered mana mid-step, mid-breath.
Just like Sylvia had taught Arthur in that cave.
At first, it had felt impossible. Mana demanded stillness—control. Movement disrupted flow. That was what every instructor taught.
They were wrong.
His steps remained fluid as his core pulsed gently, drawing mana in rhythm with his stride. Not forcing it. Guiding it. The forest didn't resist—it responded.
A flicker of movement to his left.
Cael twisted just as a horned lupine burst from the underbrush, its body wrapped in a thin veil of mana. He planted his foot, pivoted, and thrust his spear forward.
Too slow.
The beast swerved, claws raking across Cael's side. Pain flared hot and sharp, tearing a grunt from his throat as he stumbled back. Blood soaked into his shirt almost instantly.
Idiot.
He didn't retreat.
Mana surged through his legs as he moved again, faster this time, correcting his mistake mid-motion. His vision sharpened—not consciously, not deliberately—but enough that the beast's next lunge felt… obvious.
The flow of mana around it twisted before it moved.
Cael reacted before his thoughts caught up.
He slid beneath the strike, drove his spear upward, and felt resistance give way as the blade pierced flesh. The lupine howled once before collapsing, mana dissipating into the air.
Silence returned.
Cael stood there, breathing hard, staring at the corpse.
That was… fast.
Too fast.
He frowned, forcing the strange clarity to fade. Whatever that was, he didn't linger on it. He cleaned his blade, bound his wound, and moved on. Overthinking had no place here.
By nightfall, he had taken down two more low-ranked beasts.
Each fight left him exhausted, injured, but sharper. His movements wasted less energy. His mana circulation felt smoother, more instinctive. Gathering mana while moving no longer felt like juggling glass—it felt natural.
Necessary.
When he finally returned to their camp, the fire was already lit.
Orion sat beside it, spear resting against a log, his posture relaxed in that familiar way that always made him look unbreakable. He looked up as Cael approached and smiled.
"You're late," Orion said.
"Ran into trouble," Cael replied, dropping his pack. "Nothing serious."
Orion's eyes flicked to the blood on Cael's side.
"Of course."
They ate in silence for a while. The crackling fire filled the space between them, warm and comforting. Cael talked about the forest—the beasts, the terrain, what he'd learned. Orion listened, nodding occasionally, asking fewer questions than usual.
Too few.
When Orion stood to demonstrate a spear correction Cael mentioned, his movement faltered.
Just for a moment.
It was subtle. Anyone else might have missed it. Orion planted the spear into the ground to steady himself, his hand gripping the shaft tighter than necessary.
Cael noticed.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
Orion waved it off with a chuckle. "Getting old, that's all."
But when he turned away, Cael saw it—a dark stain on the edge of Orion's glove.
Blood.
Later that night, Cael woke to coughing.
It was quiet, restrained, like Orion was trying not to be heard. Cael stayed still, staring at the inside of his tent as the sound repeated—wet, painful.
Then silence.
The next morning, Orion acted as if nothing had happened.
They trained less.
Orion instructed more from the sidelines, correcting Cael verbally instead of demonstrating. When Cael suggested sparring, Orion declined, saying he needed rest.
"I can handle myself now," Cael said, frustration slipping through. "You don't need to hold back."
Orion smiled at him then—soft, tired, proud.
"That's exactly why I don't need to."
The words didn't sit right.
Days passed. Cael returned to the forest again and again, pushing himself harder each time. His core grew denser, more stable. Mana responded faster. His body adapted to strain that would've broken him months ago.
And Orion watched.
Always watching.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the trees, Cael completed his routine and turned back toward camp. Orion stood at the edge of the clearing, silhouetted against the dying light.
"You're growing faster than I expected," Orion said.
Cael frowned. "You planned this."
Orion didn't deny it.
"I won't always be here," he said quietly.
The words hit harder than any beast's claws.
Cael opened his mouth to argue—to deny it—but Orion raised a hand.
"That's not fear," Orion continued. "That's reality. And you're ready to face it."
The fire crackled behind them.
For the first time since they'd left the estate, Cael saw it clearly—not weakness, not age.
Mortality.
And for the first time, Orion didn't look like a teacher preparing a student.
He looked like a man preparing a successor.
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