CHAPTER 123: TRAINING AND MORE TRAINING

The sun was already rising when Damon finally reached the mansion gate.

Each step seemed to drag the weight of a mountain—his body covered in superficial cuts, scratches, and dried bloodstains mixed with mud. The cold still clung to him, trapped beneath his skin, as if the ice of the forest had fused with him.

The guards saw him approaching and silently made way. None dared to comment on his condition. Damon’s gaze was distant, fixed on the stone ground.

The sound of his boots echoed irregularly until, upon reaching the steps of the main entrance, his strength simply abandoned him.

He let himself fall, sitting on the first stone step, his sword resting between his legs.

He breathed deeply, each movement causing his muscles to protest.

The morning air was light and warm, but to him everything felt cold. His hands trembled slightly, still numb from the mana discharge he had used.

He stayed there for long seconds, watching the vapor of his own breath disappear before his eyes.

It was then that he heard the light sound of footsteps behind him—firm, precise, almost inaudible.

Ester.

She appeared at the top of the stairs, her dark cloak contrasting with the golden light that was beginning to cover the courtyard. Her hair, styled in short braids, reflected bluish tones under the rising sun, and her gaze—cold, serene as always—rested upon him.

No visible surprise. No haste to approach.

Just that same analytical gaze that seemed to penetrate people.

"You look... terrible," she said, finally. Her calm, emotionless voice sounded almost like a scientific observation.

Damon slowly raised his face, a tired smile forming amidst the dried blood.

"Glad to hear that. I thought I was starting to look handsome."

Ester crossed her arms, descending a step, her gaze fixed on him. "What happened?"

He took a deep breath, leaning back against the steps, trying to find the strength to answer.

"Caerth," he murmured. "That old bastard took me into the forest... said it was training."

She raised an eyebrow. "Forest?"

"Hm." He laughed, without humor. "’Survival training,’ that was the exact term, I think. He blew a damn whistle that must have summoned every mana beast within a three-kilometer radius... and then he just... disappeared."

Ester watched him in silence for a few seconds. The wind moved a strand of hair that had escaped from her braid, and she tucked it back with an automatic movement.

"And you survived," she said, without inflection.

Damon chuckled softly. "I survived, yes. Barely."

"Then he did what he was supposed to do."

He looked up, surprised by the answer. "Are you kidding?"

"No," she replied simply. "Caerth trains as he lives. Death is merely a consequence for those who don’t learn quickly."

Damon stared at her for a moment, and then sighed.

"You and he are alike."

"No," Ester said, descending another step, now close enough for her tone to sound colder. "I learned to survive before I met anyone who could teach me."

Silence settled for a moment. Damon looked down at his hands, noticing the dried blood and the small cracks of ice that still remained on his fingers.

"I... lost control," he murmured. "The mana... just took over. The air turned cold, and I... just reacted."

"Then you learned something," she said.

"That I almost froze to death?"

"That you can use fear as a weapon," Ester replied without hesitation. "That’s more than most warriors learn in a lifetime."

Damon laughed, but the sound was hoarse, exhausted. "You say that as if fear were a choice."

"It is," she replied. "It always has been."

There was something in that sentence that silenced him. For a moment, the weight of the silence seemed heavier than his own exhaustion.

Ester watched him, her eyes narrowed, assessing him from head to toe—the cuts, the scratches, the way the sword still trembled in his hands.

"You’re trembling," she said.

"Too much mana," Damon replied, raising his trembling hand. "I think my body still doesn’t understand when it should stop."

"This too shall pass." She turned slightly, her gaze returning to the horizon. "Caerth is trying to break you, Damon."

"I noticed," he replied ironically. "And he’s doing a great job."

Ester lowered her gaze to him once more.

"But he doesn’t do it out of cruelty. He does it because he wants to see what’s left when everything in you falls apart."

"And what if there’s nothing left?"

"Then you should never have picked up a sword." She shrugged.

Damon took a deep breath, resting his elbow on his knee and his forehead in his hand. He stayed like that for a while, just trying to process what she was saying.

His body ached. Every muscle screamed. But, strangely, her words didn’t irritate him.

"You talk as if you’ve been through this," he said, without lifting his face.

Ester paused for a few seconds before answering. When she did, her tone was lower.

"I have."

He looked up. She was no longer looking at him, but at the courtyard ahead.

That single word carried a coldness that didn’t come from arrogance—but from memory.

"Elizabeth didn’t save me because I was talented," she continued, slowly. "She found me on a battlefield, among bodies. I didn’t know my own name. I only knew that I couldn’t die there."

Damon remained silent.

"Survival, Damon..." she turned her gaze to him "...isn’t courage. It’s instinct. It’s what remains when everything you love has already been taken from you."

He swallowed hard. There was no visible emotion on her face, but the weight of the words was undeniable.

And, for some reason, he understood.

"So that’s what you see in me?" he asked, with a tired half-smile. "A dog trying not to die?"

Ester observed him for a moment. "No," she said, finally. "I see someone who still hasn’t understood why they want to live." He let out a short laugh, but didn’t answer.

The wind blew again, rustling the curtains at the entrance of the mansion. The distant sound of voices echoed from the corridors—servants resuming their morning tasks. The world was turning again, but for Damon, time seemed to stand still there on the steps.

Ester took a step back. "Go and rest."

"What if the old man decides to throw me into another hole full of monsters tomorrow?" he asked, half-serious, half-mocking.

"Then die trying not to die," she replied, without hesitation.

He chuckled softly. "You’re terrible at giving encouragement."

"I’m not an instructor," she replied, starting to climb the stairs. "I’m just someone who’s still alive."

Damon watched her climb the steps, her movements firm, impeccable—and he realized, for an instant, that there was something in Ester that Caerth also possessed: that aura of someone who has already lost the fear of the impossible.

When she reached the top, she stopped.

"Damon," she called.

He looked up.

"Caerth doesn’t train anyone by chance," she said, without turning around. "If he chose to break you, it’s because he believes that, after being broken, you will be something that even he cannot predict."

And then she went inside, disappearing down the corridors.

Damon stared at the spot where she had been. Then he looked at his own hands again—still trembling, stained with blood and dry ice.

"Something that even he cannot predict."

The phrase echoed within him, stronger than the fatigue.

The wind blew once more, bringing the damp scent of the distant forest.

And he smiled slightly—a tired, but genuine smile.

"Crazy old man..." he murmured. "Maybe you really do know what you’re doing."

...

The metallic clang of steel cutting through the air echoed like thunder within the training field.

Damon lunged forward with all his might, the condensed ice blade surrounding his sword leaving a bluish trail with each strike. The impact made the ground tremble—but Caerth blocked the attack with irritating ease, the black sword deflecting the blow in a perfect arc.

"Faster!" the veteran roared, twisting his wrist and striking Damon on the shoulder with the flat of the blade.

The impact sent the blond man staggering backward, the sound of metal echoing through the nearby trees. He grunted, trying to regain his balance, but Caerth was already upon him again.

"You think too much before you attack!" Caerth’s voice sounded like a hammer blow. "In a real fight, that’s the same as dying!"

The swords clashed once more, sparks flying as Damon’s ice touched the veteran’s black metal. The cold spread in waves, cracking the ground beneath Damon’s feet, while heat emanated from Caerth’s brute force—it was as if fire and ice clashed with every blow.

"RAAAAH!" Damon shouted, pushing with all his strength. The frozen blade trembled, a bluish glow running from tip to hilt.

But Caerth spun his body, dodged, and struck him in the side with a sharp kick.

The muffled sound of the impact echoed in the air—and Damon was thrown to the ground, skidding on the beaten earth.

The young man tried to get up, coughing up dust.

"You..." he spat out a little blood, "...are really an old bastard."

Caerth smiled, that expression of pure, satisfied contempt.

"And you’re still just a boy who thinks strength is everything."

He twirled the sword in the air, the blade clinking lightly.

"Come on. Get up. Show me what you’ve learned." Damon gritted his teeth, leaning on his knee. His whole body protested, but something inside him burned—not with pain, but with rage.

He raised his sword, the ice beginning to form again. The temperature dropped, the air turning white around them.

Caerth narrowed his eyes.

"This damn ice again," he said, rotating his wrist. "Are you going to rely on that forever?"

"It’s all I have!" Damon roared, lunging forward.

The blue blade came down in a swift, violent overhead strike.

Caerth intercepted it with a single hand. The sound of the impact was like thunder, but the man didn’t budge an inch.

"Wrong," he murmured. "You rely on mana because you’re still afraid of the sword."

Damon tried to twist his wrist, forcing the attack.

Caerth simply moved his foot, unbalancing him, and in a second Damon was on his knees again, the tip of the black blade resting under his chin.

The silence lasted a few moments.

Damon breathed heavily, sweat and ice mixing on his face.

Caerth spoke softly:

"When I say ’sword,’ I’m not talking about metal. I’m talking about intention. A weapon is only deadly when the man wielding it has already accepted what he needs to do."

Damon kept his gaze fixed on him. The veteran seemed like a wall—firm, impenetrable.

"And have you accepted it?" he asked, with weary sarcasm.

Caerth smiled, but his gaze hardened.

"I accepted it a long time ago. That’s why I’m still alive."

He stepped back, twirling the sword with almost artistic precision.

"Get up. Let’s go again."

Damon took a deep breath and obeyed. His legs trembled, but he raised the blade once more.

And then the training began again.