Damian's recovery had been nothing short of miraculous. Within a week, he was up and walking, much to the disbelief of the healers. His body had healed at an alarming rate, his injuries fading like they had been superficial wounds. His family stood stunned, their initial relief giving way to cautious amazement. His mother wept with joy, cradling him, thanking whatever gods or spirits had blessed them. His father, though trying to mask his emotions, seemed equally bewildered.
But Damian knew the truth. It wasn't luck or divine intervention that had sped up his recovery—it was the aura. Awakening his aura had done more than just provide him with the strength to endure; it had accelerated his body's natural healing process. He had felt it the moment he stood in the hospital, something bubbling inside of him, surging through his veins. Now, that same power was fueling his rapid recovery.
At home, things were different. Damian had always been close to his younger brother Ewan, but now, the boy didn't smile the way he used to. His once cheerful, innocent face was now marked by the lingering shadows of fear. He no longer looked Damian in the eye, and when Damian reached out to comfort him, Ewan flinched, the trauma of his ordeal still fresh.
Damian's heart ached. Every time he saw his brother's quiet withdrawal, he was reminded of the nobles' cruelty. The memory of that day—of Ewan's arm being broken, of his own helplessness—haunted him like a festering wound. He had failed to protect his brother once, and he swore that it would never happen again.
One evening, after they had returned home from the hospital, Damian approached his father. He found him outside, sharpening his old sword, the same one he had carried during his years in the army. The man's face was hard, the lines of stress and frustration clear as day. Damian knew why. His father had been suspended from his guard duties after confronting his superiors about the nobles who had attacked his sons. The guard captain had brushed off his complaints, and the duke's household had ignored their pleas for justice.
"Dad," Damian said, his voice quiet but firm.
His father looked up, surprised by the seriousness in his tone. "What is it, son?"
"I want to train," Damian said. "I want you to teach me everything you know."
His father raised an eyebrow. "You're still recovering, Damian. You should take it easy."
"I'm fine," Damian insisted. "I've already awakened my aura."
For a moment, his father simply stared at him, disbelief clear in his eyes. Then, slowly, his expression softened into something like pride. "You've awakened… your aura?"
Damian nodded. "I think it happened when… when everything went down with Ewan. I felt something, like a fire inside of me. And now, I'm stronger. Faster."
His father set his sword down, standing to his full height. For the first time in days, a smile broke across his face. "Son, you're more talented than I ever was. Awakening your aura at this age… that's a gift. You have a chance to do something great."
"I'm not interested in greatness," Damian replied, his voice dark. "I just want to make sure what happened to Ewan never happens again. I want to be strong enough to protect him."
His father's smile faded, replaced by a look of understanding. "Alright then," he said. "If that's what you want, I'll train you. But this won't be easy, Damian. You'll have to work hard. Harder than you ever have before."
"For weeks, if that's what it takes," Damian replied, his eyes gleaming with determination.
The next several weeks were grueling. With his father suspended from the guard, he devoted all his time to training Damian. They began each morning before dawn, practicing swordsmanship in the backyard until the sun rose. His father taught him the basics first—how to hold the sword properly, how to maintain his balance, how to strike with precision and power.
"The key to the standard military technique," his father said during one of their training sessions, "is mastering the basics. Every soldier in the empire is taught these techniques. They're simple, but effective. The foundation of everything comes from this. No fancy tricks, no complicated maneuvers. Just pure, disciplined swordsmanship."
But no matter how hard Damian trained, no matter how much time he spent drilling the basics, he found himself struggling. He couldn't seem to progress beyond a certain point. His strikes were clumsy, his balance unstable. He grew frustrated with each passing day, unable to grasp the next stage of swordsmanship despite his father's patient guidance.
"What am I doing wrong?" Damian muttered to himself one afternoon, after yet another failed attempt at a basic strike.
His father sighed, wiping sweat from his brow. "It's not that you're doing anything wrong, son. Sometimes it just takes time. Not everyone is a genius with the sword."
But that wasn't what Damian wanted to hear. In his mind, every failure was a reminder of his weakness, of how helpless he had been that day. He needed to be stronger, faster. He needed to be capable of fighting back. But the sword didn't come naturally to him, and it was beginning to feel like an uphill battle.
Maybe I should just use my fists, he thought. He had heard stories of warriors who fought without weapons, relying on their raw physical strength and aura to overpower their opponents. But those stories were few and far between. Fist fighters were rare in the empire, and most of the successful ones came from the Beast Continent, where the people were naturally stronger, more beast-like in their combat abilities.
Still, the idea lingered in his mind. But for now, Damian continued to practice with the sword, determined to master it despite his struggles.
One evening, after another exhausting day of training, Damian decided to take his practice outside the city. He ventured into the forest, far enough from home to avoid prying eyes but not so deep that he would encounter any of the more dangerous mana beasts that roamed the wilderness.
His goal was simple: to kill. He needed to practice, to hone his skills in real combat, and the wild animals that lived in the forest were the perfect targets. He started small, hunting rabbits and deer, testing his aura-enhanced strength against them. It wasn't much of a challenge, but it was enough to build his confidence.
As he ventured deeper into the forest, he found larger prey—boars, wolves, even the occasional bear. He attacked them with a ferocity that surprised even him, his sword cutting through flesh and bone with ease. Blood splattered across his face and clothes, and he felt nothing but cold indifference. The more he killed, the more he felt his emotions numbing, his mind consumed by a singular focus: to get stronger.
With every kill, his thoughts drifted back to that day. The nobles, their laughter, the sight of Ewan's bloodied face. The image of his brother's broken arm haunted him, fueling his anger. Each time he struck down an animal, he imagined it was one of them—the boys who had tormented his brother, the girl who had mocked him, even the bystanders who had done nothing to help.
By the time he returned home, his hands were shaking, his heart pounding in his chest. He had lost count of how many animals he had killed, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was the blood on his sword, the proof of his progress.
He stood in front of his house, staring at the bloodstains on his clothes. The memory of his brother's blood flashed before his eyes, and for a moment, he felt sick. But then he clenched his fists, pushing the nausea down.
He wasn't weak anymore. He was becoming stronger. Strong enough to never let that happen again.
As he entered the house, his father greeted him with a smile. "Good training today?"
Damian nodded. "Yeah," he said quietly, his eyes cold. "Good training."