Theoron
"If this is what you truly wanted, I will chase after the God's Will. "
I rose, clutching the book in my hand, and left the room. I would willingly forsake everything that brought me joy, surrender my deepest aspirations, and bravely confront any formidable challenges ahead, all for the sake of my beloved brother. If this was indeed his heartfelt wish, I solemnly vowed to honor it, no matter the staggering cost or personal sacrifice required.
Throughout our lives, my brother had consistently prioritized my needs above his own, selflessly ensuring my well-being and happiness. Now, in his absence, his wishes must become my utmost priority.
For the past three days, I subjected myself to an arduous regimen, running for hours to build my physical endurance and mental resilience. Simultaneously, I committed to intense combat training, poring over ancient tomes and practicing intricate maneuvers to refine my martial skills. Additionally, I focused intently on summoning energy, attempting to tap into the mysterious forces that lay dormant within me.
Despite my unwavering dedication and relentless efforts, I failed at every turn. My combat techniques were clumsy and unrefined, lacking the finesse and precision necessary to execute even the simplest maneuvers. Worse still, my attempts to summon energy yielded nothing. I couldn't even grasp the fundamental principles of combat; my movements felt stiff and awkward, my reflexes slow and unresponsive. The art of energy summoning, once a tantalizing prospect, now seemed like an unattainable dream, a distant horizon receding with each failed attempt.
Frustration and despair threatened to overwhelm me. The weight of my brother's expectations, coupled with my own inadequacies, felt insurmountable. Yet, I refused to surrender, driven by a fierce determination to succeed, no matter the cost.
I realized I couldn't improve myself alone; I needed someone to guide me. Thus, here I stood outside my Master's door—the very man I had refused years ago because I wanted nothing to do with battles and conflicts. Never had I thought I would be seeking him out again.
My hands felt restless as I waited outside his chamber. He was with his advisers, discussing matters unknown to me. His men had instructed me to wait until my name was called.
I envisioned numerous scenarios, each more daunting than the last. Perhaps he would greet me with disdain, his words piercing like venom-tipped daggers. Or maybe he would dismiss me outright, his gesture a curt dismissal, banishing me from his presence forever.
Despite the uncertainty, I steeled myself for the confrontation. My resolve remained unshaken, fueled by a burning desire for redemption and forgiveness. All I needed was for Master to take me back under his wing, to grant me a second chance to prove my worth.
The weight of my past mistakes hung heavily in the air, threatening to suffocate me. Yet, I drew a deep breath, squaring my shoulders against the impending storm. I was prepared to face whatever lay ahead, no matter how brutal or humbling.
Master Harman's influence was my only hope for reclaiming my lost potential. Without his guidance, I risked being forever adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
A group of men in uniform exited the door, and I braced myself for the music to play. Nervousness enveloped me as I awaited my name to be called.
"Theoren Creed."
"You may enter. Master has called for you," a man with a stiff voice stated, regarding me as if I were an unknown species.
I stepped into the frigid, cavernous room, its silence oppressive. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and dust, filling my lungs with the musty aroma of forgotten knowledge. Towering shelves loomed around me, their wooden surfaces worn to a dull sheen, groaning under the weight of countless manuscripts. The dim lighting cast long, ominous shadows, obscuring the room's full extent.
At the center of the room, a massive, ornate desk stood like a monolith, its dark wood polished to a cold gleam. Behind it, Master Harman sat, his gray hair streaked with silver, framing a face chiseled from granite. His pale skin appeared almost spectral in the faint light, emphasizing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jawline. His eyes, piercing and unforgiving, met mine for an instant before dismissing me, returning to the manuscript spread before him.
I bowed my head in greeting, a gesture lost on Master Harman as he continued to study the manuscript, his expression unyielding. The silence thickened between us, becoming an unbridgeable chasm. I stood frozen, awaiting acknowledgment that never came.
"Master Harman. Good morning," I attempted again, this time with a formal greeting.
"What brings you here, Young Lord?" he asked, still focused on his manuscript without looking at me.
"Master, I…" I hesitated, fearing rejection.
"Never in my life did I expect to see you again," he glanced up. "I do not have all day; please be swift."
"Master, I wish to train again."
"Good. You can," I beamed at his words.
"But not with me. You are five years late for that." My joy evaporated in an instant.
"Master! Please! Forgive me for my past actions." I fell to my knees, trying to convince him with every ounce of effort I could muster.
"Young Lord, your apologies hold no weight anymore. You are late," he said sternly, "five years, to be precise."
"You were given an opportunity—an opportunity that many crave. Yet, you discarded it."
"What makes you think you'd regain it so easily?" he questioned.
"You're right, Master. I acknowledge every word you say. I know I do not deserve to be here. However…" I paused, interrupted by the voice of someone entering.
"Master! May I come in?" a man in a similar uniform stood at the door.
He entered after Master nodded in approval, leaned close, and whispered something in his ear before departing.
"Young Lord, you may leave. I have matters to attend to," he said, rolling up the manuscript.
"Master, please just once—"
"Young Lord, this is not your playground. You can't come and go as you please. I'll repeat this only once more: leave."
He ordered me out.
My hands reached for the grass as I leaned against a tree, sitting in the shade. After the rejection, I had come straight here. I was upset by the outcome, but somehow, I knew it was coming.
I sighed and looked down at the grass, feeling lost. I had isolated myself for years, and now I was helpless. I had depended on my brother for everything, and with his absence, I had no one to rely on.
My brother's warm smile, cheerful laughter, and comforting presence filled my mind. His memories swirled around me daily since he left.
"He wanted you to pursue God's Will,"
I recalled.
I forced myself to stand up, remembering what Mikhael had said. "I will not disappoint you, brother."
Surrounded by books, I found myself in the library. If I couldn't have a mentor or a trainer, I could utilize these resources. I gathered combat guidebooks, magic instruction volumes, sword manuals, and various obscure texts, hoping they would assist me.
"Return them with care, kid," the librarian said, eyeing the tower of books I was carrying.
"Yes, ma'am."
In the dead of night, I embarked on an intense regimen, fervently striving to master the techniques outlined in the ancient tomes. Combat prowess, energy summoning, and swordsmanship were essential for a true successor to God's legacy. Within the secluded confines of my home, the back garden became my training ground.
With unwavering dedication, I absorbed the instructions, attempting to execute each movement with precision. Yet, despite my relentless efforts, my attempts yielded little success. The intricate sword maneuvers felt clumsy in my hands, energy summoning remained elusive, and combat techniques faltered against imagined foes.
On the second day, exhaustion ravaged my body. Ten hours of unbroken training had pushed me to the brink of collapse. My knees buckled, and I crumpled to the ground, defeated. Gasping for breath, my chest heaved while rivulets of sweat streamed down my face, soaking the earth beneath.
My muscles trembled with fatigue, protesting against the relentless strain. The night air clung to me, heavy with disappointment. Still, I refused to yield, driven by an unshakeable resolve to honor my brother's legacy.
As I knelt there, the stillness of the night enveloped me, punctuated only by the sound of my labored breathing.
Concern etched on his face, my house butler, Dawson, rushed over upon seeing me fall.
"Young Master, I advise you to rest for a moment."
"I'll be fine, Dawson," I assured him with a smile.
Following my brother's untimely passing, Dawson's responsibilities had multiplied significantly. He managed the mansion's affairs alongside the indefatigable Mrs. Rilde. As the sole remaining staff, they formed an unbreakable duo, steadfastly maintaining the estate's semblance of order.
The abrupt loss of my brother had triggered a mass exodus of other maids and workers. Without a steady income, they were compelled to seek alternative employment. I understood their predicament and had graciously offered Mrs. Rilde and Dawson their freedom, relieving them of their duties.
However, their loyalty knew no bounds. They resolutely refused to abandon me, despite my insistence. Their unwavering dedication stirred profound gratitude within me, and I felt humbled by their selfless commitment.
Dawson's tireless efforts, in particular, had not gone unnoticed. His quiet efficiency and unobtrusive presence provided a comforting sense of stability amidst the turmoil. As I navigated the treacherous landscape of grief and responsibility, his steadfast support served as a beacon of hope.
"Please, Young Master, just rest for a bit."
I shook my head in refusal. "I can't, Dawson."
"Please, sir, it's a request."