Argolaith stepped into his small, candlelit room, his mind still swirling with the knowledge he had consumed in the library. He set his stack of worn books on the wooden table, their covers still warm from the sunlight that filtered through the library's stained-glass windows. Pulling out a small bowl, he scooped in some oats and sprinkled a handful of fresh berries over the top.
Ahhh, he sighed, savoring the simple meal. Reading can sure take a lot out of you. Now, it's time to train.
After finishing the last bite, Argolaith grabbed his trusted sword and stepped out into the fading light. The woods behind the village beckoned him—a sacred space where he had spent countless hours sharpening his skills and forging his strength. As he walked along the well-trodden path, he noticed how the grass never grew where his boots had pressed before. It was as if even nature understood the inevitability of his presence and the destruction he would bring to anything in his path.
He reached his training spot, a small clearing surrounded by towering trees that seemed to watch over him like silent sentinels. The scene was serene, almost magical. The sun's rays pierced through the canopy, casting shifting patterns on the ground. The gentle gurgle of a nearby stream mingled with the rustling of leaves in the breeze, creating a melody of tranquility. Yet, despite the calming beauty of the place, Argolaith was not here to bask in its peace. He was here to become stronger.
Argolaith unsheathed his sword, its steel gleaming in the dappled sunlight. He assumed his stance, his legs firmly planted, his hands gripping the hilt with practiced confidence. Slowly, deliberately, he began to swing. Each movement was calculated, his blade slicing through the air with a whistle that seemed to echo through the woods. At first, his strikes were measured, like a craftsman honing his technique. But soon, the rhythm quickened.
His blade danced as if it had a will of its own. Argolaith imagined opponents standing before him—shadowy figures whose forms shifted and darted, challenging him to adapt. Each swing of his sword felt like cutting through the wind itself, and with every stroke, he envisioned his enemies dissolving into nothingness, their resistance futile against his growing power.
He fought tirelessly, each strike more precise, more forceful than the last. His muscles burned, but he welcomed the pain—it was a reminder that he was alive, growing, evolving. Hours passed unnoticed. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and gold, but Argolaith continued, his focus unbroken.
Eventually, he sheathed his sword and turned to the next phase of his training. Near the stream lay a collection of large, jagged rocks, their surfaces worn smooth by time and water. One by one, he lifted them, hoisting each heavy stone above his head before letting it crash to the ground with a satisfying thud. The effort made his arms tremble, his shoulders scream in protest, but he refused to stop.
Each lift, each drop, was a test of his endurance. Sweat poured down his face, soaking his tunic and pooling at his feet, but he pushed on. The rhythm of his movements became hypnotic—lift, strain, drop; lift, strain, drop.
When he could no longer lift the rocks, Argolaith turned to bodyweight exercises. He dropped to the ground and began a series of push-ups, his arms shaking with fatigue yet refusing to give in. After that, he sprinted back and forth across the clearing, his legs churning like the pistons of a great machine. Every step felt heavier than the last, but he forced himself to keep going, his mind repeating a single mantra: I will endure. I will grow stronger.
The hours blurred together. The sun vanished beyond the horizon, and the clearing was bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. Still, Argolaith trained. He swung his sword in the silver light, the blade catching the moon's reflection as it cut through the air. He lifted rocks until his hands were raw and calloused. He ran until his legs buckled beneath him.
When he finally collapsed, the stars were high in the sky, their cold light flickering like distant flames. Argolaith lay on the ground, his chest heaving as he stared upward. His entire body throbbed with exhaustion, but his mind was clear.
I will not stop, he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the rustling leaves. This pain, this struggle—it's nothing. I will train my body and mind until I am unshakable, unstoppable. The Grand Magic Academy will accept me, and when I find my trees, I will be ready.
As the night deepened, Argolaith finally allowed himself a moment of rest. He leaned against the trunk of a tall oak tree, the rough bark pressing into his back. His sword rested by his side, its blade still gleaming despite the dirt and sweat that clung to its hilt. He closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the forest wash over him—the whisper of the wind, the murmur of the stream, the distant hoot of an owl.
Tomorrow, he would rise again. Tomorrow, he would train harder, push further, and reach closer to his goal. For now, though, he let the peace of the woods cradle him, a fleeting reprieve before the battles yet to come.
In his dreams, Argolaith saw himself standing on the threshold of the Grand Magic Academy, his sword in hand, his body honed to perfection. He saw the faces of those who had doubted him, their skepticism replaced with awe. And beyond the academy, he glimpsed his trees—tall, ancient, and radiant with a power that seemed to call out to him.
But those dreams would only become reality through his determination. As dawn began to break, painting the sky in soft shades of lavender and gold, Argolaith stirred. He stood, gripping his sword once more, and faced the new day with resolve burning in his chest.
His journey was far from over. But with each step, each swing, and each ounce of effort, he was carving a path toward his destiny.