The fortress training ground stirred with the crisp morning air, the golden light of dawn stretching across the worn stone floor.


    The scent of damp earth lingered, a remnant of the night’s passing rain.


    Birds chirped softly in the distance, their melodies blending with the occasional clang of weapons from soldiers training nearby.


    A group stood in silent anticipation, their breaths visible in the cool air.


    Asael, Anne, Steven, Giren, Lily, and Kenta—each of them waiting, their gazes fixed on the man before them.


    Marquis Hector stood tall, his piercing eyes scanning the gathered warriors with quiet scrutiny.


    There was no impatience in his demeanor, only a measured calculation as if weighing their potential before speaking.


    Anne folded her arms, shifting her weight onto one leg. "Why did you call us out here, Marquis?"


    A small, knowing smile ghosted across Hector’s lips.


    "I thought it was time to give you all some training—some guidance on improving yourselves."


    Asael’s heart quickened at the thought, his fingers instinctively brushing against the hilt of his sword.


    "That would be great," he said, unable to hide the eagerness in his voice.


    "Good," Hector replied, his voice carrying a quiet authority. "Then line up."


    A brief exchange of glances passed between them before they stepped into formation, standing shoulder to shoulder.


    The air around them grew still, thick with expectation.


    Hector stepped forward, his boots echoing against the stone.


    His presence was heavy, commanding the attention of everyone in an instant.


    He stopped in front of Asael, locking eyes with him, his sharp gaze probing deep.


    "Before we begin, may I ask you something?"


    Asael straightened, caught off guard by the sudden intensity.


    "Of course," he said, though his voice was quieter now.


    Hector’s gaze darkened, the hint of a shadow flickering across his features.


    "Why did you lose control back then?"


    Silence fell like a shroud.


    The others stiffened, their expressions shifting as tension crackled through the air.


    Asael’s breath hitched.


    His mind recoiled from the memory, but it surged forward nonetheless—the battle, the blood, the raw, unrelenting rage that had swallowed him whole.


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    His fingers curled slightly, nails pressing into his palm.


    "I… I don’t fully remember," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.


    Hector said nothing, waiting.


    Asael closed his eyes, forcing himself to relive that moment.


    "When I saw Bob’s severed head… everything around me started to fade. My vision blurred, my hearing dulled. It was like the world was slipping away."


    A sharp pang twisted in his chest.


    "And then, I heard a voice."


    His words hung in the air, heavy with something unspoken.


    The group exchanged uneasy glances, their faces shadowed with concern.


    Hector’s brows knit together.


    "A voice? Do you remember whose voice it was?"


    Asael hesitated, sifting through the fragmented pieces of that moment—the rage, the grief, and that whisper, deep and resonant, weaving through the storm of his mind.


    Finally, he exhaled. "Perhaps it was one of the gods."


    Hector’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing. "A god’s voice?"


    Asael nodded slowly.


    "Yes." His throat felt dry as he continued.


    "It is part of the hero''s trial. When a hero endures a god’s test, proving themselves worthy, the god grants them a blessing."


    Hector’s gaze remained unreadable, his mind clearly turning over Asael’s words.


    "So each god sets their own trial?"


    "Yes. Each one is different. And they only bless a hero when they believe that hero has earned it."


    Hector crossed his arms, his fingers tapping lightly against his forearm.


    "And what did you obtain?"


    He asked.


    "My sword… I can move it however I want and change its size at will. My divine power has grown, and my healing abilities have strengthened."


    Asael explained.


    "Alright. Can you show me?"


    Marquis asked.


    Asael hesitated only briefly before exhaling, his breath steady.


    A soft golden glow pulsed from his fingertips, spreading like ripples across the air as his sword materialized before him.


    The divine blade gleamed in the morning light, its radiance casting elongated shadows on the ground.


    For a moment, Asael simply held it, feeling the energy hum beneath his fingertips.


    Then, in a swift motion, he dragged the edge across his palm.


    A thin line of red surfaced, only to vanish instantly as his divine power surged through his body, sealing the wound without a trace.


    Silence settled over the group as Hector observed with narrowed eyes, his arms crossed.


    "Good. Your divine power is strong, and your healing ability is remarkable. But…" He paused, his voice carrying a weight heavier than disapproval. "You rely on it too much."


    Asael blinked, caught off guard.


    "What do you mean?"


    Hector exhaled, shaking his head slightly.


    "You don''t truly know how to fight." His voice remained calm, yet it cut through Asael like a blade.


    "You charge into battle, trusting that your divine power will carry you through. That might work for a hero, but not for a warrior."


    A flicker of protest sparked in Asael’s chest, but it quickly died down.


    Deep inside, he knew Hector was right.


    How many times had he thrown himself into danger, assuming his power would protect him?


    Before he could respond, Hector signaled to Sam.


    The young scholar hurried forward, carrying a small stack of aged books.


    Their leather covers were worn, their spines cracked from years of use.


    "These contain martial arts and weapon techniques," Hector said, his tone lighter but firm. "Study them. If you need more, ask Sam."


    Asael took the books carefully, the weight of them grounding him. He looked up, a quiet determination settling in his eyes.


    "I will. Thank you."


    Hector’s gaze shifted to Anne.


    His expression softened, though there was still a trace of uncertainty.


    "I’ll be honest—I don’t fully understand how a Saintess fights."


    Anne’s face fell slightly, her golden eyes flickering with something close to disappointment.


    But Hector wasn’t finished.


    "I have seen the last Saintess in battle," he continued, his voice thoughtful. "She did not focus on healing. Her real strength lay in something else—buffs and debuffs."


    Anne’s posture straightened, her hands clenching at her sides.


    "You mean…"


    "Instead of just patching wounds, strengthen your allies. Weaken your enemies. Make them slow. Make them fragile. If you master this, you won’t just be a support—you’ll be a force to be reckoned with."


    The wind tugged at Anne’s dark cloak as she took in his words. Then, with a deep breath, she nodded.


    "Understood."


    When Hector turned to Giren and Lily, his demeanor shifted slightly, his tone more subdued.


    "You both… continue doing what I told you."


    No further explanation was needed.


    Giren and Lily exchanged a brief glance before nodding silently, their expressions firm.


    Steven stood still as Hector''s gaze landed on him.


    A long pause. Then, Hector sighed.


    "I don’t have any advice for you."


    Steven frowned. "What?"


    A faint smirk tugged at Hector’s lips.


    "You’re already on the right path. You’ve been growing stronger, steadily improving. There’s nothing I can teach you that you haven’t already begun to understand on your own."


    Steven held his ground, but his fingers curled slightly. Something about those words stirred emotions he wasn’t ready to name.


    Hector’s voice softened.


    "But… you should go easier on yourself. Even the strongest warriors need rest."


    Steven didn’t respond back.


    Finally, Hector turned to Kenta, the youngest among them.


    The boy stood with his fists clenched, his small frame trembling slightly—not from fear, but from sheer determination.


    Hector let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.


    "You should leave the fighting to the adults, little one."


    Kenta’s ears turned red, but his voice was steady.


    "No. I want to fight. I have to fight."


    Something flickered in Hector’s eyes, an emotion he didn’t let surface.


    He studied the boy for a long moment before exhaling.


    Without another word, he pulled a thin book from his coat and handed it to Kenta.


    The pages were carefully written, filled with diagrams and instructions.


    "Fine. But you will not fight until you have mastered the techniques in this book."


    Kenta’s eyes widened as he took the book, holding it as though it were the most valuable thing in the world.


    "I will learn. I promise."


    Hector gave him a final nod before stepping back, his gaze sweeping over the entire group.


    "Then let’s begin."


    The sun had fully risen now, casting a warm glow over the fortress.


    The training ground stirred with movement—swords clashing, spells flickering, bodies shifting with newfound purpose.


    Each of them, in their own way, was growing stronger.