Eight years have passed.
And true to his word, Mateo kept his promise.
Every year, just as the frost began to melt from the trees and the first spring blooms cracked the hardened soil, he returned to our town. He came with new stories, stronger gear, and scars he never explained unless I begged and even then, only the funny parts.
The first year, he brought a spell crystal and told me to unlock it. I couldn't.
The second year, he brought Amelia. She laughed at my clumsy casting and nearly lit my sleeve on fire "by accident."
The third year, he brought a journal full of training routines. I memorized every word.
And now I'm ten.
Double digits. Taller. Sharper. Stronger. My spells no longer sparkle they ignite. My aura no longer flickers it breathes.
And this time, Mateo didn't come with a gift.
He came with a promise.
"This year," he said, stepping off his caravan and tightening the straps on his shoulder guard, "I'm training you myself."
My heart just about burst.
Francis smirked from the porch behind me, sipping tea like he wasn't the one who dragged me through hell every morning with drills, incantation repetition, and mental focus exercises that left me dreaming in glyphs.
I looked up at Mateo, eyes narrowed with determination.
"Then let's begin."
Though Mateo was primarily known for his skill with the bow, he insisted on teaching me the sword as well. "A mage who can fight up close is a nightmare on the battlefield," he told me. And I believed him.
So for the month he was here, our training became relentless—condensed, intense, and all-consuming.
Every day was a gauntlet: magical exercises, mental trials, moral dilemmas, and physical conditioning that left my muscles aching and my mind reeling. Mateo didn't believe in shortcuts. He believed in pain, repetition, and discipline. Especially discipline.
When I wasn't bleeding in the dirt under Mateo's sword drills or getting lectures on battlefield ethics, I was curled up in Francis's cottage, nose-deep in the Book of Everything. He had finally entrusted it to me—not just for casual reading, but for true study.
"Don't just memorize spells," Francis said. "Understand their nature. Why they exist. What they do to the world around you, not just what they do to your enemies."
And when the sun fell low and my hands stopped trembling from sword practice, Amelia would arrive.
She'd help with my incantations, often with a smug grin and far too many sarcastic comments.
"Say that syllable wrong again, and your spell's going to turn into a puddle," she'd say while flicking water from her fingertips. "Ask me how I know."
Despite the teasing, I learned quickly under her guidance. She wasn't that far ahead of me. Her second element was water—she could summon it, control its flow, and even use it to defend or disarm. Impressive, sure, but her control was still inconsistent, and she struggled with shaping it into complex forms.
I can catch up, I thought more than once. Maybe even surpass her.
All I need is time.
And time was something I planned to use better than anyone.
When no one was around—when the village slept, when Francis snored in his chair, and even Auroch had curled beside the fireplace—that was when things truly got hectic.
That's when I came alive.
In the quiet hours of the night, I experimented.
I cast light spells until my room glowed like a star.
I whispered dark incantations that made the shadows curl against the walls.
I tried mixing forms—fire and light, dark and water—manipulating opposing forces just to see what would happen. Sometimes it was beautiful. Sometimes it backfired. Once it knocked every book off the shelf and singed my eyebrows.
And through it all, I studied the Book of Everything like it was sacred scripture. I read it until my vision blurred. I traced old glyphs with trembling fingers, repeated long-forgotten chants under my breath, and tested rune patterns by etching them in chalk on the floorboards.
No one knew how hard I was working. No one saw the burn marks, the fatigue, the way my fingers trembled after holding too much raw magic in too small a body.
I wasn't just trying to get stronger.
I was racing time.
Because I didn't just want to catch up to the heroes the world summoned—I wanted to surpass them.
I wanted to outpace that smug, spotlight-chasing punk Tyler, to leave him choking in my shadow.
I wanted to become the man—the kind of man she would choose.
The kind of man anyone would see and say, he's the one.
I chose my path, not by fate, but by defying the hand I was dealt. It was a deliberate decision, born from despair and rekindled hope, a relentless pursuit from life's ashes.
I would earn it through sweat, blood, and grueling effort, reclaiming what was lost to build something stronger. Fire would refine me, hardening my spirit into unbreakable will. I would emerge sharper, more resilient, and relentless.
With every ounce of will, I would rise, summoning strength and tenacity to triumph. This wasn't survival, but proving even a shattered soul could become formidable. I would be the architect of my new life, a formidable, untamed, unburdened villain.
I wanted to become something the world couldn't predict. Something it couldn't control.
And if I had to walk the edge between light and dark to do it?
Then so be it.
By the end of the month, I'd learned the basics of archery. Nothing fancy, but I could nock an arrow, draw a bow, and land a bullseye from twenty yards. Not much, sure—but considering I'd started with shaking arms and no clue how to aim, it was a solid accomplishment. Especially with the heavy longbow Mateo insisted I train with. "If you can handle this," he'd said, "everything else will feel like a toy."
Most of the summer, I focused on the sword. I didn't train like a prodigy—I trained like a lunatic. I swung Mateo's blade hundreds of times a day. Over and over. Not for flash, but for feel—the weight, the balance, the way it hummed through the air and how my muscles burned after the fiftieth swing, and went numb by the hundredth.
Every now and then, Mateo and I would spar with the wooden swords he brought. He never went easy, and I never asked him to. Bruises were part of the lesson. Blisters meant I was gripping wrong. Falling meant I was learning.
And by the end of the month, I didn't just know how to swing a sword—
I knew how to carry one.
As Mateo, Amelia, and Sofia climbed into their carriage, the sun was just beginning to dip behind the hills, casting long golden shadows across the road. Their month in town had flown by faster than I could hold onto it.
"Next year," Mateo said from the carriage steps, tightening the last strap on his gear. "We'll be back. Same time."
Amelia gave a lazy two-fingered salute. Sofia simply nodded.
Then, just before the carriage door closed, Mateo paused. "Ah—wait."
He turned, reaching into one of the side compartments of their gear chest, and rummaged for a moment. Then he pulled something long and wrapped in dark cloth from the bag.
He walked over to me and handed it down with both hands. It was heavier than I expected.
I looked up at him, eyebrows raised.
"Enjoy," he said with a grin. "You've earned it."
And before I could even unwrap it, he turned and climbed into the carriage.
The wheels creaked into motion, and the carriage rolled down the dirt road—dust trailing behind them like a fading ribbon—until they disappeared around the bend.
I stood there in the cooling air, unwrapping the cloth slowly.
Inside was a sword. Not decorative. Not ceremonial. Real.
The grip was leather-wrapped, worn from years of use—his use. The blade was balanced, practical, and slightly nicked along the edge in a way that only comes from real combat. This wasn't some spare weapon or beginner's tool.
It was Mateo's old blade, once a constant in our training sessions. Now, undeniably, it was mine.
Its polished surface, still largely unblemished, beckoned to me—begged to be scarred. I yearned to see it marked by my own hands, my own journey. I wanted it to reflect my struggles, my battles. To transform from a gifted heirloom into a true extension of my will—a blade forged not in fire, but in sweat and resolve.
For months, I trained with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Day in and day out, I refined my swordplay. Each swing was deliberate, every movement driven by precision and control. The weight of the blade no longer burdened me—it flowed through my arm, guided by instinct.
At the same time, I pushed my magical studies to the edge. What once felt like impossible incantations and awkward gestures had become second nature. Magic no longer responded to me. It moved with me.
Nights were my sanctuary—spent hunched over ancient texts, deciphering faded runes, unraveling forgotten enchantments. Their brittle pages whispered secrets older than kingdoms, and I listened. I learned. Not because I was the most gifted, but because I was the most relentless.
I may not have been the strongest, the fastest, or the smartest.
But I was never alone.
Francis. Mateo. Amelia. Sofia.
Their names echoed in my mind like anchors and stars—holding me steady, guiding me forward. They believed in me, even when I doubted myself. Their faith became my fuel.
With them, I wasn't just training.
I was becoming something more.
Every scar I earned, every spell I mastered, every swing of that sword—they were no longer just marks of progress.
They were proof.
Proof that I wasn't chasing someone else's legacy.
I was building my own.