The next day arrived with dread.
The kind of dread that made Matteo want to stay under the blankets forever.
But there was no escape. Not here. Not in this place.
Not under that old man's watchful, merciless eye.
He had already completed his morning meditation. The tree no longer required his presence. Now, his core pulled energy on its own—like a second breath threading through his lungs.
After that, he scaled the mountain.
Earlier than usual.
Even so, it still took him hours.
His legs ached before the real training even began.
Now, under the biting heat of the afternoon sun, Matteo stood in the courtyard. Weights secured around his wrists and ankles like shackles. His training shirt clung to his skin.
Opposite him, the old man moved like flowing ink—demonstrating the day's lesson.
"Watch your stance. Shift your center. Flow into it, like a stream."
The technique was a nightmare.
It wasn't simple movement—it was footwork.
Intricate. Rotational. Almost like a dance between wind and shadow.
It demanded balance. Strength. Timing.
Matteo tried to follow. His limbs dragged like rusted iron.
Every step was heavy.
Every pivot burned his calves.
Every shift of weight screamed down his spine.
By the two-hundredth attempt, he collapsed onto the grass.
Dust scattered around his fingers.
"…Hmm." The old man tapped his pipe against a rock.
"Let's stop here for today."
Matteo didn't respond for a moment.
He just lay there, gasping. Sweat soaked his collar.
His heart thudded in his chest like a war drum.
This was hell.
But slowly, he rolled onto his side. His muscles barked like wounded dogs.
Still, he pushed up.
Wobbled to his feet.
And finally—blissfully—slid off the training bands.
"Haaah…" He exhaled.
"Freedom."
---
That Night
Matteo lay in bed like a corpse.
He didn't even pull the sheets over himself. Every movement felt like torture.
His arms refused to lift.
His back felt like it had been beaten with a log.
He couldn't even roll over.
So he lay there, face-down, and muttered into the mattress.
"…Kill me."
Yurisha knocked on his door at some point.
He was pretty sure she tried to throw a flower crown onto his back.
He didn't move.
The crown stayed there till morning.
---
The Weeks That Followed
The days started to blur.
Morning meditation.
Afternoon climb.
Footwork drills.
Meditate. Climb. Dance. Collapse. Repeat.
At first, Matteo thought the routine would break him.
But eventually… it didn't.
Something changed.
His body stopped fighting him.
His breath synced with his steps.
His core began to hum softly, like a quiet fire in his stomach.
The movements became smoother.
Energy flowed naturally.
He didn't have to think anymore—it just moved.
He could shift between stances. Lean into the rhythm. Feel the beat of each pivot and slide.
The climb no longer left him wheezing.
And the old man's grunts of acknowledgment turned into faint, rare praises.
---
Then… the Weights Got Heavier.
"He's trying to kill me…"
Matteo wheezed, dragging himself across the courtyard.
New bands. Twice the weight.
He swore they were infused with some dark magic. Or lead. Or both.
He glared up toward the old man's silhouette—who just nodded and walked away like it was nothing.
Still, Matteo got up.
Because at some point… this place had started to feel like something dangerous.
Progress.
---
One Evening
The fire crackled gently.
Dinner was simple—some roast vegetables, a bit of dried meat, and a small bowl of soup.
Matteo had cooked. Again.
Grandpa's cooking… left things to be desired.
Like taste. Or seasoning.
So he volunteered, and now, it had become routine.
Yurisha kicked her legs beside him on the log bench.
She'd stacked three flower crowns on his head.
He'd stopped trying to remove them.
Grandpa sat across the fire, sipping from a warm flask of rice wine. His golden eyes glowed faintly.
And then, out of nowhere, he began to speak.
"When I was your age…"
Matteo blinked.
"Which was… what? Two thousand years ago?"
"Rude."
The old man took a long sip and stared into the fire.
"I used to wander. Place to place. Mountain to marsh. And hooo~ boy, was I a hit with the ladies."
Matteo blinked again.
Yurisha tilted her head.
"What's a 'hit'?"
"It means Grandpa was very popular," Matteo replied, grinning.
"Ohhh… Bwuthur's popular too!" she said proudly, hugging his side.
"Don't give me that look," Matteo shot at the old man.
"She clearly doesn't know what she's saying."
The old man just smirked, half-lidded and smug.
"Ah, youth. The burning passion. The days of danger and glory. I even wrestled a lava wyrm once. Nasty breath. Good tail meat, though."
Yurisha's eyes sparkled.
"Did you punch it?"
"Hohoho~ you bet I did!"
Matteo stifled a laugh. He didn't expect it.
But these evenings… they made the hellish days easier to bear.