"Butler Ace, I want the family to understand something. I'm willing to teach Dessily because she's my sister. I don't need any compensation to train her. But as for the others—though we share a last name, I don't really have any personal connection with them." Muria tapped his desk as he reminded the elderly butler. "Of course, the family has given me plenty of resources over the years. If they're willing to use part of those resources to compensate me, I'd be open to that. But in that case, I'd reserve the right to decline certain family-assigned tasks in the future."
"Young Master Jeros, you're overly cautious. The resources the family provides you are allocated based solely on the talents you've demonstrated; as a formal member of the Douglas family, they're yours by right. The family does not expect anything in return. They're simply arranging other resources as compensation for your role as an instructor."
"Oh? And what does the family plan to offer?" Muria asked, spreading his hands. "I'll say upfront, I already have plenty of resources for martial training, so I don't need any more in that area."
"The family is preparing to mobilize its top researchers and finest materials to create a custom, upgradeable Star Armor for you."
"But I already have the Dark Phoenix," Muria replied. The Dark Phoenix was a mid-grade Star Armor that the family had gifted him upon reaching Tier 4, equipped with twelve external attachments to handle various situations.
"Young Master Jeros, the Dark Phoenix is just a standard model in our family's collection. A custom-built Star Armor would be leagues beyond it," Butler Pais chuckled.
"Even so, the standard model is sufficient for me right now." Muria rubbed his chin. He knew his compatibility with Star Armor wasn't ideal. While it wasn't as poor as his father's, it wasn't great, either.
So, most of his focus went toward martial training, with only a few hours a day spent nurturing his connection with his armor.
"It's different, Young Master. Star Armor Mastery and martial arts are complementary. When you wear the Star Armor, your combat abilities rise, and there's still room for even more improvement."
"Oh? How else can I improve?" Muria asked, intrigued.
"Young Master Jeros, your aura can already enhance your Star Armor's power. But while your aura strengthens the Star Armor, the armor itself doesn't yet amplify your aura."
"Are you saying the family can create armor that will enhance my aura's power?"
"Certainly. Martial artists often use weapons, and the family has located several metals that might augment your aura's effects. Once we confirm which are effective, we'll use them to craft custom alloy components for your armor."
"That sounds promising. But I'll need more than that," Muria said, his eyes flashing with interest. The right weapon could indeed be invaluable.
"What else would you like? As long as it's reasonable, the family will do its best to provide."
"Can't think of anything for now; let's stick with that for the time being."
"So, will you accept the teaching role?"
"Sure, teaching one or thirteen doesn't make much difference to me," Muria said with a relaxed smile. "But before I start, I'll spar with each of them to establish my authority. Oh, and let's build a hospital next to the manor. It'll be convenient."
"Of course," Pais said, though he couldn't help but remind, "Just, please, no fatalities. That's the family's bottom line."
"Understood."
…
"Dad, they just assigned me a new coach, someone barely older than me, to teach me how to fight," a young man grumbled into his communicator, deeply frustrated by the family's decision.
"The family has its reasons. How does this coach's strength compare to yours?" his father asked, maintaining a calm demeanor.
"He's a martial artist. I fought him three days ago, and his strength is on another level," the boy replied, wincing at the memory. The beating had left him hospitalized for three days, and he had just been discharged when he received the family's announcement.
"A martial artist?" His father frowned but quickly relaxed. "If he's stronger than you, then obey his instruction. The family knows what it's doing."
"But martial arts are practically obsolete, and our son's a Star Armor Master! Why bring in a martial artist to teach him? What can he even teach?" his mother interjected, clearly displeased.
"You don't understand. This is the family's decision," the father said sharply. "Do you think the family's entire advisory council would make a mistake on this?"
"Fine," she muttered, choosing not to argue further.
"Clearly, you don't understand the family's reasoning because your vision is too limited," the father chided before turning back to his son on the screen. "Is this coach just teaching you, or are there others?"
"There are twelve others."
"And who are they? Give me their names."
"Dessily, Vernes…" The boy listed the names he'd managed to find out.
"If I'm not mistaken, they're all family talents with compatibility over 80%, like you."
"That's correct."
"Then there's no issue," the father replied, his earlier concern fading entirely.
…
After the call, the boy sighed in frustration. The conversation with his parents had brought no relief.
"That Jeros guy is barely older than me and only has 64% compatibility. Yet somehow, he's my instructor," he fumed. He rubbed his cheek, which still seemed to ache from their earlier encounter. The bruises were gone, but a phantom pain lingered.
"What did Jeros do to convince the family elders to let him teach us? I just hope he doesn't treat us like he did three days ago… I don't want another trip to the hospital."
…
Two weeks later, the young man, freshly emerged from the hospital's recovery pod, reached for his communicator and called his parents without hesitation.
"Dad, Mom, please, get the family to pull me out of this training. You don't know how many times I've been hospitalized in the past two weeks—five times! Please, I can't take it anymore," he begged, his voice nearly breaking.
"What? Explain this to me in detail," his father replied, alarmed by his son's desperate tone.
With mounting distress, the boy recounted the brutal "training" he had endured—spending most of his time in the hospital's medical pod, with whatever remained subjected to constant beatings.
"Why would the family assign you a coach like this? This is practically torture," his father murmured, deeply troubled. His son's description painted the coach as a brutal, merciless tyrant, but something about the situation felt off.
"Stay put for now. I'll contact the butler and get to the bottom of this. If your story checks out, I'll negotiate with the family to pull you from the program."
"Yes, Dad, please hurry. I can't handle more of this," the boy replied, relief washing over him.
"Steward Vayne, I'd like some clarity on why my son has been assigned a martial artist coach," the father demanded once he reached the Douglas family butler responsible for his son's affairs. "My son's been repeatedly hospitalized from injuries under his so-called 'training'!"
"Mr. Bennett, I understand your concern. Many elders, including the family head, believe that our past training methods have been too lenient. The family is trying to adopt a stricter approach, and this is the first trial of that method," the butler patiently explained, well aware that such calls would come.
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