As Elren finished explaining, he turned to Elyon and asked, "Would you like to hear about the other continents?"
"No, that will be all," Elyon replied curtly, his mind already overwhelmed with the flood of new information.
He sat in silence for a while, deep in thought, trying to piece everything together. The recent history and secrets of Veloria that Elren had shared lingered in his mind, each detail weighing heavily on his thoughts. Elyon found himself fixated on one particular mystery—the assassination of the prince of Doroska.
Could it have been someone from the Lirian kingdom who carried it out?
If so, why? What could possibly drive someone to risk an all-out war between kingdoms rather than pursue a more discreet or diplomatic path? The motives escaped him, and yet the implications haunted his thoughts.
The room was still, save for the quiet hum of wind brushing against the shutters. Elyon's eyes narrowed as he replayed Elren's words over and over, trying to detect something hidden, something unspoken. He was so immersed in his thoughts that he didn't notice the door creak open.
Suddenly, a wooden sword came flying across the room and landed with a heavy thud just beside him.
"Someone! Boy, don't just sit around there!" came the gruff voice of his father, Richard, from the doorway. "It's time for training!"
Richard didn't wait for a response. He turned without another word and walked out through the front door, his steps heavy and impatient.
Elyon blinked, startled out of his mental haze. With a soft sigh of resignation, he glanced down at the wooden sword lying on the ground. His father always had a way of interrupting at the worst possible moments. Elyon found him endlessly irritating—overbearing, loud, and far too blunt.
Still, he picked up the sword.
There was no escaping the day's training.
He stepped outside and followed his father, the sunlight meeting his face as he crossed the threshold. The brightness of the day stood in stark contrast to the shadows of intrigue that clouded his thoughts. The sun hung high above, casting a warm, golden light across the training grounds. The sky was a clear blue, and the faint chirping of birds in the distance marked the afternoon's calm.
Richard stood in the center of the open field, already in position. In his hands, he held a wooden sword of his own, balanced and ready. His stance was firm, solid—worn into habit by years of practice. He looked like a man made of stone, unmoved by time or sentiment.
Elyon approached, sword in hand, and positioned himself across from his father.
The air between them was tense but familiar. This was their routine—a daily dance of strikes, parries, and sharp commands. Elyon didn't love it, but he had grown used to it, even if he found the whole ordeal tiresome.
Richard didn't speak. He didn't need to. His eyes met Elyon's with a silent command: Prepare yourself.
Elyon raised his sword.
And so, under the wide stretch of sky and the ever-watchful sun, father and son began their training, wood clashing against wood as discipline battled with rebellion, and unspoken thoughts lingered like ghosts in the still air.
The first blow came fast.
Richard lunged without warning, his wooden sword arcing through the air with the force and precision of a man who had spent decades in battle. Elyon barely brought his own blade up in time to deflect it, the impact jarring his arms and sending a tremor up through his shoulders.
"Too slow," Richard growled, circling him like a predator measuring its prey.
Elyon gritted his teeth. He hated when his father did that—attacked before they were even properly set. It wasn't fair. But then again, nothing about Richard's training was meant to be fair. It was meant to forge something—something stronger than comfort, sharper than hesitation.
Richard came in again, this time low and swift. Elyon sidestepped, swinging to counter, but his father twisted and blocked the strike with ease, following up with a strike to Elyon's side. The young man grunted as the wooden blade caught his ribs. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough to sting.
"Keep your guard up," Richard snapped.
"I was guarding," Elyon muttered under his breath, irritation bubbling.
"You were thinking. You're always thinking." Richard struck again, a flurry of quick jabs that forced Elyon to retreat, parrying one, dodging another, and catching the third directly on his forearm. Pain flared.
"Stop thinking. Start fighting!"
Elyon let out a sharp breath, stepped in, and launched a counterattack. He struck high, then low, pressing forward. Richard blocked each blow effortlessly, his movements economic and clean. But Elyon didn't back down. He moved faster now, letting instinct take over, letting frustration drive his momentum.
Their wooden blades cracked against each other in rapid succession, echoing through the training field like distant thunder. Dust rose from their feet as they shifted and struck, each testing the other's rhythm, speed, and resolve.
For a brief moment, Elyon caught his father off guard—his blade slipping past a lazy parry and landing a clean hit on Richard's shoulder.
A pause.
Richard raised an eyebrow. "Better."
Elyon felt a small flicker of pride. Brief. Dangerous.
Richard surged forward.
The next exchange was brutal. Elyon's arms burned, his legs strained, and sweat began to bead at his brow. His father fought like a storm—unyielding and relentless, driving him back with every swing. Still, Elyon held his ground, each block a struggle, each step a battle.
The final clash came when Richard spun, feinted left, then brought his blade sweeping across to the right. Elyon parried just in time, his sword vibrating in his grip. He responded with a thrust—direct, fast, aimed straight at Richard's chest.
Richard stopped it with a sudden twist of his wrist, disarming Elyon in one fluid motion.
The wooden sword clattered to the ground.
Silence.
Elyon stood there, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on his father.
Richard didn't smirk. He didn't gloat. He simply nodded once, then said, "Again."
And just like that, they reset. No praise. No sympathy. Just the rhythm of discipline.
But Elyon, despite the sting in his arms and the ache in his muscles, picked up his sword.
Because something inside him had shifted—not just in his technique, but in his resolve.
The clash resumed.
Wood struck wood again as Elyon launched himself forward with renewed purpose. He weaved left, then right, his blade slicing through the air in calculated strikes. Richard deflected them with ease, but this time, Elyon wasn't backing away—he was pressing.
Sweat glistened on his brow. His muscles screamed. Still, he moved.
Richard's eyes narrowed slightly, recognizing the change in tempo. "You're pushing too hard," he warned.
Elyon ignored him. He stepped into another swing—overcommitted—and Richard seized the opening. He pivoted, drove his shoulder into Elyon's chest, and sent him sprawling backwards into the dirt.
"You're too predictable," Richard said as he slowly approached, sword at his side. "Strength without control is chaos."
Elyon coughed, the wind knocked out of him. He started to rise, hand still clutched tight around the wooden sword. His breath came shallow, his arms trembling. Anger boiled in his chest—anger not just at Richard, but at the limitations of his own body. The weight of frustration and helplessness, all of it surged together.
And then—something inside him cracked.
The warmth began in his core, like sunlight breaking through clouds, radiating outward in a sudden rush. His heart pounded in his chest, faster, deeper—and his vision pulsed with light.
Instinctively, he thrust out his left hand.
A brilliant orb of light exploded into existence—shimmering and radiant, suspended midair.
Elyon thought I did it i managed to cast a spell
The orb detonated with a sharp, concussive burst, a sphere of radiant force that launched Richard off his feet. He flew back several yards and hit the ground with a thunderous thud, a small crater forming where he landed. Dust and light swirled violently around Elyon as he stood, breathing hard, the glow slowly fading from his hand.
Silence hung for a beat.
Then Richard laughed—low and thunderous, pushing himself up from the ground. His eyes gleamed with something between pride and challenge.
"So," he said, brushing dirt from his shoulder, "you finally tapped into it."
Without another word, Richard raised his right hand and muttered something in the old tongue. Flames erupted in his palm—twisting, dancing, growing. He hurled the fireball toward Elyon in a wide arc.
Elyon dove to the side, feeling the heat lick across his back as the spell exploded nearby, scorching the grass and showering him with embers.
Before he could fully recover, a bolt of lightning cracked from above—called down by Richard's outstretched hand. It struck where Elyon had been standing a heartbeat before, splitting the earth with a flash of blinding blue and a roar of thunder.
Elyon rolled, came to his feet, and pointed his hand again, calling upon the same energy from before. A smaller orb of light formed—less explosive, more precise. He launched it toward his father, who batted it away with a flame-wreathed sword.
Their fight had shifted. Wood and sweat had given way to raw elemental force.
Richard advanced now, fast and brutal. He raised both fists, letting his blade fall to the ground. "Let me show you what real spells look like''
With a guttural roar, he drove his fist into the earth.
The ground cracked.
A deep boom resonated outward from the impact—like a cannon fired underground. The shockwave exploded in a wide circle, flattening the grass, shattering stones, and throwing Elyon through the air as if he were weightless. His ears rang. His limbs felt hollow.
He hit the dirt hard, rolled once, twice, and came to a stop face-down.
Dust rose around him. The sky seemed far away.
Then—he pushed himself up. Slowly. Painfully.
His fingers glowed.
His light had not gone out.
And neither had his will to stand.
Richard stood across the field, waiting, arms crossed, watching him.
There was no more speaking.
Only the silence of two forces—one forged by fire and stone, the other awakening in light—preparing for the next strike.
Elyon was visibly exhausted. His chest heaved with every breath, and his arms trembled as he struggled to stay upright. Sweat streamed down his face, mixing with the dust clinging to his skin. His legs felt like stone, and the wooden sword hung limply in his grip. Every part of his body screamed for rest.
He couldn't move. Not anymore.
Richard stood several paces away, shoulders squared, eyes locked on his son. Just as he began to step forward—perhaps to speak, perhaps to strike again—he froze. His expression shifted. He heard something.
It wasn't the sound of an attack. No magic flared. No wind shifted. It was something far more mundane—and far more dangerous.
CLANG!
A heavy iron frying pan came swinging from behind and struck Richard squarely in the face. The metallic thud echoed across the field like a bell tolling the end of a match. Richard staggered backward, his arms flailing briefly before he hit the ground with a groan, the fire in his eyes thoroughly extinguished.
Elyon stared, stunned, his mind trying to catch up with what he'd just seen.
Slowly, he turned his head to the side—and there she was.
Lenea.
She stood at the edge of the training ground, her expression thunderous. Her grip tightened on the frying pan as if she intended to swing it again. Her dark eyes blazed with fury, and strands of hair had slipped from her braid, giving her a slightly wild, no-nonsense look.
"What the heck, Richard?" she snapped, her voice cutting through the air like a whip. "I told you to teach your son how to control his essence—not battle him until his bones cracked!"
Richard, still on the ground, groaned and lifted a hand weakly as if to defend himself—physically or verbally, it wasn't clear. "Lenea, I—he was—he needed—"
But Lenea wasn't having it.
She took a step forward, brandishing the frying pan again with complete conviction. "Don't even start. I told you this wasn't a sparring match. He's not a soldier. He's a boy! You pushed him far beyond what was necessary!"
Richard's eyes darted from her furious face to the frying pan, then back again.
And in that moment, he did the most reasonable thing he could think of.
He turned and ran.
Elyon blinked in disbelief as his father, the same man who had summoned fire, lightning, and sonic force in a single fight, sprinted away like a scolded child. Dust kicked up behind him as he vanished behind a row of trees.
Lenea exhaled sharply, shaking her head before turning her gaze on Elyon.
"Honestly," she muttered, lowering the pan. "What am I going to do with that man?"
Elyon, still barely standing, finally let his body give in. He sank to the ground with a long sigh, half-laughing, half-gasping.
He wasn't sure what just happened.
But he was pretty sure he'd remember it forever.