Chapter 23: The First Step
Two days had passed.
I stood alone in the garden behind our house, drenched in sweat under the late morning sun. The ground beneath my bare feet was warm and cracked from the relentless summer heat. My upper body gleamed with a layer of perspiration, the muscles beneath tight and sore from hours of relentless training.
In my hands, I held Ashratal—my soul weapon, the halberd of rough grace and violent elegance. Its handle, three meters long, had a rugged texture that bit into my palm, grounding me. At one end was a wickedly curved axe-head, sharp as a scythe, honed for cleaving. At the other end, a second spear tip mirrored the first—long, slender, and deadly. The twin spear ends added to its complexity. It was not just a weapon—it was an extension of me.
Thrust. Slash. Pierce.
Three simple movements, the foundation of spear combat. But their simplicity was deceptive. The spear was difficult not because it was hard to use, but because it was too easy to use incorrectly. Mistakes weren't immediately obvious—they revealed themselves only when it was too late.
For two days I had trained without rest, learning the weapon's balance, feel, weight, and mood. It was strange to think a weapon could have temperament, but Ashratal felt alive when mana surged through it.
Now it fit perfectly in my hands. Almost as if it had always been waiting for me.
I'd researched Soul Weapons in my rare moments of rest. They were still shrouded in mystery. Only a handful of cases had been recorded—some in the West, fewer in the East. Most dismissed them as myths or exaggerated awakenings. But Father had once told me about a Rajput family in western India, descendants of dagger-wielding hunters whose soul weapons manifested only once every few generations.
And to my surprise, the girl I had met at the academy transfer party—yes, that beautiful, enigmatic girl—turned out to be a princess from that very lineage. I'd found out after a photo from the party resurfaced and I asked my father about her. That conversation spiraled into a tale about her family, whose leader was a century-old Saint bonded to a forgotten constellation.
A princess, huh? That complicated things.
I shook the thought away and focused on the present.
Ashratal.
I began to move.
My feet shifted into the basic spear stance. I pivoted, thrust, slashed, and twirled. Over and over. The routine burned into my muscles like scripture carved in flesh. No style. No form. Just instinct and refinement. I wasn't bound by any weapon school—I was creating one of my own.
Eight hours of repetition had brought me to a clarity I'd never felt before.
I exhaled and began infusing mana into the halberd.
The energy flowed effortlessly, as if it recognized its rightful conduit. With a surge of focus, I layered the mana into the weapon's frame. A violet hue bled across the shaft and blades, wrapping Ashratal in a shimmering aura.
One of its unique properties became clear in those moments—the weapon could slightly extend itself when imbued with mana. The shaft flexed subtly, and the head became sharper. It adapted, responded.
Then I tried something new.
I closed my eyes and began to rotate the halberd, building rotational force—drawing mana into its motion like a cyclone. My arms moved on instinct, wrists flicking, shoulders angling. I twirled the weapon, faster and faster, until I reached the critical moment.
I pivoted on my heel and slashed.
A crescent of violet energy erupted from Ashratal's blade and carved through the sky.
It rose higher and higher before fading into the blue.
"Well... that'll handle most Rank 1 monsters," a voice drawled from behind.
I turned. Raj was standing in the doorway, arms folded, leaning lazily against the wooden panel.
His smirk carried the usual arrogance but was tinged with approval.
"Wasn't sure you had it in you," he added, walking forward. "Not bad, little brother. Not bad at all."
"Thanks," I muttered.
"That technique... what do you call it?"
"I don't," I replied. "I'm just experimenting."
Raj raised an eyebrow. "Keep experimenting. But don't forget to anchor your style. It's easier to innovate when you have a foundation."
I nodded, gripping the halberd tighter.
Over the past two days, things had moved quickly. Father had assigned me dungeons on Mondays and Wednesdays. I hadn't told him about the Monkey Saint's visit, but I had a feeling he already knew. Somehow, the man always knew.
He also asked if I wanted a team.
I refused.
I wanted to stand alone. Be supreme alone.
So, the dungeon assignments were tailored for solo clearing. Meanwhile, Saturdays and Sundays were dedicated to training with Raj—mana handling, body conditioning, technique refinement. After a point, the sheer number of terminologies made my brain feel like it was boiling.
Last night, the Monkey Saint paid another visit.
He handed me a schedule—two dungeons a week for four weeks .
Tuesday and Friday.
That meant eight in total.
I will run four dungeons a week . Well that certainly make me busy.
I smirked. Either Father and the Monkey Saint were in direct communication, or they were telepathic. Probably both.
Rank 1 dungeons could fetch anywhere between 5,000 to 10,000 constellation coins depending on monster materials and mana quality. Four runs a week? Potentially 20,000 to 40,000 coins.
My expenses weren't small either.
Transportation, handling fees, potion use, and dungeon material management could cost 3,000 to 7,000 per trip. And I had to cover it all myself.
They were both adamant about that.
"Responsibility builds discipline," Father had said.
My secret stash, which I'd built painstakingly over the past year, had already been drained by an auction fiasco and a failed resource gathering attempt. The remaining materials were locked safely in the basement—a vault of potential, waiting to be turned into elixirs.
Another thing to add to the ever-growing list.
"Today's Monday," Raj said, clapping his hands once. "Ready for your first dungeon?"
I nodded slowly.
I looked at Ashratal.
I looked at my hands.
And then I looked at the sky.
This was the beginning of everything.
"I'm ready."