The topic carried a faint sadness. Ritchie felt little for his classmates, save for Isabella. Half were thugs, the rest kept to themselves.
He realized he had no room to judge. He'd been just as detached.
"Mom, what school did you go to?" he asked casually.
"Same as Grace and Katherine," she said.
Ritchie choked, chest tight. That boarding school, so familiar from Katherine's tales… Knowing his mom went there, endured that education, left him speechless.
"Headache. Going to my room," he muttered, retreating to the attic.
As he shut the door, raucous laughter erupted behind him.
He had no words for these women.
He'd come back early not just to dodge trouble but to process the stolen life energy.
Running his fighting aura through a dozen cycles, the wine-like energy began to meld with his own. Over time, it would fully integrate, becoming his.
Fighting aura training had limits—not effort, but cycles. His method allowed twenty daily cycles at most.
But he stopped short of his limit. After all, he practiced two distinct techniques.
Since Marilyn told him techniques shape personality, Ritchie shifted his focus from aggressive fighting aura to a defensive heavy knight technique. It was steady, grand, and slow-growing, but its aura was smoothed of sharp edges, harmless, allowing constant circulation without strain.
After a week, he found a perfect combo. His main technique stole life energy, but it harmed both user and target. His secondary technique polished those jagged edges.
His hands traced semicircles, aura cycling in a fixed path. Initially wild and fast, it grew sluggish with each loop, becoming thicker, steadier.
Unconsciously, faint light seeped from his hands, a slow, barely noticeable airflow swirling around him.
The next morning, Ritchie woke feeling awful: head aching, heart pounding, and a bad premonition. Those three women might not dare confront Lina but could easily target him.
He dreaded the camp but had no choice.
Arriving, he was about to beg Diana for a break when the three women sauntered over, their gaits odd.
"Meet the new sisters: Elise, Elaine, Emma. You're… acquainted," Diana teased.
Ritchie forced a smile, greeting them. He knew them very intimately.
Their cold smirks and fierce glares screamed trouble. Cold sweat drenched him.
"Training this apprentice must be tough," Elise said to Diana, eyeing Ritchie up and down.
Their intent was obvious. Diana glanced at her apprentice, amused. He'd had his fun yesterday; now he'd pay for team unity. Even she thought he deserved a lesson.
"Let us train him. You can rest," Elaine chimed in.
Emma bent down, locking eyes with Ritchie. "Don't worry, no private punishment. Just… thorough training."
Diana shrugged at Ritchie, feigning helplessness. "Don't blame me, kid. I'm outranked."
Patting Elise's shoulder, she added, "He's yours. Don't cripple or kill him."
Ritchie felt like vomiting blood. As long as he wasn't maimed or dead, the sisters could do anything.
What kind of cruel master was this?
Ritchie scanned for allies, but Lina pretended not to see him, Rosa grinned eagerly for the show, and Robin's eyes gleamed, relishing his misfortune.
...
Glaslovar's winter was brutally cold, the frozen ground hard as steel.
Unable to stay in the vehicle, Ritchie stepped out, wrapped in a thick blanket. The biting wind still pierced through.
He was freezing and hungry. Food was rationed, leaving him half-full most days.
Ten meters behind him stood three vehicles, each a meter high, two meters wide, over four meters long, with six wide wheels. A single driver used a right-side lever to steer.
Powered by a magical device similar to a battle armor's energy core, they consumed far fewer crystal nuclei and could traverse most terrains.
He was 150 kilometers from Glaslovar. Not far, but off the main roads. Walking back would take four or five days.
Despite the bone-chilling cold and knifelike wind, he didn't want to return to the vehicle.
The farther from those three sisters, the safer he felt.
Recalling the past month, Ritchie shuddered. It was hell.
He actually would've preferred a straightforward beating.
Each morning, he ran through the city in a fully weighted armor, chased by the sisters after two minutes. They called this "combat training."
After breakfast, he sparred with them using sticks, like with Diana, but their blows were far harsher, three sticks pummeling him at once.
Afternoons, in the training armor, they forced him into bizarre drills: crawling through fire hoops, walking tightropes, even pole-dancing around a pillar. Crowds watched, treating him like a clown.
Footsteps approached. Ritchie spun, reflex kicking in. The sisters often ambushed him, claiming it sharpened his alertness.
"Not bad!" Diana said, stepping forward. "I'm half-tempted to let those sisters replace me as your master."
"Not funny," Ritchie muttered, shaking his head.
"Joking?" Diana sauntered closer, her left hand darting toward him.
Instinctively, Ritchie ducked, leaned back, left arm guarding his chest, right hand shielding his abdomen and groin.
"See? Results," Diana said, her hand stopping short. "Haven't you noticed? In one month, your strength's skyrocketed. Even we, who knew you, are shocked."
Ritchie smirked inwardly. He knew why. The sisters' brutal training helped, but the real boost came from stealing their life energy during sex.
"You know," Diana said softly, "without this hellish month, this mission might've been a death sentence."
"Just a routine patrol, right?" Ritchie asked, heart racing. If patrols were this deadly, knighthood was too dangerous.
"If nothing was up, we wouldn't be patrolling," Diana said softly. "They haven't said anything, but I sense trouble. Everyone else feels it too, except you."
She sighed, knowing rookies died most in war, often on their first mission.
"The captain says you stick with the quartermaster from now on. Follow her orders, protect her," Diana said gravely.
"Yes, ma'am," Ritchie replied, standing straight.
He felt grateful. This wasn't just an order, but protection. Quartermasters were always heavily guarded, like hiding in a vault.
"One more thing, off the record," Diana whispered. "If things go south, you're allowed to retreat."
Ritchie blinked, realizing she meant he could flee.
It was comforting, but it stung, like they all saw him as a coward.
Diana smiled faintly. "That's all you need to know. I'm heading back to the vehicle."
Seeing his unease, she added, "You can go back too. The sisters might scare you, but they know their limits. They won't touch you during a mission."
"Really?" Ritchie trusted his master but was wary of those terrifying sisters.
"Ask them yourself," Diana teased, knowing he'd rather flee than face them.
Despite his nerves, Ritchie returned to the vehicle. It was warmer, shielded from the wind, and crowded enough to raise the temperature.
His training armor was there too. If the cold got unbearable, he could climb inside.
As an apprentice, he had no real battle armor, just a modified training one. After the mission was assigned, Quartermaster Randy had upgraded it as much as possible.
It was no longer a mere skeleton but fully humanoid.