Chapter 8: Silent Resolve

  The afternoon light softened into golden hues as Eryan sat alone beneath the old oak tree, his grandfather having gone inside for a rest. The conversation still echoed in his mind—Level 9, the starting line of true warriors, and beyond that, heights he could only imagine

  His thoughts drifted to the secret nestled deep within his heart—the Dao Fruit. It had granted him immortality, a gift beyond measure. But immortality didn’t change his talent or potential.His talent remained the same as his father’s and Darian’s—at best, he could hope to reach Level 9, the entry point of the warrior path. It would take time, perhaps years, but time was the one thing he had in abundance. With relentless hard work, he believed he’d get there.

  As he entered their modest home, the familiar creak of the wooden floor welcomed him. His grandfather sat by the hearth, the faint aroma of dried herbs still lingering around him. Eryan approached, masking his determination with casual curiosity.

  "Grandpa," he began, his voice light but hiding a deeper intent, "at what age do people start formal militia training?"

  His grandfather stroked his graying beard thoughtfully. "Militia training starts at eight. By then, a boy’s strong enough to handle real exercises, learn discipline, and start shaping his body for the hardships ahead."

  Eryan nodded, feigning simple interest, but in his heart, a silent resolve took root. I’ll start preparing on my own until then. His small hands clenched slightly, unnoticed by his grandfather.

  The conversation drifted to tales of the past—stories of village hunts, the times when Eryan’s father served as part of the militia, his strength admired even though he never crossed the threshold to become a Level 9 warrior. So close, yet not enough. That thought lingered in Eryan’s mind like a shadow, fueling his quiet determination because he knew without immortality he will be no different from his father.

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  As evening crept in, casting long golden streaks across the sky, the door creaked open. His father and Darian returned, the scent of the forest clinging to them. They’d been tracking a deer since morning, though by the looks of their empty hands, luck hadn’t favored them today.

  Darian, eight years old and full of energy, recounted their adventure with excitement, his face lighting up with every exaggerated detail. Their eldest brother.

  Dinner was simple but hearty—stewed vegetables, coarse bread, and a bit of dried meat. The family gathered around, the flickering lantern casting warm glows on their faces.

  The conversation drifted to village gossip, small quarrels, and daily happenings. Eryan listened, more attentive than he seemed, his mind always ticking beneath the surface.

  At last, his father chuckled softly. "Did you hear? Old Bartos’ son is getting married soon."

  "Bartos? The fat butcher?" Darian grinned, his face bright with amusement. "I thought his son, Joran, was too busy chasing chickens to think about marriage."

  Laughter filled the room, easy and comforting. Then his mother glanced at Aldric, her smile softening into something thoughtful. "Our Aldric will be of marriageable age soon too."

  His father nodded, not saying much, but his eyes reflected the same thought.

  Eryan smiled with them, his heart warm yet steeled with a purpose only he knew.

  Time, patience, and effort. That’s all I need.

  After dinner, the warmth of family chatter lingered in Eryan’s heart as he quietly retreated to his small room. The dim light from a clay lamp flickered against the rough wooden walls, casting long shadows that danced with the breeze slipping through the cracks. The familiar creak of the floorboards under his feet felt like a quiet rhythm to his thoughts.

  He sat on the edge of his simple straw-filled mattress, staring at the small window that framed the darkening sky. The stars were beginning to prick through the veil of dusk, distant and cold, yet somehow comforting. Time… that’s what I have. Time and hard work.

  His mind raced with plans. If militia training officially began at eight, he had over two years to prepare. That was more than enough if he remained disciplined. I won’t waste a single day.

  He decided to start with the basics—building strength and endurance. His father often mentioned how militia training focused heavily on stamina, the ability to move swiftly, carry weight, and withstand exhaustion. If I can master that now, I’ll be ahead before training even starts.

  Tomorrow, he’d rise early, before the village stirred. There was a small clearing near the old oak grove just beyond the fields—a quiet place where few people wandered, perfect for training without drawing attention. He’d start with simple exercises: running to build his lungs, climbing trees to strengthen his arms and legs, and lifting stones to harden his grip.

  I’ll create my own routine. He mapped it out in his mind—run to the grove, climb the tallest oak, practice squats and push-ups, then carry stones back and forth until his arms trembled. Every day, he’d push a little harder.

  Lying back on his thin mattress, Eryan stared at the wooden beams above. The silence of the house settled around him, broken only by the faint crackle of the dying hearth in the next room. His body felt heavy with the day’s weight, but his heart was light, filled with purpose.

  I may not have great talent, but I have time. And I have will.

  With that final thought, he closed his eyes. Sleep came slowly, wrapped in quiet determination and the faint whisper of dreams shaped by ambition.