Chapter 16: "How Many Deaths Does It Take to Learn a Lesson?"
(Spoiler: A lot.)
You know those motivational workout posters with quotes like "Pain is just weakness leaving the body"?
Yeah, turns out that's a lie.
Pain is just pain.
And weakness? It sticks around like glitter after a birthday party.
I was starting to realize that training with Asterion was less "feel the burn" and more "feel the slow, excruciating death of your mortal form."
It started off simple enough.
I followed Asterion's instructions—ones that just floated into my brain like he had Bluetooth access to my thoughts.
Basic exercises, he said.
Push-ups, sit-ups, squats, planks.
No big deal, right?
Wrong.
You ever try doing push-ups with twelve extra kilos strapped to your limbs?
It's like playing Jenga, but you're the tower and gravity has a vendetta.
Yesterday I could barely manage ten push-ups without collapsing like a damp noodle.
Today, Asterion decided the "baby mode" setting was no longer acceptable.
"Double it," he said pleasantly in my brain. "Push for twenty."
Sure.
If by "push for twenty" you mean an intense desire to scream into the void.
Sit-ups?
Same story.
My abs were crying.
Actually, crying is too soft a word.
They were screaming.
Planks?
Yesterday I barely survived five seconds.
Today's goal?
Thirty seconds.
WITH. THE. WEIGHTS.
"I couldn't even lift fifteen kilos with both hands yesterday!" I wheezed.
"And today," Asterion replied smoothly, "you'll manage twelve while exercising."
"That's not comforting!"
"It wasn't intended to be."
Of course it wasn't.
Then came the martial arts drills.
I thought we'd start with maybe some basic shadowboxing.
Oh, sweet summer child.
Nope.
Suddenly my body was cycling through more fighting styles than a YouTube kung fu compilation: Boxing, Taekwondo, Judo, Karate, Muay Thai, Baji Quan—which I'm pretty sure only existed in martial arts movies—and then grappling against spiritual apparitions.
That last one really confused the neighbors.
For a full hour I was punching, kicking, flipping, dodging invisible enemies while Asterion kept feeding controlled amounts of energy through my body so I didn't collapse halfway through.
By the time I finally hit the floor, I was sweat-soaked, breathless, and ninety-nine percent convinced my limbs had achieved independent sentience.
I lay sprawled there, staring at the ceiling like it owed me an explanation for this madness.
"I... can't believe I did it for an hour," I muttered.
"Good," Asterion said, and for once he sounded genuinely pleased rather than mildly entertained by my suffering. "Keep improving at this rate, and you'll be able to beat Derek."
My heart actually fluttered.
Beat Derek?
Like, actually win against the human refrigerator who treated bullying like a full-time job?
"How long?"
"Two weeks."
I blinked.
"You're serious?"
"Yes. He's physically stronger than you, has good balance, and he's used to fighting people who hit back. Your technique is already becoming better, but you're slower, your stamina is poor, and you don't follow through properly."
My ego deflated slightly.
Only slightly.
"No problem," I said, forcing confidence into my voice. "I can wait two weeks."
"Originally."
I froze.
Asterion continued.
"But you've shown more resolve than I expected."
That sounded good.
Which meant it was definitely bad.
"So?"
"I'll give you more support."
No.
"We'll have you ready in seven days."
Absolutely not.
"Please take that support and throw it into the ocean."
Asterion chuckled.
"No."
That's when I knew I was doomed.
"There's more training, isn't there?"
"Of course."
He paused.
"That was the warm-up."
I was about to make a sarcastic retort, but then my body betrayed me.
My vision blurred.
Darkness crept in like a dramatic curtain drop.
I passed out.
One hour later
I woke up screaming.
Not from a nightmare, but because my entire existence was in pain.
Every inch of me hurt.
My muscles hurt.
My muscles' muscles hurt.
I sat up like Frankenstein after being hit by a bolt of lightning.
"WHY DOES EVERYTHING HURT?!"
"Good," Asterion said calmly. "You're awake."
I froze.
"Why did you say that like it's good news for you?"
"Because we can continue."
I facepalmed with the last ounce of strength I had.
"Why do I feel like I signed up for the worst gym membership ever?"
"Because unlike a gym, I expect results."
"You know, sometimes I really hate how reasonable you make horrible things sound."
"I've had practice."
I groaned.
Then somehow...
I got up.
I stared at the ceiling one last time and dragged myself off the floor like a sweaty zombie on leg day.
Seven days to beat Derek Holt.
The odds were laughable.
The pain was real.
The training was evil.
But maybe—just maybe—with this crazy ancient cultivator whispering in my skull, I could pull it off.
"...Let's get this over with."
You ever wake up and feel like your spine tried to crawl out of your body and file a restraining order against you?
Yeah.
That was me.
After an hour of what I can only describe as Asterion's Sadistic Fitness Bootcamp—sponsored by pain, sweat, and the crushing realization that "break time" meant blacking out—I expected to at least get a juice box or a sticker.
Instead, I got destiny.
And not the "you'll pass your test tomorrow" kind.
No.
I got world-saving, fate-bending, high-stakes anime-tier destiny.
The afternoon started like usual:
My muscles hurt.
My soul hurt.
And my dignity had packed its bags and moved to Cancun.
I was lying on the floor, trying to remember my name and not cry.
Then Asterion's voice, usually relaxed and occasionally far too amused by my misery, came through differently.
Serious.
Quiet.
"You endured it."
I blinked.
That tone immediately got my attention.
"As such," he continued, "today I'll allow you to experience a small part of my life. What you learn from it will depend on you."
My brain:
Red alert.
A small part of Asterion's life?
The guy barely told me what he ate for breakfast in his own world.
Before I could ask anything, something strange happened.
A warm feeling spread through me.
Not hot.
Not painful.
Just...
Clear.
It was like someone had reached inside my head and washed away layers of grime I hadn't realized were there.
Self-doubt.
Fear.
That constant little voice asking whether I was actually capable of doing any of this.
It didn't disappear completely.
But for a moment, it became quiet.
I breathed in.
"I feel... good."
"You should."
Asterion's voice was steady.
"You're doing well."
That alone almost made me check whether I was hallucinating.
Then he continued.
"And you're going to become far more than you are now."
I went still.
"I've seen enough of your fate to know that."
There it was.
That word again.
Fate.
"You are meant for something greater than school fights and proving yourself to people like Derek."
Look, I've had a lot of people call me a lot of things.
"Loser."
"Mop-head."
"Weirdo."
"Human speed bump."
But no one had ever said that.
And weirdly enough?
I believed him.
"Evan," Asterion continued, and now I could hear the Sect Head beneath the easygoing mentor, "your path leads toward becoming a guardian of this world. Someone who protects people who cannot protect themselves."
I blinked.
"Me?"
No laugh.
No teasing.
Asterion wasn't kidding.
"What kind of hero am I supposed to be?" I asked, suddenly feeling very small and very underqualified.
"That choice will still be yours."
That answer surprised me.
"But if you continue walking this path, there will come a time when people depend on you. You'll have to lead. Protect. Make decisions when every choice costs something."
My stomach dropped like I'd just flunked a math test.
"And sometimes," he continued, "mercy won't solve the problem."
I understood what he meant.
"You mean... kill them?"
"If necessary."
His answer came without hesitation.
"You try first. You give people the chance to change when that chance exists. But if someone intends to slaughter innocents and leaves you only two choices..."
His voice hardened.
"You protect the innocent."
That was the Sect Head speaking now.
Not the man who laughed when I fell into laundry baskets.
Not the mentor who teased me about my arms.
The man who had once led an entire sect.
I swallowed.
This wasn't about beating Derek anymore.
It wasn't about proving I wasn't weak.
It was about something bigger.
Way bigger.
It was about what kind of person—what kind of hero—I was going to become.
"I'm just some high school kid," I muttered. "Are you sure you didn't read the wrong fate?"
Asterion was quiet for half a second.
Then:
"I know what I saw."
Well.
That somehow sounded much worse than I don't make mistakes.
"And with me teaching you," he continued, his voice easing again, "you might even survive long enough to reach it."
I groaned.
There he was.
"Thanks. Really inspiring."
"You're welcome."
Yeah.
No pressure.
But despite the panic spiraling in my brain like a hamster on espresso, a weird thing happened.
My heart—traitor that it is—thudded with something suspiciously like excitement.
Because deep down, buried beneath the fear and uncertainty, something clicked.
Something whispered:
This is right.
This is what you're meant to do.
I sat up slowly, muscles still trembling, mind still reeling.
And I grinned.
"Alright, Asterion. Let's do this."
Then I immediately winced.
"Just… maybe let me stretch first so I don't pull something heroic."
Evan Mercer had been through a lot lately.
Bullies.
Ghosts.
High school drama.
Embarrassing training accidents involving squirrels.
But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for dying as a seven-year-old boy...
Over.
And over.
And over again.
It all started after what he'd privately called The Great Sofa Recovery.
Evan was lying down, soaking in the rare peace after training when Asterion, casually and with the gentleness of a man who considered being beaten unconscious an educational opportunity, said:
"Time for a lesson."
Evan groaned.
"Can it be a verbal lesson this time?"
Asterion smiled.
"No."
Bad sign.
Then two fingers touched Evan's forehead.
And suddenly—
Evan wasn't Evan anymore.
He was small.
Really small.
His hands were thinner.
His clothes were rougher.
His legs were shorter.
And his body—
Weak.
Not Evan after PE class weak.
Actually weak.
The body of a child who had only barely begun learning how to cultivate.
Evan stared at his hands.
"...Asterion?"
His mentor's voice echoed around him.
"This is one of my memories."
Evan froze.
The world formed around him.
A forest.
Not the peaceful kind.
Thick trees pressed together beneath a gray sky. Rainwater clung to the leaves. Mud sucked at his sandals. Somewhere far away, something burned.
Smoke drifted between the trunks.
Asterion continued.
"I was seven."
Evan swallowed.
"Your family?"
"An ordinary cultivator family."
There was no pride in the answer.
No shame either.
Just fact.
"We weren't powerful. We weren't important."
A branch snapped somewhere behind him.
Evan spun around.
Nothing.
Asterion continued.
"Our caravan was attacked while traveling between towns. Two rogue cultivators followed me into the forest."
"Why?"
"I saw their faces."
Oh.
Great.
"They intended to make sure I couldn't tell anyone."
Evan's tiny stomach dropped.
"You survived this?"
"Obviously."
"Right. Stupid question."
Asterion ignored that.
"Two members of my family had followed from a distance. I learned years later that they were prepared to intervene if I was truly about to die."
Evan blinked.
"But you didn't know?"
"No."
Another branch snapped.
Closer.
"So as far as seven-year-old me knew..."
Asterion's voice became quieter.
"I was alone."
The forest suddenly felt much colder.
"Your task is simple."
Evan immediately distrusted the word simple.
"Survive."
"Using what?"
"What I had."
"Which was?"
"A weak body. A little ki. A knife. Wire. Three small flash talismans."
Evan waited.
"...That's it?"
"That's it."
There was movement between the trees.
Two figures.
Adults.
Both carrying blades.
Evan's eyes widened.
"Asterion?"
"Yes?"
"I would like to formally withdraw from the lesson."
"No."
Then the mental world clicked fully into place.
The smell of moss.
Rain.
Smoke.
Footsteps.
And suddenly—
"They're here."
Cue panic.
The first run-through ended in approximately twelve seconds.
Evan ran the wrong way, tripped over a root, screamed something about diplomatic immunity, and took a sword through the chest.
Everything went black.
Then—
Forest.
Rain.
Smoke.
Alive again.
Evan stared forward.
"...I hate this."
"Again."
The second try?
Caught in his own wire trap.
Classic.
Third?
He tried to reason with the rogue cultivators.
"I'm seven! Killing children is generally considered bad!"
One of them punched him into a tree.
Reset.
By the tenth attempt, Evan had been stabbed, strangled, drowned in a creek, poisoned, thrown off a slope, crushed against a tree, and once managed to set his own sleeve on fire with a flash talisman.
It was basically Groundhog Day: Cultivator Edition.
"You're thinking too much about defeating them," Asterion said from somewhere beyond the memory.
"I'm trying not to DIE!"
"Exactly."
Evan, now muddy, exhausted, and wearing half a bush because camouflage had seemed like a good idea five minutes earlier, glared at the sky.
"Helpful!"
"You don't need to beat them."
That made Evan pause.
"You need to survive them."
Evan sat beside a tree, breathing heavily.
"That feels like a very important distinction you could've mentioned nine deaths ago."
"I assumed you'd notice."
"You are a terrible person."
Asterion chuckled.
"Again."
The lesson was brutal.
But little by little, Evan started understanding.
Young Asterion hadn't been stronger than the men hunting him.
Not even close.
He hadn't possessed some secret legendary technique.
He hadn't been the strongest child of an ancient clan.
He'd been seven.
Scared.
Weak.
And desperate to live.
So he'd used everything.
Mud to hide his tracks.
Loose stones on a slope.
Wire between trees.
A flash talisman reflected through wet leaves.
A false trail through the creek.
A cloak stuffed with branches and left where one of the men would see it.
Every failure taught Evan something.
Where they looked.
How they moved.
How quickly they reacted.
Which one was impatient.
Which one always watched the ground.
And more importantly—
What fear did to his own thinking.
At first, fear controlled him.
Then he started using it.
Every time the world reset, the footsteps returned.
Every time, Evan's heart started hammering.
But eventually, he stopped wishing the fear would disappear.
He let it sharpen him.
On the twenty-seventh attempt—
Evan moved.
He deliberately left footprints near the creek.
One cultivator followed.
Wrong choice.
A wire snapped tight around the man's ankle.
He fell.
Evan triggered a flash talisman directly beside him.
White light exploded through the trees.
The second attacker charged toward the sound.
Evan was already moving.
He slid beneath a fallen trunk, pulled another wire, and sent a stack of loose branches and stones crashing into the path behind him.
Not enough to defeat anyone.
Enough to slow them.
Enough to survive.
He ran.
His lungs burned.
His little legs screamed.
A blade sliced his cheek.
He kept running.
Then—
Silence.
Evan stumbled into a clearing.
No footsteps.
No blades.
No one behind him.
He had done it.
He had survived.
For several seconds, Evan just stood there.
Small body trembling.
Blood running down his cheek.
Hands shaking so badly he could barely close them.
Then the memory began fading.
Asterion's voice came quietly.
"Now you understand."
Evan dropped to his knees.
Panting.
Shaking.
Still riding an absurd amount of adrenaline.
"That was..."
He swallowed.
"That was insane."
Asterion didn't laugh this time.
"No."
His voice was distant for a moment.
"It was my childhood."
Evan went silent.