Fwsh—
Another swing came flying toward Icariel. He ducked just in time, barely avoiding the wooden branch slicing through the air.
Fwsh. Fwsh. Fwsh. Fwsh.
Countless strikes rained down like a storm. Aelar stood rooted in place, moving only his right arm, swinging the branch so fast it blurred—yet Icariel could hardly dodge a single blow. Cuts streaked across his face, arms, and shoulders. The clothes Elena gave him were already in shreds, stained with fresh blood.
"Shit," Icariel muttered, teeth clenched. The blows kept coming—fast, relentless. "How am I supposed to dodge all this and still heal?"
Then the voice returned—sharp and impatient.
"What are you doing?" it said. "Use your training. Use the way I taught you to cast. You're in a scenario now—even if it's just training, your blood is still being spilled. Attack. Dodge. Defend. Do everything you've learned. Do what you can. Then, when there's nothing left, panic. That's how you'll trigger the spell mid-battle. That's how you'll learn."
"Tch…" Icariel clenched his jaw. "Easier said than done…"
Another horizontal swing tore toward him.
"What are you doing?" Aelar barked mid-swing. "That's the twelfth time you've 'died' today!"
"Fine," Icariel hissed. "Let's go, then."
He reached into his core—not a circle, not a center—but his entire body of mana. He shaped a spell in his hand. A massive flame ignited in his palm—huge in size but weak in intensity, just one of his flame spells he had imprinted.
Aelar's eyes flicked to it, sharp with sudden interest. "A fire spell that big… cast that fast?"
Without hesitation, Icariel hurled the fireball toward the Warleader.
Aelar's eyes narrowed. "Didn't even see it coming," he muttered. "Elif was right then… that casting speed… it's not normal."
But then he frowned. "A fire that big will hit the trees. Do you not care about your surroundings?"
Aelar leapt, raising the branch to split the flame in two with a vertical strike—but fwsh! A wind slash spell appeared from the side, cutting through the air toward him.
"You think that would work on me?" he muttered, preparing to absorb or dodge it—until—
Fwsh!
Another horizontal wind slash collided with the first midair—canceling both out, just like he had trained.
Aelar's eyes widened a fraction.
"…He used one spell to cancel the other?"
Icariel sucked in a ragged breath. "Just... like I practiced."
Aelar watched him, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. Calculation, maybe. Respect. Or challenge.
"He's thinking like a mage who's been in combat," Aelar muttered. "But if he's that confident already…"He stepped forward, muscles tensing. "Then I should remind him who's still the teacher."
But he was already a heartbeat too late.
The fireball—huge in shape—burst against the grass floor. It lit up the area, grazing glass tiles and licking tree bark. But it didn't burn. The appearance had been all for show.
Aelar, midair, twisted his body and landed on a branch behind Icariel. In a blink, he was back—silent as a shadow, the tip of the wooden branch now at the boy's throat.
"…Hey," Aelar said, smiling. "You're more impressive than I thought."
"I figured you were just reckless. That fire spell earlier? I thought you'd lost control. But it had no real intensity—just a flashy shell. You baited me."
He gave Icariel a pointed look. "You told me you didn't know combat. What you meant was hand-to-hand, right? Because what you pulled off just now? That kind of casting speed… it'd roast a normal fighter. Maybe even a low-rank mage."
Whack!
The branch struck Icariel's head with a loud whack.
"But didn't I tell you to practice healing while moving?"
Icariel rubbed his head, blood still trickling from the small cuts on his face and arms.
"I did what I could! I didn't want to get too many wounds, so I treated it like an actual battle and tried to use the spell from mid-range. Is… is that wrong?"
Aelar looked at him for a moment—then smirked.
"No. That's exactly what you should be doing."
Whack!
Another strike landed, a little lighter this time.
"But keep doing it. Think faster. Adapt harder. Because if this were real?" He stepped back, lowering the staff. "You'd have died a hundred times already."
Aelar raised the branch once more, unwavering. "Again."
From the window of the Warleader's house, Elif watched them under the fading dusk light. Her small fingers gripped the edge of the frame as she sighed softly.
"Father's being way too hard on him…" she murmured. "How much more can Icariel take?"
But outside, they kept going.
Icariel kept attacking, dodging, casting what he'd learned—but still couldn't use healing mid-combat. The day faded into night. They only paused briefly to eat some jeprak before going again, now bathed in moonlight. Icariel's body was a map of shallow cuts. His clothes, once new, were in tatters. But he didn't stop.
Elif still stood by the window when Elena approached.
"They're still going?" Elena asked.
"Yes," Elif said quietly.
Out in the clearing, Aelar stood tall, his gaze sharp as ever. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, but his posture was relaxed, almost casual.
"You've got good stamina," he muttered. "Alright—last spar for today. I want everything you've got left."
But Icariel was frustrated. Exhausted. Dissatisfied.
"I haven't improved at all... It's not working. I can't do it. I can't—"
"Shit. Shit. SHIT!" he roared, and then dashed toward Aelar, who still held the branch—the same one that had beaten him all day.
"I'm done worrying about the damn surroundings, Aelar!"
Aelar blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Wait—what?"
"Flame Spear," Icariel whispered.
A massive spear of flame formed in his hand—its tip glowing red-hot, its shaft steaming. The moment he gripped it, his skin began to burn.
Foom!
He hurled it with everything he had.
Aelar's eyes widened. "That heat—"
He couldn't dodge. If the spear struck the forest, it would ignite everything. He couldn't deflect it either—the searing heat of the spell would overwhelm the simple branch he held. Gritting his teeth, Aelar raised his left hand.
BOOM!
The flame spear struck his open palm, burning straight into it.
"Intense…" he muttered, feeling the searing pain.
But Icariel was already standing a few paces away.
"Flame Spear."
Foom!
Another spear hurled through the air, hitting Aelar's same hand. More flames. More burns.
"Flame Spear!"
Foom!
Again. Another hit.
Each time, Icariel hands burned more—both from holding the spear and from the spell's residual heat. His body trembled. His skin blistered.
Icariel fell to his knees, panting, his entire body steaming. A final spear of flame floated above his hand, but his hand didn't have the strength to throw it .
"Hah… I'm finished…"
Then Aelar approached, branch still in hand, though his grip was loose. The other hand—the one that had caught all three spears—was a mass of scorched, blackened skin.
But as he stepped forward, Icariel saw something strange—the burns on Aelar's hand were slowly healing, skin knitting together as if the damage had never been there.
"Healing magic."
Bam!
He tapped Icariel lightly on the head.
"Not bad, that Flame Spear of yours. Dangerous. Clever. And fast."
But Icariel wasn't looking at him anymore.His tired eyes were fixated on Aelar's palm—on the way the healing spell activated.
"…So that's how it works," he muttered, vision flickering.
His knees buckled first—then the world tilted. The heat of his own spells clung to him, warping the air as his vision tunneled. The last thing he saw was Aelar's healing magic knitting flesh—green light seared behind his eyelids as the ground rushed up to meet him.
But in that moment—he had seen it. Not just the healing. Not just the green light. But the exact movement of mana inside Aelar's hand, responding to will. And something about his forever-enhanced vision from White Sense… had shifted again.
Something fundamental had changed.
Icariel had fainted.
Aelar stood above him for a moment, branch still in hand. Then, with a soft sigh, he bent down and cast a healing spell. Warm green light spread across the boy's torn body, sealing every cut, calming the bruises, restoring his strength.
In mere seconds, the wounds were gone.
With ease, Aelar lifted the unconscious Icariel in his arms and carried him back into the house.
It was already late. Elena was sitting near the hearth with Elif.
"You're still awake?" Aelar asked as Elena approached.
"Yeah," Elena said, her voice teasing. "You were making too much noise. But… I have to admit, it was nice seeing you so happy. Teaching someone again."
Aelar let out a short laugh, quiet and deep. "Hah."
Elif folded her arms and raised a brow. "Father, you never trained me like that."
"Of course not," he replied instantly. "How could I hurt you my princess like I do to Icariel?"
She rolled her eyes, giving him a playful scowl. "Tch. Always Daddy's little princess, right?"
"Always," Aelar said with a smirk, unashamed.
"Elena, is the room ready?" he asked, glancing toward the hallway. "I need to lay him down. He needs to rest before training starts again tomorrow."
"It's ready," Elena nodded, standing up.
Aelar moved through the hall and into the guest room. Gently, he lowered Icariel onto the bed, then covered him with a clean white cloth. The boy, once a beaten mess of blood and bruises, now looked peaceful—a stark contrast to how he had been just moments ago.
Aelar paused, watching the rise and fall of Icariel's chest.
He stood for a moment longer, then turned and began walking toward the door.
"Hah," he muttered under his breath. "Elif even asked why I never trained her like I trained him."
He paused in the doorway, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips.
"I don't think she would have endured getting hit by me like that and not cried," he added quietly, and closed the door behind him.