Chapter Eleven: Acceleration
The forest clearing was quiet.
Dead quiet.
Monroe stood in the center of it, coat fluttering gently from the breeze. Black, spotless, not a wrinkle in sight. His dark purple hair caught the sunlight filtering through the trees. His eyes—deep amethyst—were unreadable as always.
Around him, five craters scarred the ground. Shallow, but wide—impact zones. At the center of each, a person lay groaning, motionless or unconscious. Scorched clothing, broken weapons, cracked armor.
He wasn't even bruised.
Monroe raised a hand to brush some dirt from his coat, then let out a long, slow sigh.
"…So it's starting."
He glanced down at the nearest body, a man with a burned crest stitched onto his cloak.
"I guess I'll have to rush things a bit."
He turned on his heel and walked away—calm, no urgency in his steps.
---
By the time he reached the inn, the sun was already beginning to lower. He stepped through the front door, went upstairs, and opened the room with his usual half-lazy push.
Eli was on the floor doing core work—legs raised, arms extended. Sweat dripped down his brow.
"You're back early," Eli said between breaths.
"Got bored," Monroe replied. "Also, change of plans."
Eli sat up. "What kind of change?"
Monroe folded his coat over a chair and looked down at him.
"We're accelerating your training."
Eli blinked. "…Because?"
"Because I said so."
"Right."
Monroe walked over to the table, opened a bottle of water, and tossed it to Eli.
"You'll need to master your Soul Trait."
Eli caught the bottle mid-air. "I thought that'd come naturally."
Monroe gave a short shrug. "That's the plan. We're just speeding it up."
---
[Training Dojo – 15 minutes later]
They stood across from each other inside a rented dojo—wooden floors, high ceiling, no windows. The air was still. A few training weapons lined the wall, but Eli stuck to his own staff.
Monroe had nothing in his hands. Again.
"You're using your Soul Energy this time, right?" Eli asked.
"Yes. Are you?"
"Trying to."
"Then try harder."
Monroe snapped forward before Eli could blink.
Eli barely blocked the first hit—a palm strike aimed at his chest—using the base of his staff. The impact sent him sliding back two full steps.
"Your stance is off again," Monroe said.
"I had a stance."
"Had. Past tense. You lost it when you moved."
Eli gritted his teeth and rushed in. This time, he led with a spinning strike, shifting Soul Energy into his arms and legs to speed up his motions. His staff moved faster than it had all week.
But Monroe ducked under it, stepped in, and tapped Eli's shoulder with a single finger. That tap made his entire upper body twist awkwardly.
"Stop swinging with your arms. Use your hips. Your core. You're wasting energy."
Eli recovered and swung low. A sweep to knock Monroe off his feet.
Monroe stepped over the sweep like he was stepping over a puddle.
Then elbowed Eli lightly in the side, causing him to drop the staff altogether.
Eli groaned, backing away.
"You're thinking like a copyist," Monroe said, hands still at his sides. "Technique alone doesn't make you strong. Your body has to catch up. That means training your base—legs, core, breath."
"I know," Eli muttered.
"No, you say you know," Monroe corrected, walking toward him again. "But your movements say you don't."
He came in again, and this time, Eli didn't think. He let his body react—dodged the first strike, blocked the second, and countered with a sharp jab.
It hit Monroe's shoulder.
But Monroe didn't flinch. He reached out, grabbed the staff mid-swing, and yanked it forward. Eli stumbled straight into his waiting foot.
A soft kick to the shin.
Eli dropped.
"You're not bad," Monroe said, finally stepping back.
"That's the nicest thing you've said all week."
"I'm feeling generous."
Monroe offered a hand. Eli took it, pulled himself back up.
"Tomorrow," Monroe said, "you'll start solo training alongside sparring. Muscle control. Energy channeling. Less reaction, more intent."
"You ever gonna use your Soul Trait?" Eli asked, half-joking.
Monroe smirked. "Why? You want to lose even faster?"
Eli groaned. "Please don't."
"Then don't ask."
---
[Back in Elmsworth – That Same Evening]
Garrick Morgan—Eli's father—stood alone in the sitting room of their home. The oil lamp on the table flickered quietly. He held a sealed silver envelope in one hand, his fingers slowly tightening around it.
He'd already read the contents once.
He didn't need to read it again.
There were no tears. No curses. Just a firm silence.
After a moment, he stepped over to the nearby candleholder.
He held the edge of the envelope over the flame.
The paper caught quickly. Black curled in on silver. Flames licked up the writing and devoured it within seconds.
He dropped the ashes into the small metal tray beside the holder.
Then he stood there a moment longer, watching the last bits fade into smoke.