Capítulo 8: Chapter 8 (Breakthrough)
979 AN (Age 7)
Xin Zhao stood with arms crossed, his sharp gaze tracking my every movement. I balanced precariously on a single leg atop a taut rope, a wooden spear held steady in my hands. The exercise was meant to challenge balance and control—one of many grueling tasks Xin Zhao devised to push me beyond my limits.
"Control your breathing, Alexander," he commanded, his tone firm but carrying a faint note of approval. "You're rushing the movements."
I nodded slightly, adjusting my breathing to a measured rhythm. Each inhale and exhale steadied my stance, bringing a sense of flow to my actions. Xin Zhao noticed the change, though his expression remained stoic.
No matter how well I performed, he always found ways to escalate the difficulty. Today was no different.
"Next step," he announced, tossing me a blindfold.
'Of course.'
From the sidelines, Prince Jarvan watched with quiet curiosity. At the same age as me, his days were consumed by lessons in politics and leadership. Yet, he often found his way to these sessions, drawn by something in the way I approached challenges.
He occasionally attempted some exercises himself, but today, he observed from a distance. His eyes followed every move I made, a mix of fascination and determination flickering in his gaze.
I climbed back onto the rope, securing the spear and ensuring my footing was solid. With a steadying breath, I tied the blindfold over my eyes. The world plunged into darkness, leaving me with only my instincts and training.
I felt Xin Zhao's presence, his silent expectation pressing down like a tangible force—Xin Zhao moved without warning.
Thwack.
The first strike hit my side. Not hard enough to injure, but enough to shift my footing.
"Focus," Xin Zhao's voice cut through the air.
A second strike came, this time to my shoulder. The rope wobbled beneath me, forcing a quick adjustment to avoid falling.
I inhaled deeply, centering myself. The next strike wouldn't land.
A faint whisper of air—just ahead.
'Now.'
I raised the spear, intercepting Xin Zhao's attack in a sharp, precise motion. The wood clashed, vibrating in my grip.
"Good." he muttered, stepping back.
The approval was subtle, but I felt it. His training wasn't just about strength—it was about honing further adaptability. Precision. Mastery. He never accepted mediocrity. Neither did I.
"Like Achilles and Chiron." I murmured under my breath, recalling the legendary trainer of heroes from Greek mythology. Unsurprisingly, no one understood the reference.
Prince Jarvan, leaning forward, seemed entranced by the scene. I could sense his resolve growing. One day, he would join these exercises, driven by a need to measure himself against me.
But for now, the challenge belonged to me. And I wouldn't falter.
. . .
. . .
Months Later
The success of the healing gel had exceeded all expectations. Its commercialization had been a triumph, filling my coffers with more than enough to fund new ventures. Most of those earnings were now invested in a new project:
Military rations.
While other, more potent magical remedies existed, they were prohibitively expensive—accessible only to the nobility, especially in Demacia. The healing gel, though less potent, was affordable and effective for the masses. It filled a gap that no one else had thought to bridge.
As I stood watching the construction of a new facility—on land granted by the king himself—I couldn't help but smile. The foundations were taking shape, the steady rhythm of hammers and the shuffle of workers moving materials filling the air. This site would be crucial, allowing for large-scale production of both the healing gel and the military rations.
"Progress," I murmured aloud, folding my arms. "Knowledge truly is a power. Money, once a major hurdle, is no longer an issue. At least for now."
A voice interrupted my thoughts.
"You're growing too fast kid." Said Noah, a broad-shouldered man approaching, wiping sweat from his brow. We'd met months ago when the first discussions about the facility began. "Must be all that hard work."
"First the gel, now military rations? You planning to feed all of Demacia?"
I chuckled. "Not quite."
Noah nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Smart. Soldiers on the move need supplies they can trust. If you pull this off, you'll have more than gold—you'll have influence."
"Exactly," I replied, my gaze fixed on the construction site. "It's not just about feeding them. It's about creating something reliable. Simple to store, easy to transport, and effective when it matters."
Noah whistled. "Ambitious. But I've learned not to doubt your luck."
"That's wise," I said with a smirk, glancing at him. "Though luck often disguises itself as hard work."
"Fair enough," he gave me a quick nod. "I'll get back to it then. We'll keep things moving."
I watched him walk off, his voice already booming orders to the crew.
'The gel's success gave me the momentum to push this project forward. There's more I want to introduce, but for now, focus is key—strengthening myself. Major events are on the horizon, and I'm far from ready. With enough preparation I can reap the rewards.'
I let the satisfaction of the moment wash over me, taking in the sight of the rising facility. Then, with a deep breath, I turned my attention to the next step.
"Time to prepare."
. . .
The streets of Demacia buzzed with life. Merchants shouted their wares, children darted between stalls, and the air was filled with the scent of freshly baked bread and spices. As I walked through the crowded marketplace, I let my senses expand, searching for something beyond the mundane.
Magical energy.
"One in ten," I murmured to myself, sensing the faint auras around some people. "That's the rarity, at least here in the capital, during this time."
I was hunting for something specific. Abilities.
Over the past few months, I had tested countless techniques from books, only to uncover a frustrating truth: Demacia's understanding of magic was abysmal. The texts didn't align with what I felt when I tapped into mana. The world's energy was vast and nuanced—far beyond the rigid theories the books offered.
'Sylas could steal abilities with a touch, effortlessly. Even if temporary.' I clenched my fists. 'But for me, it's different. The same methods don't work.'
Lost in thought, I perched on a set of stone steps, watching the ebb and flow of the huge crowd. Then, I felt it—something different. A warmth that cut through the noise and chaos. Positive. Radiant. Alive.
My senses sharpened, sweeping the area until I found the source.
A girl.
She stood not far from me, her presence almost luminous. Her wavy, chestnut hair fell gracefully to her shoulders, framing a face marked by determination. Green eyes sparkled with purpose, far too intense for someone so young. Her sun-kissed skin contrasted with the simplicity of her attire—a modest dress, clean and unassuming. She moved with quiet purpose, blending into the crowd but radiating a quiet strength.
'Ten years old, maybe?'
Intrigued, I followed her. She navigated the city with a practiced caution, slipping into alleyways and side streets. Her movements were deliberate, careful. She knew the risks of exposing her abilities.
For hours, I trailed her from a distance, employing every stealth technique I knew. It didn't take long to understand her pattern: she was a healer.
Scarlett. That's what someone called her. She treated the poor, offering her magic freely and refusing any form of payment—except for silence. She understood the stakes.
'Interesting.'
Her magic wasn't just powerful; it was purposeful. Every use, every act of healing was done with an ease that spoke of deep conviction. I watched as she mended wounds and, astonishingly, eased hunger with a touch. The more I observed, the more impressed I became.
She moved from one alley to the next, never lingering long. Despite her youth, there was a quiet dignity in her actions—a sense of fulfillment that couldn't be taught.
'She's not from the game... there's so much untapped potential in this world.'
Honestly,
I didn't need to follow her for so long. I had already assessed her capabilities. But something about her drew me in.
Purpose.
Her magic was an extension of her will, fueled by her belief in helping others. That realization struck me like lightning.
'It's not just about copying the flow of energy. It's about understanding the intent behind it. That's the key.'
. .
Back in my room, silence enveloped me. The air was still, the faint scent of candles lingering. I retrieved a small blade from my desk, the metal glinting in the dim light.
With a swift motion, I sliced a shallow cut across my palm. Blood welled, warm and red, as a sharp sting spread through my hand.
"Time to test," I murmured, focusing on the memory of Scarlett's healing.
Closing my eyes, I reached for the energy within. It felt different this time—hesitant, weaker—but present. I placed my hand over the wound, willing the magic to flow. Slowly, warmth spread beneath my palm. The cut knitted itself together, leaving behind only a faint, pinkish scar.
Success!
I exhaled, focusing my eyes to examine the result.
"As expected... it's way weaker than hers." My voice was calm, but my mind buzzed with possibilities. I wiped the blade clean, observing the faint scar on my hand. "But this confirms it. I can copy magical abilities."
A small victory. My arsenal had grown—but not enough. Not yet.
'There's more to learn. More to master.'
I leaned back, letting the silence settle once again. Scarlett's image lingered in my mind, not as a rival, but as a potential ally. Her power, her resolve—those were qualities worth cultivating.
And now, I understood the path forward.
Inspiration.
. . .
. . .
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