Talent was everything in Terranova.
It decided who trained at the front of the courtyard and who stood at the back. It decided who elders corrected patiently—and who they ignored entirely. In the Ashen Family, where strength was measured as naturally as breathing, talent was not a gift.
It was an expectation.
Arthur Ashen had none.
At least, none that anyone could see.
The training ground was already awake when Arthur arrived.
Stone platforms floated above the courtyard, etched with ancient formations that stabilized the ground under violent movement. Wooden weapons lay neatly arranged along the edges, worn smooth by generations of heirs who had trained before him.
Arthur took his place at the far end.
Alone.
The other children—those who had not yet reached ten—stood closer to the instructors. They were stronger than him. Faster. Their movements carried confidence.
Arthur's did not.
"Begin."
The command rang out.
Arthur raised his wooden blade and followed the first form.
Step.
Turn.
Strike.
His stance wobbled.
The blade cut air clumsily, lacking force, lacking precision. His arms burned far sooner than they should have, his breathing uneven after only a few repetitions.
A boy two years younger completed the form flawlessly.
Arthur tried again.
Step.
Turn.
Strike.
The blade slipped in his grip.
He corrected himself quickly, face calm, but the sting in his palm lingered.
No one mocked him.
That was worse.
An instructor glanced in Arthur's direction, then looked away.
"He still hasn't awakened his meridians," another muttered quietly.
"At his age?" a third replied. "Disappointing."
Arthur heard them.
He always did.
He finished the forms anyway.
Again.
And again.
By the time training ended, his arms trembled uncontrollably. Sweat soaked his clothes. His breathing was ragged.
He bowed respectfully and stepped aside.
No praise followed.
No correction either.
Arthur sat alone at the edge of the platform, watching others spar.
Their movements were sharp. Decisive. Some already displayed flashes of spiritual energy—faint, unstable, but present.
Arthur felt nothing.
No warmth in his dantian.
No response from his body.
No sign that cultivation favored him.
He clenched his fists.
Weak.
That word followed him everywhere.
Later that day, Arthur passed through the inner halls on his way back to his quarters.
His steps slowed when he heard voices.
Elders.
He stopped instinctively, standing just beyond the edge of the corridor.
"…still no progress," one said.
"The youngest," another replied. "But still Ashen blood."
A pause.
Then a name.
"Leon."
Arthur's breath stilled.
"Leon Ashen awakened his meridians at six," an elder said. "By eight, he could defeat senior disciples in sparring."
"At nine, he shattered the Third Stone Formation with a single strike," another added. "Even the elders were stunned."
"He was a true genius."
Arthur pressed his back against the wall, listening.
"They said his aura alone unsettled the estate."
"He trained like a madman. Never complained. Never rested."
"One strike, one result," someone murmured. "Perfect control."
Another elder sighed.
"And now?"
Silence.
"Now we have the youngest."
Arthur lowered his head.
The stories of Leon Ashen were everywhere.
In the training grounds.
In the libraries.
In the way elders spoke his name with quiet respect.
Leon, who left the moment he turned ten.
Leon, who never stumbled.
Leon, who never disappointed.
Arthur had never seen him fight.
Never trained beside him.
Never heard his voice.
Yet Leon's shadow followed him constantly.
That night, Arthur returned to the courtyard alone.
Moonlight bathed the stone in pale silver. The formations were inactive, the estate quiet.
Arthur picked up a wooden blade.
He raised it.
His hands shook.
He remembered the forms.
Step.
Turn.
Strike.
The blade cut the air.
Clumsy.
Slow.
Arthur grimaced and tried again.
And again.
His arms burned. His legs ached. Sweat dripped onto the stone.
Still, nothing changed.
No awakening.
No miracle.
Only effort.
Arthur lowered the blade and stared at his reflection in the polished stone beneath his feet.
"Weak," he whispered.
The word did not anger him.
It frightened him.
Because in the Ashen Family, weakness was not forgiven.
Arthur tightened his grip on the blade.
"I'll train anyway," he said quietly.
The night did not answer.
But far beneath the estate, in a ruin sealed away from the world, something ancient shifted slightly—as if listening.
End of Chapter 2