"Remember this, Rey," Luck said, his voice low and steady. "Oren is a demanding teacher. He'll push you harder than I ever have—but don't give up. You have the potential to become more than a warrior."

Rey nodded, his gaze unwavering.

"I won't let you down, Dad."

Luck smiled and ruffled his son's hair.

"I know you won't, son. Now go—and may the gods be with you."

With a final nod, Rey turned and began his ascent into the mountains, leaving Luck behind with a heart full of pride and silent worry.

As Rey climbed, the village vanished behind the trees. The air thinned and turned crisp, while tall pines gave way to stone and snow-dusted rock. Hours passed, the only sound the crunch of his boots and the occasional cry of a distant hawk.

Eventually, he crested a ridge—and stopped.

A figure stood waiting.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A long coat flapping in the mountain wind. His face was weathered, his eyes like blades—sharp, patient, dangerous.

"You must be Rey," the man said, his voice deep and controlled. "I am Oren Soren. Your father spoke highly of you."

Rey bowed respectfully.

"It's an honor to meet you, Master Oren."

Oren tilted his head slightly, studying him. His aura was heavy—unnaturally so.

Rey thought, I can't sense his Veil Core class… Is he masking it? Could that be a skill?

There was no doubt—Oren was hiding something.

"A boy born without a Veil Core," Oren said, more to himself than to Rey. "In all my years, you're the first I've heard of. Let's see if you're worth the risk."

Without another word, Oren turned and walked.

Rey followed him into a secluded clearing nestled between jagged cliffs. Waiting for him were rows of stones, logs, ropes, training dummies, and a few scattered blades embedded into the earth. It was not a training ground—it was a crucible.

And the trial began.

Hour after hour, Rey endured Oren's brutal tests. His limbs burned. His lungs ached. His mind screamed for rest. But he pushed forward, one step at a time. He would not break. He would not fail.

By sunset, his body was trembling. His hands were scraped raw. He collapsed, gasping on the cold mountain dirt.

Oren stood over him, arms crossed.

"You have potential. But potential is useless without resolve. Are you willing to give everything to this path?"

Rey clenched his right fist and placed it firmly against his chest, eyes blazing.

"My name is Sendrick Reyley, and I will do whatever it takes to become the Celestial King!"

Oren's expression softened, just slightly.

"A bold name. And a bold claim."

He extended a hand, pulling Rey to his feet.

"Then let us begin your true training. From this point forward, we train day and night. You will master the fundamentals—footwork, reaction, endurance. You will wield a blade not just with power, but with intention. And you will learn what it truly means to fight—not for pride, but for purpose."

And so it began.

Rey's real training—his forging—started that day.

Under Oren's relentless tutelage, Rey trained through snow, storm, and sun. He learned to read the flow of battle, to channel his momentum, and to strike with surgical precision. Swordsmanship became second nature. Every movement—every parry, feint, and thrust—was refined into instinct.

In hand-to-hand combat, Oren taught him not just how to fight, but how to dominate, to anticipate, and to adapt. Rey learned to feel each breath of his opponent, to control the rhythm of battle like a dance.

Day by day, Rey grew stronger. Sharper. Wiser.