After the meal, I prepared to leave for the Magic Tower.

  The tower did not stand within our estate. It rose near the border between our territory and the royal capital, a neutral ground where scholars and mages gathered from across the kingdom.

  The journey itself wasn’t long, but it was far enough that a carriage had already been prepared by the time I stepped outside.

  Father rarely summoned me there without reason.

  I climbed into the carriage, and the gates of the estate slowly opened.

  The road leading toward the capital stretched ahead.

  Somewhere along that road stood the Magic Tower.

  The Magic Tower stood at the edge of the territory, its tall structure rising like a silent sentinel between the capital and our lands.

  I stepped inside.

  The interior was as familiar as ever. Mages and attendants moved through the halls carrying scrolls, crystals, and instruments of research. Several faces turned toward me in brief recognition. I had visited this place often in the past.

  A few greeted me with polite nods as I passed.

  One of the attendants soon approached and bowed slightly before leading me deeper into the tower.

  After a short walk through the stone corridors, he stopped before a large door and knocked.

  “Enter,” a calm voice came from inside.

  The attendant stepped aside and opened the door for me.

  My father stood near the tall window of his office, several documents spread across the desk behind him.

  My father looked at me the moment I entered the room.

  His gaze sharpened slightly.

  For an instant, I felt the familiar pressure of an Archmage’s perception brushing past me — the instinctive observation of someone who had spent a lifetime reading the flow of mana in the world around him.

  For the past two years, my mana had been growing rapidly after my recovery.

  But now… it was different.

  Stable.

  Steady.

  No longer chaotic like before.

  The slight tension in his expression eased. He seemed relieved.

  I kept my face calm.

  So even an Archmage couldn’t sense the Singularity.

  “You finally left your room,” he said.

  He gestured toward the chair across from his desk.

  “Sit,” he said softly.

  I took my seat, folding my hands in my lap.

  “You will turn fifteen in a few months,” he began.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  I nodded.

  “The Coming-of-Age Ceremony is approaching.”

  “It is tradition among nobles,” he continued, “that the heir goes for their first monster hunt before the birthday. The creature becomes a trophy to be presented at the celebration.”

  He paused for a moment, then added quietly, almost kindly: “Though it isn’t your first encounter with monsters. Your first was in the dungeon… and I recall the mishap that occurred there.”

  Yeah… that was just my luck. But the beast tamer will stir up trouble again before long.

  His eyes studied me carefully. “I want to see how much you’ve grown now, and what kind of monster you can face comfortably. That way, I can choose a hunting ground suitable for you.”

  “So… how will you gauge my strength?” I asked.

  My father’s lips curved into a faint smile.

  “Of course, you will fight me,” he said.

  I blinked once, uncertain if I’d heard him correctly.

  “Fight… you?” I echoed, my voice calm but betraying a hint of surprise.

  “Indeed,” he said, his eyes glinting faintly. “It is the only reliable way to gauge growth. Words and reports can mislead, but combat reveals truth.”

  I shifted slightly in my seat, thinking it through. It didn’t matter even if I fought. I couldn’t land a single hit, not even if I gave my all. How could he possibly gauge my strength?

  He said, as if reading my mind,

  “Of course you can’t.”

  I frowned slightly, though my expression remained calm.

  “Then… how do you intend to measure me?” I asked.

  His faint smile didn’t waver.

  “Not by your ability to land a strike,” he said softly. “But by observing how you move, how you think, how you adapt. Strength is not just force. It is control. Precision. Awareness.”

  I rose from my seat, folding my hands behind my back.

  My father turned, and we walked silently through the stone corridors of the Magic Tower.

  Soon, we arrived at the tower’s practice area — an open space designed for exercises in mana control, spellcasting, and physical training.

  My father stopped at the center. “Here,” he said simply. “Show me everything you have.”

  I stepped forward and picked up a training sword from the rack.

  The weight was familiar, comforting, and yet today it felt different — a tool for more than practice.

  My father stood across from me, calm and still, his hands empty, his posture relaxed.

  I adjusted my stance, gripping the sword tightly, and focused. Every movement, every swing, every step would be observed.

  I tightened my grip and charged forward, readying my sword.

  The first move was quick draw, followed immediately by quick slash.

  My father sidestepped effortlessly, his calm posture unshaken.

  I pressed on, continuing the barrage. Each attack flowed into the next — wind infused with Hayakiri, combined with dark mana to make the blade heavier, increasing the momentum behind every strike.

  Still, not a single attack landed.

  Every swing, every lunge, every strike was anticipated and avoided. His defenses required no effort, only precise observation and timing.

  No matter how much power I poured into it, every move passed harmlessly through empty air.

  I stopped.

  For a brief moment, I steadied my breathing and organized my thoughts.

  Then I moved again.

  A horizontal slash cut through the air. Father stepped back lightly, avoiding it without effort.

  I followed immediately. Using Flash Step, the third movement of the Hayakiri style, I closed the distance and delivered a swift vertical slash.

  He turned slightly to the left. I had already expected that much. His eyes had been tracking my sword from the start.

  The moment the blade reached his eye level, I activated light magic.

  Illuminate.

  A sharp flash burst from the blade, briefly flooding the space with light.

  With his vision momentarily obstructed, I manipulated the ground beneath the foot he was about to step on, shaping the earth into a shallow concave dip— meant to throw him off balance.

  I followed through instantly, directing my strike toward the position he should have stumbled into.

  But my sword met nothing but empty air.

  He had not lost his balance. Not even slightly.

  A calm voice reached me.

  “Your trick was good,” Father said, “but don’t forget your opponent.”

  Realization struck a moment later.

  He controlled gravity.

  My guard opened for an instant.

  I saw a flicker in his hand — a quick motion aimed straight at my gut. My body froze on instinct.

  I blinked.

  My hand moved to my stomach where I had felt the strike. There was nothing there. No pain. No impact.

  I had seen it clearly — the flicker of movement, the strike aimed at my gut.

  Yet he had not moved at all.

  My father stood exactly where he had been, his posture relaxed, his hand still at his side.

  I remained still, processing what had just happened.

  His voice followed, quiet and steady.

  “It was a feint.”

  “In battle,” he continued calmly, “your senses are as much a battlefield as your body.”

  His eyes studied me carefully.

  “If your opponent can control what you think you see… the fight is already over.

  “That’s enough,” he said after a moment.

  The invisible tension in the air faded as he relaxed slightly. His eyes studied me with quiet approval.

  “You have improved.”

  "You are ready for your hunt.”