The next morning, Arthas woke up early. The first thing he did was look at Eleanor's sleeping face, her delicate features softened in slumber, a faint smile playing on her lips as the morning light gently framed her. He watched her for a while before leaning in to plant a kiss on her forehead. Eleanor scrunched her nose at his touch but remained asleep. He smiled warmly before he left the room.
The sun was yet to rise as Arthas waited in the living room, sitting in silence. Slowly, the first rays of light crept over the horizon, and he could hear the faint crowing of a rooster from the town nearby. Standing up, he stretched and made his way to Aldrich's room.
He opened the door quietly. Inside, Aldrich was sprawled across the bed, a line of drool trickling from his mouth as he snored lightly. Arthas chuckled at the sight of his son and stepped closer.
"Rise and shine, son," he whispered near Aldrich's ear.
Aldrich swatted his hand sleepily at nothing in particular. Slowly opening his eyes, he groaned, "What's the matter, Papa? It's still dark outside. Can't this wait until the sun's up? I was dreaming of roasted pork…"
Smiling, Arthas leaned down to scoop the boy up in his arms. "No roasted pork this morning, boy. Today, you're coming with me to the training grounds. I want you to see what it means to become strong."
Aldrich, still drowsy, nestled against his father's shoulder. "Training grounds?" he mumbled. "But Papa... I'm not a warrior... I just wanna sleep a bit more..." And then promptly fell back asleep.
By the time they reached the training grounds, the ten soldiers stationed there were already hard at work. The area was a sprawling expanse of packed earth, bordered by wooden fences. Training dummies stood in neat rows, their surfaces marred by countless strikes, while the faint metallic tang of sweat and sharpened blades filled the crisp morning air.
Nearby, a small shed housed various weapons and armor, and a weathered banner bearing Arthas's family crest fluttered in the light breeze. These men were Tier 1 Fighters, seasoned and well-trained under Arthas's command.
Their leader, Ralph, was a Tier 2 Warrior who had fought beside Arthas in their youth. Ralph was close in age to Viscount Edward, a grizzled veteran whose years of service were etched into the lines of his face.
As Arthas approached, Ralph called out to the soldiers to halt their drills. They stopped and turned to face their lord, saluting him in unison.
"Good morning, Milord," they greeted respectfully.
Ralph stepped forward, his eyes falling on the boy in Arthas's arms.
"What's the boy doing here, lad?" he asked, his tone laced with familiarity. "Don't tell me you've finally decided to turn the little one into a warrior? He barely looks strong enough to hold a loaf of bread."
Arthas set Aldrich down gently before responding. "It's not about making him a warrior overnight, Ralph. I'll be leaving for war in a month, and until then… I want him to understand what it means to cultivate strength. To witness discipline. He doesn't need to fight—just observe and learn."
Ralph's expression darkened briefly at the mention of war. "Aye, war again. There's never an end to it, is there?" He paused, then added more seriously, "Need me to come along? I may be old and my knees may not work like they used to, but I've still got a few good swings left in me. One more battle's not too much to ask."
Arthas shook his head. "No, Ralph. Your battle's here now. I need someone I trust watching over them. Protect my family. And guide Aldrich in your own way—he'll need someone to show him what it means to endure. Someone to tell him the truth even when it hurts."
Ralph sighed and clapped Arthas on the shoulder. "As you wish, lad. You always were stubborn." A flicker of pride danced behind his eyes.
The movement stirred Aldrich awake. The boy rubbed his eyes and looked around, confused. "Where are we, Papa? Why does it smell like metal and… feet?"
Arthas crouched to meet his son's gaze. "As I said earlier, you'll be watching us train today. Look alive, son. Pay attention to how men build themselves. One day, you'll understand why this matters."
Straightening, Arthas introduced Aldrich to the soldiers. "This is Ralph," he said. "He was my war mate back in the day. I owe him more than I can say. One day, he might be the one to teach you."
Ralph nodded in acknowledgment, a faint smile on his lips. "If you're half as stubborn as your old man, this should be fun."
The other soldiers murmured greetings, their tones warm and amused.
Arthas instructed the men to arm themselves with their greatswords.
These weapons were no ordinary swords. Even the lightest among them weighed 5 kilograms, suitable only for Tier 0 Militia. The Tier 1 Fighters wielded 20-kilogram swords, while Ralph's personal blade weighed a hefty 50 kilograms. Arthas's own greatsword, a behemoth of 100 kilograms, was a symbol of his unmatched strength. Forged from the rare blacksteel of the northern mines, it had been gifted to him by his father upon his ascension to knighthood. Over the years, it had cleaved through countless battlefields, becoming both a weapon and a legend among his men.
"First stance!" Arthas commanded, raising his greatsword overhead. The soldiers mirrored his movement, their swords gleaming in the morning light.
"Strike!" The air hummed with power as the blades cut through it in unison.
"Second stance!" Arthas pointed his blade downward at an angle. "Strike!" The soldiers thrust forward, their movements precise.
For hours, they continued—sweeping strikes, thrusts, and parries. Aldrich watched, enraptured by the display of discipline and power. His eyes widened with admiration as he saw his father's unparalleled strength.
When the drills concluded, the soldiers collapsed onto the ground, drenched in sweat. Arthas approached his son with a grin. "That's the basics of wielding a greatsword, boy," he said.
He turned to Ralph. "Fetch it from the shed."
Ralph returned moments later with a wooden greatsword.
Arthas held the practice weapon with a nostalgic smile. "This is the sword I trained with at your age. Your brothers used it, too. It's heavy now, but in time, it'll be like an extension of your body. You'll return it to me when you're seven."
Aldrich's eyes lit up as he reached for the wooden sword. He struggled under its weight, nearly dropping it. The soldiers laughed, their voices kind.
"Don't worry, lad," Ralph said. "With enough work, that'll feel as light as a feather one day."
Aldrich tightened his grip on the wooden greatsword, his small fingers barely able to curl around the hilt. He strained, wobbling slightly as he tried to lift it upright. It rose—unevenly, awkwardly—but it rose.
Arthas knelt beside him, his voice gentle. "It's not about how high you lift it today, Aldrich. It's about whether you come back tomorrow and try again. Strength isn't born in a single morning. It's built—one failure at a time."
Aldrich looked up, sweat already forming on his brow. "But Papa... it's so heavy," he whispered, a hint of frustration lacing his words. "How did you ever lift something like this when you were my age?"
Arthas smiled wistfully, gazing at the wooden sword. "I didn't. Not at first. I dropped it more times than I could count. Blistered my hands. Cried when no one was watching. But every day, I picked it up again. Even when I hated it. Even when I hated myself for being weak."
The boy stared at him, eyes wide, lips parted in awe.
"You cried?" Aldrich asked softly, as though trying to reconcile the image of his towering father with something so human.
"I did," Arthas admitted without shame. "Courage isn't never crying, son. It's choosing to keep going even after you've cried. Even when everything in you says stop. And someday, when you need to—when it's your turn to protect the ones you love—you'll remember this."
Aldrich's lip quivered. He looked down at the sword again, this time with a different gaze—one touched not just by admiration, but by a budding sense of responsibility.
"I'll keep trying," he said quietly. "Even if it takes forever."
Arthas laid a firm hand on his shoulder. "That's all I ask."
Behind them, Ralph watched the exchange with a faint smile. He crossed his arms, then muttered to one of the nearby soldiers, "He might just turn out alright, that one. He's got that look."
"What look?" the soldier asked, curious.
"The look of a boy who just saw the mountain ahead and still decided to climb it," Ralph said. "Reminds me of another stubborn bastard I knew."
Arthas turned back toward the field. "Alright, enough heartwarming talk. Back on your feet, men! We're not training to impress the wind!"
Groans and laughter followed as the soldiers dragged themselves upright. Aldrich sat on a nearby crate, holding the wooden sword in his lap like a sacred relic, eyes locked onto his father's every move.
The training resumed, but now, Aldrich wasn't just watching. He was learning. Every swing, every stance, every drop of sweat carved itself into his memory.
And somewhere, deep in his small chest, something stirred.
Not power.
Not yet.
But the seed of it.
After a few hours, the soldiers and Arthas concluded their routine, having repeated the same drills dozens of times. The ground was torn and dusty from the weight of their footsteps, their sweat soaking into the soil like a silent offering to the discipline they endured.
Aldrich sat under the shade of a nearby tree, arms wrapped around the wooden greatsword like it was a treasure he wasn't ready to part with. He watched the soldiers in awe.
'Not only are they strong,' he thought, eyes tracing each warrior's movement, 'but their stamina is almost bottomless... especially Papa.'
He glanced toward his father—his form still upright, posture unbroken. The man moved with ease, a light sheen of sweat on his brow, but his breathing hadn't even quickened.
'All of his soldiers look like they've run ten marathons, but he just looks... calm. Steady. Unstoppable. That settles it—he's way stronger than them.'
Arthas strode over to his son, a broad grin on his face. Without a word, he scooped Aldrich up into his arms and spun him slightly before pulling him into a sweat-soaked hug.
"Father! Stop it!" Aldrich squealed, squirming in his grip. "You're all sweaty—ugh, it's sticking to me!"
"Hah! That's the smell of hard work, boy!" Arthas bellowed with laughter, lifting Aldrich onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "Don't act like it's poison!"
"Gross! I'm gonna stink too now!"
"Exactly!" Arthas chuckled. "Let everyone know you were among warriors today!"
He waved to the soldiers with a raised hand. "We're heading home! Try not to slack off once I'm gone, or Ralph's going to beat you into the ground twice as hard!"
The men laughed and saluted, some calling out lighthearted farewells.
As the pair made their way down the path toward the small manor, the golden light of afternoon stretched long shadows across the road. Aldrich, still perched atop his father's shoulders, rested his arms against his father's head.
"Father," he asked quietly, "are you really going to leave us soon?"
Arthas didn't answer right away. He kept walking, boots thudding softly against the dirt, before he finally sighed, the weight of the question heavier than any sword he had lifted today.
"Yes," he said at last, voice steady but subdued. "In a few weeks, I'll ride off with the knights. It's my duty. But..."
He paused and gently took Aldrich down, holding the boy in front of him by the shoulders.
"While I'm gone, I want you to protect your mother. Your sister. Everyone in this house. Can you do that for me, Aldrich?"
Aldrich looked up at him, eyes wide, lips trembling. "But I'm just a kid, Papa... I don't know if I can..."
Arthas leaned down, resting his forehead gently against his son's.
"I know you're small now," he whispered, "but your heart is already big enough. You're braver than you think. Stronger than you know. That sword you held today? One day you'll lift the real thing. And when you do, you'll protect this family just like I did."
Aldrich's throat tightened, but he nodded. "I promise, Father. I'll take care of them. Just... just come back a little sooner, okay? Not too long."
There was a silence between them—one heavy with emotion, unspoken fears, and quiet hope.
"I promise," Arthas said, and this time it was not the voice of a warrior, but of a father, anchoring himself in the eyes of his son. "I'll return. No matter what."
They continued home in silence, their fingers intertwined like a pact written not in ink, but in love.
That night, laughter filled the home once more. Marion, ever teasing, waved the wooden greatsword above her head with dramatic flair.
"This? This is light as a feather!" she said mockingly. "And I'm not even a warrior!"
Aldrich huffed and blew raspberries in her direction. "When I'm as big as you, I'll use Father's sword and show you who's boss! Just you wait!"
Marion grinned and ruffled his hair. "Sure, little warrior. I'll be waiting. But for now, your job is to go to sleep, okay?"
She slid the wooden greatsword under Aldrich's bed and tucked him in, pulling the blanket up to his chin with sisterly care.
At the door, Bea stood silently, a faint smile on her lips as she watched the scene. A flicker of memory passed through her eyes—of her own daughter, of a distant home.
Marion turned to her and bowed slightly. "Thank you, Bea. For taking care of my little brother."
"It is my duty, Lady Marion," Bea replied gently.
Marion nodded once, and with a final glance at her brother, closed the door.
As the room dimmed, Aldrich's eyes opened once more.
He pulled up his status panel and squinted at the time. "8 PM," he muttered. "I practiced the whole day… and not a single skill gained?"
He frowned. "Weird. In every RPG or novel, there's always some skill after you swing a weapon long enough. Can't trust anything these days…"
He sighed theatrically and slipped out of bed, still dressed in his training clothes.
Looking at his stubby arms, he poked them with a frown—then giggled. "To be honest… I'm kinda fluffy, eh?"
With a groan, he dropped to the floor, preparing for a push-up.
"One!" he strained as though he were giving birth to a boulder, face red, limbs trembling.
Then he collapsed.
"Oh my god! That was much harder than I remembered!"
He lay flat for a moment, arms aching.
"Let's try one more."
He pushed, face contorted in pain.
"Nope—can't." His arms cramped up, and he flopped to the floor like a defeated slug.
He lay there, breathless, staring at the ceiling. Then he smiled.
"I'll do two tomorrow."