Eiran's attention then turned to Power. This category intrigued him the most. Their invulnerability was something to be desired.
Intuitively, he knew his body would grow out to weak, but if he could cultivate Power from now, it would prove invaluable in the future.
But the one category he knew he could cultivate effectively was Enhance—a smile appeared on his face just thinking about it. But first, he turned to Power and read about the subcategories that humans had developed.
Bloom, Symbolic, Sculpture, Bestial, and Chosen One were the subcategories of Power, each influencing how one accelerated their overall raw power and strength.
Since raw strength in the Power Category touched both body, mind, and soul, the path one took would focus on one or two of the subcategories. If properly grasped, their growth would become unstoppable.
Eiran's talent was Celestial Blood, but he was so unusual that he immediately glimpsed which subcategory his Power category touched. Still, he read ahead to grasp the rest.
Power Subcategories
Bloom was simple—a blooming power that grew with whatever technique or art was used. Even cutting wood would strengthen them; as their hands gained strength from the axe striking the tree, their entire body would grow in power with less distinction.
The ideal approach was to train each aspect simultaneously—body and mind together. They experienced accelerated growth but faced certain limits that required hard work to break through.
This Power subcategory relied heavily on the body. Physical hardship alone was needed to begin growing.
Symbolic was more complex than Bloom and stemmed from the mind, though its effects manifested in the body. Symbolic power could be sparked through the desire to improve. For example, a weak boy in a dangerous environment would strive to surpass himself—that desire would ignite the talent and push his body to achieve hysterical strength.
He could break and fall, but as long as he maintained his conviction, his strength would climb relentlessly until he awakened his symbolic strength. Even if he abandoned the conviction later in life, his acquired strength would remain.
Symbolic power could also be sparked through stories—hearing about Alexander the Great, David versus Goliath, or any tale, fabricated or real, that inspired heroism or valiant growth of strength. The desire to achieve something similar, combined with training toward that goal, would yield the same results and even surpass them.
Symbolic power could also come from believing in oneself—the proud, arrogant declaration of "I will be stronger than my past self" would also work.
But the most powerful manifestation occurred when the community one lived in, or one's personal beliefs, held a symbolic figure or required specific actions. Symbolic power of this nature might have no limits.
Sculpture differed from Bloom in that focusing on one part of the body—like a tree cutter improving only their hands disproportionately—required well-crafted martial arts to sculpt the body uniformly.
It wasn't just about the body, but also the mind. One must have clear goals, paths, and principles to sculpture their mindset in harmony with their body.
Sculptures' growth was generally slow, but their precision was extremely high. Facing them was like confronting a bear with extraordinary skill. Strength wasn't their most feared aspect—it was their mind, sculpted as perfectly as their body.
Bestial subcategory reflected real or mythological beasts. Unlike Symbolic, which required convictions, this power came from pure instinct—raging emotions that were both bestial and the source of power.
Unlike Sculptures who sculpted their minds, they honed their hearts and emotions. Relying more on intuition than reasoning, they became extremely unpredictable to understand. If the beast they mimicked existed, they could learn from it directly.
Chosen One possessed special powers, born with everything predetermined. They already had built-in perception and understanding of the world in their own right. They didn't need to follow the above paths to grow strong—they were strong as they grew. They remained mostly mysterious.
Eiran was contemplative, trying to place the Golden Man. From the explanations, the subcategories had some overlapping traits, and because most Power users trained in multiple paths, the lines blurred, ensuring no one could identify their core specialization.
"I don't know any stories with golden figures or beasts with golden fur. I'll set that aside, but he's either a Power Sculpture or Chosen One. He's definitely not like me—a Bloom."
Eiran sensed someone approaching the stairs of his small palace, ascending slowly in measured steps.
There were two of them: one moving with difficulty, the other casual.
Eiran sealed the gate properly—he had preparations to make.
***
A twenty-year-old woman climbed the stairs with great difficulty. Each step required additional strength to lift her leg, but she pressed forward. She had trained for this moment and watched others attempt and fail—she refused to believe she would fail.
Behind her walked a man, moving slowly, allowing her to lead. If not for his importance, he wouldn't have been there. She could do nothing about his presence.
When she reached the final few stairs before the top, she collapsed to her knees. Shock and fear covered her face. How was this possible? She was failing...!
She didn't stop. This opportunity wouldn't abandon her. She had watched others she had bested in everything get chosen while she, with all her talent and glory, had failed. But now, with this sudden addition to the candidates, this was her chance—she wouldn't fail.
She dragged her body forward using her hands, crawling ahead. It didn't get easier but worse, as if the weight of the entire mountain was being placed upon her.
But she pushed forward, groaning as veins pulsed across her body, eyes red as she cried and dragged herself up the stairs. When she reached the final stair, just moments from the top, her body was flat against the stone. The weight had settled completely on her—even breathing was difficult.
The man behind observed her, understanding the chaos she was experiencing. It was understandable. She had no idea she was brave enough to reach this point. It was a testament to her greatness.
His orange eyes lifted, and a soft smile tugged at his lips. She deserved praise as she pushed forward again. Her head emerged first, neck bent with crunching sounds, but her hands and legs didn't stop pushing.
It was as if she were pushing her body against a rolling boulder. Her back and ribs nearly met, the cracking sound of bones echoing as she forced herself to the top.
Mangled and bleeding from her orifices, she breathed with difficulty, but fighting spirit still blazed in her eyes.
Soon, everything began to reverse. She rose uninjured—even her blood vanished, the pain disappeared, and she sighed in relief.
'Thank you, uncle!' she thanked the man who had forged her into the woman she was now. Without that foundation, she would have given up long ago.
But she was happy with the trials, it difficulty reflect the monstrous talent she might be serving.
She stepped forward elegantly before the door, which swung open on its own, the chamber accepting her.
Wind blew inside, veils swayed, and she entered as the fabric parted, revealing what lay within.
Her eyes remained on the floor as she bowed immediately. Before looking up to speak, the words caught in her throat.
Those crimson eyes made her freeze. She took a deep breath and continued, "I am Rising Pond, a Chamberlain, chosen to aid you in the Royal Selection. May I know the name of the Prince?"
The crimson-eyed scrutiny didn't cease, making her uncomfortable. The owner shifted and leaned back, sitting properly instead of resting forward on his knees.
His palms came together, fingers interlocking, his gaze never leaving her. She showed no anxiety or nervousness on her face.
The ten-year-old-looking boy shifted his gaze to the man just outside the door before returning to her.
She stood still, eyes on him, unflinching, but her blood told a different story. She was nervous and afraid, her blood flowing through her veins with a loud desire to be accepted and to belong here.
She had fought, bled, and tried hard, but because of some imperfection, she had been rejected and cast aside.
Eiran appreciated her face—she was beautiful, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. No exaggeration there; she was far more beautiful than the red-haired woman he had raised from the dead.
Her silky brown hair added to her beauty. It was long, pulled back, with rings spaced evenly until it passed her shoulders.
Her skin tone was exotic mershmellow—the first he had seen in his life. It was soft and tender like his own. How could she have the same quality skin as him? That shouldn't be possible.
For some reason, Eiran felt slightly bitter.
But the greatest asset of all was her voice. It was soothing to hear, amazing to listen to. With her voice alone, Eiran no longer focused on her other imperfections.
Actually, no—he must make her perfect. Her voice had earned that from him.
She was like a perfect being in creation, but then someone had disturbed the final touches, and she had emerged slightly flawed. Perfection and imperfection intertwined.
She was too lean, flat-chested, her left hand shorter than the right. Her boots hid the fact that one leg was longer than the other. Even her bones—some appeared thicker than others, making her body disproportionate under scrutiny.
His crimson lips parted. Rising Pond's blood screamed, praying not to be rejected like countless times before.
"Come closer."