With every step Elahan took, several strands of weeds tangled around the blunt surface of her greaves, only to be torn away. What would’ve been a difficult path for the average person to walk was nothing for the Saintess. After all, she could snap steel chains like twine.0

Just a year ago, this path hadn’t been like this. The barely visible remnants of the old trail revealed themselves beneath her steps, hinting that once, this path too had been regularly walked.0

There had been a young man who climbed this steep mountain daily to train in solitude, unseen by anyone. He ran laps too numerous to count, vomited enough to fill dozens of buckets, and pounded on tree trunks wrapped with thick rope like a training dummy.0

“This was the Hero’s training ground,” Elahan muttered. Somehow, she just knew. “The marks carved into this tree, the shorter grass compared to elsewhere, all of it.”0

Some might scoff. They’d say it was an insignificant place. They’d call it pathetic that the Hero had sprinted over weed-choked ground, left cuts in trees he couldn't fell, and gripped the Holy Sword in a hidden corner where no one watched. That’s what the fools would say...0