Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby

Chapter 255: Which Does Not Kill You Makes You Stronger

Chapter 255: Which Does Not Kill You Makes You Stronger

Lightning crisscrossed around Eleanor and speared into her body, racing straight for her heart. The arcs tore

through muscle and sinew, burning a path as they went, but her alpha body regenerated the damage as quickly

as it appeared. Tpassed, and her regeneration gradually accelerated until it matched the level of

destruction. Once her body had adjusted, the pain dulled, no longer the unbearable torment it had been.

Her heart, meanwhile, was changing. With every surge it absorbed, it grew stronger. Nora confirmed what

Eleanor already suspected: because of her Storm Heart ability, the lightning was drawn directly to that centre of

power. Slowly but inexorably, Storm Heart strengthened, each pulse making her body more resilient and more

attuned to the tempest around her.

At first Nora remained with her, offering quiet guidance, but as the lightning intensified... she withdrew. The

storm was disrupting her interface, making her presence unstable.

Alone, Eleanor lost all sense of time. Her progress beca rhythm: step forward, sit, meditate, adapt. When

her body had adjusted to the violence of a new zone, she rose again, took another step, and endured anew.

The first surge of joy had cwhen she entered the light green ring. After that, all emotion vanished into

singular focus. She never looked back, never glanced at the coloured rings she crossed. Her gaze was locked

only on the centre of the dome, on the Thunder Seed that called to her.

With unyielding determination, step by step, she advanced towards her only goal.

What she did not realise was that, in the process, she had awakened her Mental Lock ability. She had always

believed this gift was meant for the battlefield. But under the relentless barrage, her Thunderbolt Bloodline was

evolving, reshaping itself to her need. Mental Lock transformed, granting her the power to maintain razor focus

even amidst the endless distraction of pain.

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Eleanor was deep in meditation, letting her body adjust to the relentless lightning, when the academy device on

her wrist began to beep. Her focus wavered. She knew at once... her tin the Thunder Seed Room had ended.

The handbook had been clear: when a cadet’s slot expired, the device would sound, and they were required to

leave so the next candidate could enter.

She rose to her feet and glanced at her position. Disappointment settled in her chest. She had only reached the

yellow zone. The black zone... her true target remained far beyond her grasp.

"I should have forced myself further. Sigh... what's done is done. Let's see what Scathach thinks of my progress,"

she thought.

Accepting her defeat, she left the Thunder Seed Room at a measured pace, donned her uniform, and made her

way back to the ground floor.

There, in the lobby, she found Instructor Arrichion waiting. The moment he saw her, his eyes lit up and he rose

slowly to his feet.

Eleanor approached and bowed. "Instructor, you are here."

"Let's go. The SuprGrandmaster is waiting for you," he said, before leading her out of the Lightning School.

They retraced their route, teleporting from the Combat Department to Din Scaith. In the throne room, they

waited.

Before long, Scathach entered and seated herself upon her throne. She regarded Eleanor with a faint smile. "You

seem dispirited. How far did you reach in the Thunder Seed Room?"

Eleanor lowered her gaze, embarrassment tightening her voice. "I only reached the yellow zone. | could have

gone farther, but my twas up."

Arrichion’s eyes widened in shock. Had Eleanor looked at him then, she would not have been so ashamed of her

so-called failure. His astonishment was well founded. He knew she had only just awakened her Thunderbolt

Bloodline, and yet... even seasoned lightning adepts, even of the ascendant level, rarely pushed beyond the

chartreuse zone. Eleanor had already surpassed the limits of the exceptional.

Scathach, on the other hand, smiled devilishly. "You have only just awakened your Thunderbolt Bloodline, so | will

reluctantly accept your progress... for now. But you have little tleft in this term. Every second matters. Your

training begins immediately."

"Annabeth," she called, her voice rising.

As if on cue, Vanguard Commander Annabeth Chase entered and bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Take Eleanor to the training grounds. You will train her, for now. And remember... use no more than ten percent

of your strength," Scathach commanded.

Turning back to Eleanor, she added, "Annabeth possesses superhuman strength, agility, durability, and

endurance equal to the alpha werewolves. She is a master of combat, highly intelligent, and a strategist of the

highest order. In tactics, she could rival even your Mind Reaver Bloodline. Learn as much as you can from her."

Eleanor bowed respectfully. "Thank you, Master."

Scathach laughed. "I have not accepted you as my disciple. If you had touched the Thunder Seed, then | might

have considered it. For now, you can only prove yourself worthy."

Without waiting for Eleanor’s reply, she turned to Arrichion. "You may go now. Return tomorrow. If Eleanor fails,

you will bring her back."

She snapped her fingers. A glowing circle flared into existence beneath Eleanor and Annabeth’s feet, and light

swallowed them whole.

When it faded, Eleanor found herself standing beside Annabeth in the heart of a vast coliseum. Snow drifted

silently from the sky, the chill air biting at her skin. She turned slowly, taking in the towering walls and endless

rows of stone seats. A tremor of awe coursed through her. In that moment, she felt not like a cadet, but like an

ancient warrior summoned to the arena for a life-and-death trial... especially when her eyes fell upon Annabeth.

"My training method is simple," Annabeth said, her tone colder than the drifting snow. "You must defend yourself.

Do so with defensive techniques, or by going on the attack. You may use any of your abilities, the terrain, or a

weapon. As the Empress commanded, | will restrict myself to ten percent of my strength. When you can defeat

me, your training will be over."

"Now... defend yourself." She drove a punch straight at Eleanor.

Eleanor’s whole body screamed danger. She lunged aside at the last instant. The fist never touched her, but the

shockwave alone caught her like a hammer, hurling her several metres through the air.

She tumbled across the ground, rolled hard, then scrambled to her feet. Annabeth gave her no tto recover.

Another punch came, faster than the last. Eleanor crossed her arms before her chest in a desperate guard. The

impact launched her skyward again, pain flaring across her body.

This time, she braced the moment she landed. Drawing on her martial techniques, she centred her stance and

reinforced her guard. When the next blow came, she no longer flew helplessly through the air; instead, her heels

tore furrows in the snow and marble as she skidded back several metres.

Annabeth pressed forward without pause, her fist cutting through the air at the splace, the sangle.

"Remember," she said, her eyes gleaming, "that which does not kill you makes you stronger."

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After two hours of one-sided beating, the storm of motion that was Annabeth finally ceased.

The silence that followed was broken

only by the whisper of falling snow

: ,

and the ragged sawing of Eleanor’s

breath. She knelt on both knees, her

body a testament [othe relenmess

PLO" nerd ie ea robe hung

in tatters, strips of frost-rimmed cloth

clinging to her shoulders. Beneath

the torn fabric, her skin was a canvas

of bruises... purples blossoming into

reds, each mark a map of failure. A

thin thread of blood slid from her split

lip, dropped onto her chin, and

pattered into the pristine snow

beneath her. Her hands, pressed into

the marble, were raw and trembling.

Yet when she lifted her head to meet

)

Annabeth’s gaze, there was no

despair in her emerald eyes. A spark

of hard-won LTRs

Noy Her body agony incarnate,

but her mind was singing. In the final

moments before Annabeth had

stilled, Eleanor had deflected three

consecutive strikes, turning their

force just enough that they no longer

sent her sprawling. The progress was

microscopic, but it was hers. The

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Annabeth studied her, her expression as cold and unreadable as the stone coliseum itself. She did not offer a

hand, nor any word of praise.

"Pain is the ultimate language in battle," Annabeth said, her voice slicing through the frigid air. "Most people only

scream in it. They hear its voice and understand only fear, or anger, or the desperate wish for it to stop. They

treat pain as an enemy to be endured."

She took a single step forward, her

. " Q

eyes fixed on Eleanor. "But a warrior

listens to pain. Translates its

message. Replies aqcoryiing§? Eadh

bruise Spebks of the angle of a strike.

Each jolt of agony reveals the flow of

force. Pain is not your opponent... it is

the most honest instructor you will

ever have. It does not lie. It tells you

where you are weak, where you are

Fo sgn

rigid, where you are afraid." The

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The words lingered in the air, sinking deeper than the cold.

"Your task is to remember the lesson you've just learned. We continue after srest. Come, join me."

From her storage ring, Annabeth produced a heavy wooden table and two chairs, setting them down upon the

snow. With unhurried precision, she drew out a whole roasted cow, laying it across the table, followed by two

large plates and knives, and finally two bottles of vintage red wine.

Eleanor remained on her knees... battered, bloodied, trembling. But when her eyes settled on the feast, her

stomach betrayed her with a low, insistent growl.

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