Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby novel Chapter 255

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. Time passed, 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 became a 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 come when 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.

***

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 time in 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 Scáthach 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 Supreme Grandmaster is waiting for you," he said, before leading her out of the Lightning School.

They retraced their route, teleporting from the Combat Department to Dún Scáith. In the throne room, they waited.

Before long, Scáthach 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. I could have gone farther, but my time was 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.

Scáthach, on the other hand, smiled devilishly. "You have only just awakened your Thunderbolt Bloodline, so I will reluctantly accept your progress... for now. But you have little time left 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," Scáthach commanded.

***

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 to the relentless punishment. Her academy 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 triumph smouldered there. Her body was 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.

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 eyes fixed on Eleanor. "But a warrior listens to pain. Translates its message. Replies accordingly. Each bruise speaks 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 rigid, where you are afraid."

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 some rest. 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.