How people could enjoy the act of training itself was beyond him. Gruelling work was what it was. They must be lying, yeah. Everybody only trained for the benefits of it, or because they needed to for their career choice. He chuckled at himself for having believed for even a second that people enjoyed making their body scream in agony.

 

Sure, the part that came after the training was nice. Pleasantly exhausted muscles, feeling of accomplishment, heightened brain activity for the day, a surplus of oxygen, and an increase in physical stats, but the activity itself? Horrid.

 

Lock would have been sipping muscle enchanters for years now if they didn't have so many negative side effects.

 

He would have maybe not seen it as that bad, if he could ever stop with it, but as one gained levels, one had to train much more than previously to adapt the body to its new power. His future prospects of a fun morning looked bleak as he entered the house to a distinctly meaty smell.

 

He blinked incredulously at the bowl of food that awaited him on the kitchen table. Then he glanced at the creator of this monstrosity, happily eating his portion of what could only be described as a meat salad.

 

Abraxas met his eyes defiantly after he finished vigorously chewing. “What? I promised myself I would never eat gruel again after I gained enough money to afford meat on a regular basis.”

 

Lock glanced at the bowl, Thin strips of different sorts of flesh steaming away, a half molten stick of butter slowly disappearing on top, and a ridiculous amount of spices turning the meat a more vibrant red than it had been when uncooked.

 

He hesitantly picked up a piece and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly and noted that it didn't taste all that bad. It was just unnecessarily greasy and springy enough that it turned chewing into a chore.

 

He glanced doubtfully at his still happily-eating grandfather. Weren't older people supposed to have worse teeth? Must have been his grandfather's Strength or Endurance helping him.

 

He opened the alchemical fridge, pulled out some milk and apples, and sat at the table. He occasionally dared to eat a piece of the meat when the taste of apples grew too stale.

 

He finished quickly, and soon after his grandfather did as well. “You're going to need to eat more when you start levelling constantly,” Abraxas commented when he noticed how little his grandson had eaten.

 

“I know. I imagine I'll be quite famished after the ritual. Especially since I'll be putting all the points into a single stat.”

 

“So, have you decided?”

 

“Yeah, Vanguard.”

 

His grandfather raised an eyebrow. “Damn, I was sure you'd pick Assassin with how much you talk about wars of attrition.”

 

Lock shrugged. “I know it’s ironic considering I'm a vanguard, but I hate using a shield. The sooner I get access to Bulwark the better.”

 

“Yes, yes.”

 

“So, how we are we going to proceed?” Lock asked, to which his grandfather shrugged.

 

“The exp would have gone to your Assassin class had I let you drug me into sleep and slit my throat while I was snoring away. Vanguard probably requires you to stand against me in single combat and hit me with a shield until I go splat,” he said, making Lock grimace again.

 

“Phrasing, please,” Lock groaned out. “Also, probably?”

 

Another shrug. “It’s not like the exp has anywhere else to go. It's between Assassin and Vanguard. I hardly think killing me in single combat without ambushes will make the exp go anywhere but Vanguard,” he explained.

 

“Alright, what now?”

 

“What, what now?”

 

“Grandfather, you have less than a week to live. Don't you want to do something special?” Lock asked with a frown.

 

“Well, now that you decided what Class you'll be funnelling my death into, I would like to take you out into the wilderness and let you get some levels in Assassin,” grandfather answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

 

Lock clenched his fists under the table. “It’s not supposed to be about me. It’s supposed to be about you,” he said quietly.

 

“Man, you can cut the tension here with a knife,” a tired voice muttered. Lock's father, Arcturus made his way into the kitchen. The gaunt man was still dressed in his sleeping gown, with a pair of cute bunny slippers adorning his feet.

 

“Yes, it was, and you ruined it,” Lock muttered. His father laughed.

 

“Well excuse me for not liking the dramatic atmosphere you always seem to make.” Arcturus rolled his eyes. “You should have gone and become an actor, make your favourite hobby into a profession.”

 

Lock would have bristled if it wasn't true. He did like weaving a bit of drama into everyday life. It made everything more fun, and having fun for the rest of eternity was the reason why he'd become immortal in the first place, and why he was aiming for it again, even if it was a more physical way he was pursuing.

 

That didn't mean it had to be described so flippantly. He shot his nodding grandfather a betrayed look before speaking. “Every moment needs a bit of gravitas; life is like a book. I'm just trying to make it an entertaining one.” He crossed his arms and stared down at his father imperiously, deriding him for his lack of culture.

 

The staring down didn't really work as intended, with him being seated at the table, and Arcturus standing, curiously looking at the food grandfather had prepared.

 

“I agree with that, really, but the kind of genre you're aiming for is just not for me,” Arcturus said, grabbing some fruits from the fridge and walking out the front door. “You need some comedy, comedy I say!” he said as he went.

 

“You do tend to be overly dramatic, although I admit it can be quite fun when put together with your speeches,” his grandfather said.

 

Lock snorted. “You're all the same, no appreciation for the narrative dictating our lives, no culture. Who will remember something funny happening in a decade or so?” he asked, but continued immediately afterwards, not wanting an answer. “Nobody, that's who. Drama, that's where it's at. No culture, I say.”

 

“Well, I can't imagine remembering much of anything in a decade or so,” Abraxas said with a grin, making Lock groan and put his face in his hands. “Being dead and all, you know.”

 

“Grandfather please, dark humour is only funny in hypotheticals,” he said, almost begging.

 

“I don't know. I knew a guy named Ars once. He was a fat magician, with quite the tremendous behind. We all joked about how he'd die one day by catching an arrow with his posterior.”

 

Abraxas stopped speaking, looking up, far into the distance.

 

“Well, did he?” Lock couldn't help but ask.

 

“Well no, he was downed via arrow in the... Ars alright, but it wasn't the arrow that did him in. It was the gobble shit spread all over it."