Denwen's world became one of sweat, blood, and pain. Every day, from dawn until the dead of night, he trained with a desperation that bordered on madness. He had no choice. He had to utilize his new talent to the max.
The memory of Garric's smirk, the weight of those pathetic silvers in his palm, and the shame of being sidelined as a mere porter gnawed at him like a parasite. He refused to be weak.
So he trained.
—-
The special gym was nothing special—a bland room with nothing but a few pieces of equipment and a large mat in the centre. A heavy sandbag hung from chains, barely holding together, yet it was enough.
He wrapped his fists in rough cloth, not even bothering with proper gear. Each punch slammed into the bag with force, the impact rattling through his bones. Again. And again. And again. Until his knuckles split open, skin tearing, blood seeping into the coarse fabric.
When the pain became unbearable, he grit his teeth and struck harder.
Vorden watched silently from the shadows, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He never interrupted, never offered encouragement—only observed.
Denwen didn't care. He wasn't doing this for anyone but himself.
The training intensified. His morning routine consisted of early morning cultivation, running through the scorching sands outside the academy, barefoot, his feet torn and blistered. But the real challenge came next.
A steel cauldron filled with burning-hot sand sat before him. With no hesitation, he plunged his fingers inside. The heat seared his skin instantly, the agony clawing up his arms, but he didn't pull away. He forced his fingers to move, clenching and unclenching his fists within the searing grains.
It felt like his bones were snapping. And sometimes, they did.
Crack.
The pain was unbearable. But he had read once—pain was just weakness leaving the body. He embraced it, let it consume him, let it mold him into something stronger.
Vorden finally spoke, his voice calm yet firm. "You're breaking yourself faster than you're improving."
Denwen panted, sweat pouring down his face as he withdrew his trembling hands from the burning sand. His fingers were red, raw, some even dislocated.
"Then I'll just heal faster," he muttered, popping a finger back into place with a sharp wince. "I don't have the luxury of pacing myself."
Vorden stared for a moment before exhaling. He didn't argue.
—
Back in the Fang Guild, his previous team was out of the question. He refused to work under them again. Instead, he took on solo missions—low-risk, low-reward, but enough to survive.
Collection tasks, resource gathering, corpse retrieval—jobs no one wanted. It didn't pay well, but cumulatively, it was enough.
He avoided team missions. The last experience had been enough to show him that relying on others was a fool's game.
His first few missions were simple: hunting weak disasters, scavenging abandoned ruins, escorting minor merchants. They weren't lucrative, but they provided a steady stream of income.
Every coin earned went into buying cores.
Every core was consumed, feeding his growth.
The improvement was slow—frustratingly so. But it was still progress.
—--
The dojo was nearly empty now, the last echoes of sparring matches and footfalls fading into silence. Dim lanterns cast long shadows across the polished wooden floor, reflecting the sweat that dripped from Denwen's brow. His breath came in steady but heavy exhales, his muscles aching from another grueling session with Vorden.
At the entrance, Kara leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, her sharp eyes locked onto him. In one hand, she held a towel; in the other, a bottle of chilled water, condensation dripping down its sleek surface.
"You really are pushing yourself, huh?" she said, her voice light but tinged with something else—something just shy of concern.
Denwen exhaled deeply before taking the water from her hand. "Come on, this is the only way I can truly catch up with you guys," he said, tilting his head back to take large gulps, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat.
Kara didn't respond immediately. Instead, she stepped forward and lightly pressed the towel against his forehead, dabbing away the sweat. Her touch was brief—almost dismissive—but the small gesture made his grip tighten around the bottle for just a second.
"That being said," she continued, her tone shifting, "I've noticed you've been visiting Professor Agrona's office a lot these past few weeks." Her golden eyes studied him carefully, searching for something beneath the surface.
Denwen lowered the bottle, swallowing the last bit of water. "Well… she took an interest in me a while back and later introduced me to Vorden for training," he said, flashing a small smile—one that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Kara didn't miss the slight hesitation in his words, the way he smiled just a little too quickly. She knew him well enough to sense when he was holding something back.
"You sure that's all it is?" she asked, her voice deceptively casual.
Denwen blinked. "What else would it be?"
For a moment, Kara just stared at him, the dojo's silence stretching between them. Then she exhaled, shaking her head lightly. "Nothing," she muttered, stepping back and tossing the towel onto his shoulder.
But the look in her eyes lingered, and Denwen could tell—she didn't like being left in the dark.
"Just… don't overdo it," she added, turning toward the exit. "Training's good, but don't forget to breathe."
He watched as she walked away, the tension in her shoulders subtle but unmistakable.
Denwen exhaled, rolling the water bottle between his fingers.
"She doesn't trust me".
—--
In an alley Far away from the Academy,
The alley reeked of damp filth and decay, the moonlight barely piercing through the thick, suffocating fog that clung to the abandoned street. Cracked cobblestones lay uneven beneath his feet, splattered with his own blood—thick, dark streaks trailing behind him like a signature of his impending death.
Elric's breaths came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he pushed his failing body forward. Every step sent sharp daggers of pain up his shattered leg, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side, twisted unnaturally from the brutal fall he had taken earlier. His once-pristine coat was now soaked in blood, torn open by gashes across his ribs, his shoulder, his thigh—each wound leaking life with every second.
He turned another corner, nearly stumbling as his boots splashed through a murky puddle. The flickering light of a broken street lamp illuminated the holographic screen on his wrist, the numbers crawling upward—92% uploaded.
"Not fast enough."
"Come on… just a little more," he gritted through clenched teeth. But he knew—at this pace, they were going to catch up. He pressed a trembling hand against the alley wall, forcing himself forward.
Then he heard it.
The sound of footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Unhurried.
They didn't need to run. They knew he was done.
Elric turned his head, his vision swimming from blood loss, and caught the faintest shimmer of movement at the alley's entrance. Dark figures, draped in long, tattered cloaks, faces obscured by shadowed hoods. Their presence felt… wrong. Unnatural. They made no sound beyond their footsteps, no visible weapons drawn, yet the air itself seemed to tighten around them, pressing against Elric's already labored breathing.
"They're here."
Panic surged in his chest as he scanned for an escape—another turn, another alley—anything. He forced himself forward, ignoring the searing pain that wracked his body. But when he reached the end of the block, his heart sank.
A dead end.
His bloodied fingers curled into a fist. Five separate passages stretched outward, leading to potential freedom—but before he could even take a step, more figures emerged from the darkness, blocking every exit.
One by one, they stepped forward, their faceless hoods turning in eerie unison to face him.
Trapped.
Elric clenched his jaw. 93% uploaded.
A deep, velvety voice echoed through the alley, almost amused.
"Elric…"
The spy stiffened as one of the hooded figures took a step forward, the others standing eerily still. Unlike the rest, this one radiated authority—a quiet, suffocating presence that coiled around Elric like unseen tendrils.
"Looks like you truly are at the end of your road," the figure mused, voice devoid of urgency. "Why not make this easy and hand over your findings? Maybe, just maybe, we'll consider sparing you."
Elric let out a breathless laugh, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. "Spare me?" He spat onto the ground. "You mean—turn me into one of those things." His grip on his ruined arm tightened. "Not a fucking chance."
A sigh.
"You really were a solid member," the figure said, almost sounding disappointed. "You were even being considered for a promotion. But it's a shame—you turned out to be a spy." The voice darkened, amusement fading. "Still, if you convert now… perhaps your blunder will be forgiven."
Elric exhaled, his lips curling into a grim smile. He let his head hang for a second, his body trembling—not from fear, but from acceptance.
He lifted his good hand, fingers twitching as heat pulsed through them. Slowly, the warmth spread, igniting the air around his palm.
A flickering ember.
Then a flame.
Then a roaring inferno.
"You already know my answer to that," he said, firelight reflecting in his weary eyes.
The figures remained motionless, the oppressive silence stretching.
Elric took a slow step forward, his last step forward.
And then, without hesitation—he charged.