And just like that, his cycle began.
Every morning, Damien would wake up, drag his useless, bloated body to the training hall, and drink the brew—the potion of destruction, as he had come to call it.
The next three hours would be hell.
Pain.
Excruciating, mind-consuming agony.
His muscles ate themselves with every step, every movement on the treadmill, every drop of sweat that fell to the floor. He felt his body tearing itself apart, muscles convulsing, twitching uncontrollably as the forced degradation worked through him like a disease.
But he never stopped.
He couldn't.
At the three-hour mark, when his body was screaming—screaming—for relief, he would drink the healing potion, letting it sew him back together, forcing his body into a rapid reset.
Then, he would enter the recovery baths—one scalding hot, the other freezing cold, alternating between the two to shock his muscles into rejuvenation.
And while he did this—
Elysia would bring his meal.
