Ten days had passed since the boy began his training.
It wasn't long enough for the world around him to change— but it was just enough for his body to start adapting.
During the first two days, the pain was so intense it nearly paralyzed him. He had pushed his exhausted body to the limit with push-up exercises far too soon— and quickly decided he wouldn't make that mistake again.
Instead, he chose a more patient approach: four sets of exercises each day.
He began with ten push-ups per set, then gradually increased the number as the days passed—to twenty, then thirty—never rushing.
As his endurance improved, even if only slightly, he began adding other simple exercises: sit-ups, squats, and planks—nothing fancy, just whatever his body could handle. It was crude, repetitive, and quiet—but it was movement.
But it was something.
It wasn't easy. Meals never changed: bland mashed potatoes, a chunk of hard bread, and a bit of water. But at least there were two a day.
Progress was painfully slow—mostly because of that.
He knew it wouldn't be of any real use in here, not in this hellhole, and not even outside. No matter how many push-ups... sit-ups or squats he did, they wouldn't make him strong enough to survive in a world ruled by magic.
He knew what awaited him if he continued down the path he had chosen.
Still, he kept going.
Not out of hope.
But because stopping felt worse.
With each passing day, the motions grew smoother. His body no longer collapsed with every push but moved like it was remembering something long forgotten.
His steps steadied, his breath grew calmer, and though still weak, his muscles began to respond.
They weren't growing stronger, but they were learning.
He began his training as usual, moving through the motions. But today, he wanted to test himself.
No broken sets. No pauses. Start to finish—one full round.
A true test of how far he'd come.
He had already been at it for a while, palms pressed to the cold floor, back straight, legs taut. Sweat dripped beneath him, mixing with dirt and fatigue. His throat burned, but he kept his breath steady.
He lowered himself—slow and controlled—chest hovering just above the ground. Then pushed up with a quiet grunt.
Down… and up.
Down… and up.
Each rep a test. Each rise a small victory.
He moved on, driven by nothing but sheer will—until his body began to fail.
"Just five more…"
"Just five…"
The words escaped more as breath than voice.
His form wasn't perfect, but it was steady—fueled by an unyielding will. He was counting:
"Ninety-six...
ninety-seven...
ninety-eight...
ninety-nine..."
Then he paused. But he didn't give up.
A broken sound slipped from his throat—half breath, half cry.
And with one final push:
"Two... hundred."
He froze at the top for a moment, then collapsed onto his side, gasping like someone who had just survived a battle.
"New record..." he muttered, voice shaky. "It doesn't hurt like it used to..."
The weakness that had clung to him since he arrived was fading. This body—it was starting to feel like his.
Sweat soaked the floor beneath him, mixing with grime and dust, clinging to his skin. He stared at the crumbling ceiling in silence, broken only by his ragged breath.
Slowly, he lifted his hand. It no longer trembled.
The change was small—nothing anyone else would notice. But to him, it meant everything.
It was proof he existed. Proof he was still here.
He no longer felt the fatigue that once weighed him down—nor the grime on his skin, the stench in the air, or the constant gnawing hunger. All of it faded, like it had never been there.
Then, in a low voice, each word dragging with weight, he whispered:
"Even if I did gain stronger muscles..."
"Better endurance..."
"a body that moves when I tell it to..."
He paused. The next words trembled like a breath stuck in his throat.
"I could live with that..."
"But would it be enough to protect... her?"
He already knew the answer.
How could strength alone face those who summoned fire with a word? Who raised walls of stone or drowned cities with a flick of their hand?
In a world ruled by magic, raw strength meant nothing. And that truth burned deeper than any wound.
"What do I have… to stand against that?", another question added to his ever-growing list.
But before he could spiral deeper into doubt, a sharp voice snapped him back:
"Hey, you brat?!"
He jolted from his haze, thoughts scrambling as if yanked from another world. Slowly, he turned toward the voice.
Borin stood before him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
"What's gotten into you today?" he asked, his tone sharp with impatience.
The boy looked up, but said nothing—his gaze empty, lips unmoving.
Borin's scowl deepened. "Did you go deaf all of a sudden, or are you just defying me on purpose?!"
He pointed at the bucket near his feet. "The bucket's waiting."
He stepped inside the cell, setting down a bucket of water. His face was stern as always—but his eyes held something else. Not anger… something closer to anticipation.
"Wash yourself," he ordered. Then, with a firmer voice "And your clothes too, just like last time."
"Make sure you're done before noon... I'll be back to check on you."
Without waiting for a reply, Borin shut the door and walked away.
The boy stared at it for a moment, brows slightly furrowed.
"Something's different today..." he murmured. "The timing, the tone in Borin's voice—it all felt off."
But despite all the doubts that lingered in his mind, he couldn't help but feel something else—gratitude.
He'd longed for this—anything to wash off the past few days of sweat and grime. His clothes clung to him like damp rags, and the air itself felt heavy.
Without delay, he scrubbed his clothes against the rough stone wall, the same way he had before.
Then, slowly, he poured water over his body. It ran down his thin frame in cool rivulets, pooling at his feet.
He took the coarse cloth and began scrubbing his skin.
The wounds were no longer there. The bruises had disappeared, and the skin that had once been swollen and dark was now closer to its natural color. It was still pale... but it was intact.
Still weak, still thin…But whole.
Once he finished washing, he dressed in his still-damp clothes. They were colder than before, but it didn't matter. His mind was elsewhere, stirred by a quiet curiosity.
°°°
As time passed, he sat on the bed in the corner of the cell, staring at the wall in silence. The weight of anticipation hung heavy. He whispered to himself, almost expecting what might happen,"Could it be... her?"
He glanced at his arm but shook his head, trying to convince himself, "It can't be Victoria..."
"She's from an aristocratic family... the upper class. She wouldn't care about slaves. There's no way she'd come here."
He paused, his voice softer and more rational: "Don't get your hopes up. Be realistic. It's been a while since Elara showed up. She's probably been looking for buyers..."
"Most likely, it's just a customer she knows, someone looking to buy slaves. Maybe Elara's been traveling around, seeking buyers."
As his thoughts wandered, the clamor of footsteps echoed, their sharp taps against the stone floor growing louder, joined by heavier steps.
Elara... she had returned. And, as always, Borin came with her.
Ten days had passed since her last visit, and she had been filled with frustration after their last encounter. But when she opened the door to the cell this time, she froze for a moment. A spark of new hope ignited within her.
She whispered to herself, staring at him in disbelief, unable to hide her surprise. "Borin wasn't lying!"
She had dismissed his words, convinced he was exaggerating about the boy. She almost thought he was confusing him with someone else.
The boy sat there, his pale skin still holding a faint sheen, his small frame now seeming stronger than she remembered. The wounds that had healed, the cleanliness of his clothes—it was hard to believe this was the same boy. The pale, exhausted boy who had nearly collapsed in her arms days ago, with dirt and wounds covering his features.
Her eyes drifted across the delicate features of his face—his forehead, which she'd never seen clearly before, the faint outline of a jawline just beginning to take shape, and his lips, no longer cracked and pale, but closed in a calm, unreadable line. Framing it all were messy strands of dark hair, and beneath them, that piercing, enigmatic gaze.
"He's not lying… he's changed completely. Everything!"
"Damn it… I've never seen a face like this before. Not even the lords in their gilded palaces—the ones I've dealt with—they don't come close to this kind of beauty."
The thought slipped through her mind, and she couldn't hide the astonishment in her eyes as she studied him.
"Even if he doesn't have magic..."
What once seemed like a mere possibility now appeared to be a golden opportunity. She could sell him and secure a decent profit... perhaps even more.
"You're surprised, aren't you?" Borin said, approaching her slowly. His hands clasped behind his back, a confident air around him.
"I told you—he looks completely different now. I've been taking care of him while you were gone."
Elara looked at him for a moment, her eyes narrowed as if trying to read his intentions. "You took care of him?" she replied coldly, then glanced at the boy again. "Since when do you care about slaves? You didn't even clean the cell, and you expect me to believe that?"
Borin shrugged indifferently, leaning against the wall next to the door. "Sometimes, things don't need a reason... But when you see something rare, you realize some investments are worth it."
She turned to him suddenly, as if understanding. "You want a share of the price, don't you?"
Borin chuckled softly, a brief laugh. "Me? No... of course not. But let's just say, I'd like my name mentioned when the profits start rolling in. Nothing more."
Elara fell silent, turning her gaze back to the boy who remained still, as if the past ten days had refined him into something unyielding.
With that thought, she took a step closer to him.
"You know..." she said calmly, addressing the boy, "I was about to give up on you. I thought you wouldn't last... But now, I see you've changed."
He didn't respond, not even a flicker of movement.
She smirked lightly. "Good. Don't talk too much. Customers love silence... it gives them space to project their fantasies onto you."
Then, her eyes suddenly lit up, as if an idea had struck her forcefully. "Lady Meredith... she might be interested in him."
She turned toward Borin, her tone filled with a mix of confidence and greed. "Lady Meredith is here. Bring him to her."
Borin froze, his eyes wide with disbelief. "You really want to bring this brat to the lady? What if he does something stupid?"
Elara shot him a sharp look, her expression unwavering. "Just bring him."
Borin muttered under his breath but didn't argue further.
They left the cell, but it wasn't long before Borin returned alone, holding a collar and iron cuffs in his hands.
"Alright, you little rat, it's your time. Extend your hands," he said.
Borin bent down, securing the iron collar around the boy's delicate neck and cuffing his wrists. A chain connected the collar to the cuffs, with Borin holding the other end.
The boy didn't flinch, offering no resistance.
With a sneer, Borin mocked, "You look quite stylish now..." His gaze searched for any hint of defiance or anger, but there was only cold, unyielding silence—no flicker of emotion, as if the boy's spirit had already left him.
Grumbling in frustration, Borin muttered, "I swear, this boy's crazy... You can never figure out what's going on in his head."
He then tugged on the chain connecting the collar and cuffs. "Alright, follow me. And don't think about doing anything suspicious."
It was the first time the boy's feet touched ground outside his cell, which, from the outside, resembled a dark hole carved into a dead wall.
He stepped into the hallway, the sound of the chain and his footsteps echoing in the narrow space, the walls closing in. The dim lighting barely revealed his features, despite it being midday. The air was thick with the smell of mold, and the walls were covered in blackness and cracks, as if untouched for centuries.
The cells lining both sides seemed like open mouths to an eternal void. Some were doorless, others sealed and empty, the silence disturbed only by the squeaking of rats. Yet, there was something eerie, as if ghosts were breathing within.
Borin continued walking, his steps guiding the boy until he stopped before a heavy metal door, more solid, less rusted. He opened it, revealing a narrow stone staircase leading to another door. Once they passed through, everything changed.
The walls were cleaner, the floor less sticky, and the air felt less suffocating. They stood before a thick wooden door, adorned with intricate carvings, its metal handle gleaming.
The boy's mind raced, analyzing the situation carefully. He couldn't afford to be bought, not now. He had a plan, and being sold would only complicate things. Outright defiance wasn't an option—it would only make matters worse. He needed a subtle approach, a way to make the buyer question his value without raising suspicion.
Borin knocked, waited a moment, then opened the door, dragging the boy inside.
...