Rashan stretched, rolling his shoulders as he prepared for the morning ahead. The first day of training with Jalil—and it was going to be brutal.
He had spoken to his father last night, requesting that the trainers put him through a hell year—a grueling regimen focused on conditioning, muscular endurance, and stamina. It would be relentless. It would be painful. But it was necessary.
In his old world, this wouldn't have been possible. A child's body would break under that kind of stress. But here? People were different. More resilient. Whether it was the result of ambient magicka, their natural physiology, or something else entirely, he wasn't sure. He had plenty of theories, but no solid answers yet.
His father still hadn't mentioned magic training. He was kind of crying inside. But he wouldn't ask again—that wasn't how the culture worked.
For Jalil, this was going to be even worse.
Rashan's goal wasn't just to train him. It was to break him.
If the boy couldn't endure it, then that was his problem, not Rashan's. He would have to make his own way. This was an opportunity, nothing more.
And even if Jalil somehow succeeded, Rashan had already planned a test for the end—a final trial to see if he truly had what it took.
The first month was about survival.
Every morning began with a five-mile run across the dunes before the sun reached its peak. The soft, shifting sands stole energy from their strides, each step more exhausting than the last. Jalil struggled almost immediately. His breathing was ragged, his legs shaking before the first mile was done, but Rashan kept going, never sparing him a glance.
After the run, they moved to strength training. Stone weights, logs, and sandbags took the place of traditional equipment. Push-ups, squats, and lifting drills beneath the relentless sun. Jalil collapsed more than once. The trainers simply looked to Rashan, who never gave an order to stop. By the second week, the boy had learned that pain was no excuse to rest.
Evenings were worse.
Rashan had specifically requested ocean training, something unheard of in Hammerfell. The trainers had hesitated at first—Redguards prided themselves on their naval strength, but true warriors trained on land, not in the sea. Rashan didn't care. He forced them to run the rocky cliffs down to the shore, dive into the waves, and swim against the crashing tides.
Jalil almost drowned twice.
The meals were just as deliberate as the training. Rashan refused to follow the standard noble diet, which, while rich and flavorful, wasn't optimized for physical performance. Redguard cuisine was built on endurance, but he adjusted it with knowledge from his past life, balancing protein, slow-burning carbohydrates, and fats in a way that maximized muscle recovery and sustained energy. Breakfasts consisted of grilled fish or lean meats, lentil porridge, and a mix of almonds, dates, and honey for quick energy. Heavy breads were swapped for dense flatbreads that wouldn't sit heavy before training. The midday meal was simpler—roasted lamb or game, steamed greens, and chickpeas instead of thick, spice-heavy stews. Evenings were the largest meal of the day, grilled meats or seafood with rice, fresh-cut vegetables, and crushed nuts. Hydration was carefully maintained with salted water and bone broths, with citrus and dates mixed in to replace what they lost in sweat.
Despite what he brought from his past life, Rashan quickly realized the Redguards had conditioning techniques he had never encountered before. Some of their methods were brutal but efficient, designed for warriors who had to endure battles that lasted for hours under the scorching sun. One drill involved sprinting up and down dunes with sand-filled water skins strapped to their backs, forcing them to fight against shifting ground while their muscles burned with exertion. Another had them balancing on wooden posts for extended periods, controlling their breathing as they moved through weapon forms, strengthening their core and sharpening their endurance in a way Rashan had never considered. They would stand in the midday sun, gripping weapons with their arms fully extended, not moving for what felt like eternity, their trainers walking among them, waiting for the first to drop their stance. Even Jalil, with his raw determination, nearly broke more than once.
Rashan never lost. He was always ahead.
He had forbidden himself from saving or loading the entire year. No resets. No second chances. If he failed, then he failed. If he collapsed, then he collapsed. If he was going to find the true limits of his body, it had to be done without the crutch of rewinding time.
So he pushed himself to exhaustion every single day.
It wasn't enough to be good. He had to be the best. Jalil improved, but Rashan was always ahead. His technique was sharper, his endurance longer, his strikes more precise. Every sparring session ended the same way—with Jalil on the ground and Rashan standing over him.
But Rashan knew the body could only take so much.
Once a week, there was a mandatory rest day. No running. No lifting. No swimming against the tide. The trainers had agreed, reminding him that recovery was just as important as training. The body needed time to rebuild, to grow stronger. Even Rashan had to admit that by the end of the first few months, the exhaustion had begun creeping into his bones. The rest day kept him from breaking himself entirely.
By the third month, things had shifted.
Jalil no longer hesitated in the mornings. His body had adapted, his muscles hardened by constant punishment. He had learned to breathe through the pain, to run even when his legs burned, to push even when exhaustion clouded his mind.
The trainers had begun paying attention.
The regimen became harsher. Resistance training with boulders. Holding positions in deep stances for agonizing minutes under the sun. Sparring matches where Rashan dismantled Jalil over and over again, forcing him to endure strikes, to keep standing no matter what.
And Rashan?
He tested himself differently. He never used his stamina bar to enhance his performance. He wanted to see if the base body of this world could surpass what he had once known. If natural ability alone could reach levels that would have been impossible back in his old life.
By the sixth month, Jalil had transformed.
He was no longer the eager but fragile boy who had stepped into Rashan's chambers. His frame was still lean, but his muscles were compact, efficient. His stance had changed, his posture more balanced, more controlled. He no longer needed Rashan to tell him to get up when he was knocked down. He got up on his own. Every time.
But Rashan wasn't looking for just physical growth.
By the eighth month, the real training began.
It wasn't just about strength. It was about willpower. Rashan introduced isolation training—forcing Jalil to go through his routine alone, without Rashan beside him. He planted doubt, created obstacles, pushed the boy into uncomfortable situations, waiting to see if he would crack.
Jalil faltered, but he never stopped.
The final stretch—the last four months—was where Rashan knew if he had built something real or if Jalil was simply enduring on borrowed time.
They trained in combat exclusively. No trainers, no watching eyes. Just Rashan and Jalil. The boy's strikes had weight now. His footwork was improving. He had learned to anticipate, to read movement, to react.
By the time Rashan turned eight, Jalil had survived a year of hell.
But surviving wasn't enough.
Rashan had one final test in mind.
A test that would determine if Jalil was truly worthy.
The last two weeks of training, Rashan shifted his approach. The brutal conditioning, the endless drills, the exhaustion—it all remained the same. But now, he was cruel.
It was calculated.
It was the same type of psychological training he had endured in the SEALs.
He criticized everything. Jalil's footwork was sloppy. His endurance was lacking. His strikes were weak. It didn't matter that the boy had improved beyond what most would expect from someone his age. It didn't matter that he was keeping up, pushing himself to his absolute limits. Rashan acted unimpressed, as if Jalil's best efforts were barely worth acknowledging.
When Jalil landed a clean strike in sparring, Rashan scoffed. "That's it? You're proud of that?"
When he completed his morning runs ahead of schedule, Rashan shook his head. "You think speed makes up for your form being garbage?"
When Jalil managed to carry a heavier stone than before, Rashan barely looked up. "Congratulations, you lifted a rock. You want a medal?"
Even when the trainers gave Jalil approving nods, Rashan remained cold. The others noticed. The questioning looks from the trainers and the servants watching from afar became more frequent, but no one said anything. They held their tongues, waiting to see where this would go.
Jalil looked helpless.
Not broken, but lost.
He gave his all, like he always had, but Rashan could see the doubt creeping in. Was he really improving? Was he just wasting everyone's time? Had all this effort meant nothing?
That was exactly what Rashan wanted.
The final day, he was the cruelest he had ever been.
Jalil had trained in silence all morning, throwing himself into the exercises with the same discipline as before. He was exhausted but determined. And yet, when he finished the last drill of the day, chest heaving, arms shaking, Rashan didn't nod, didn't acknowledge his effort.
Instead, he sighed.
"Pathetic."
Jalil looked up sharply, eyes wide. He had expected harsh words, but not that.
Rashan crossed his arms. "A year. A whole damn year, and this is all you have to show for it?" He gestured at him, eyes cold. "I could pick any street rat off the docks and they'd be at your level in a month. Maybe less."
Jalil clenched his fists. His breathing was uneven, not just from exertion, but from emotion.
Rashan took a slow step forward. "You really thought you were special, didn't you?" His voice was sharp, cutting. "That you had potential? That all your hard work meant something?"
Jalil's nails dug into his palms, but he said nothing. He held his ground, shoulders squared.
Rashan tilted his head, his next words spoken like an afterthought. "Maybe I should've picked someone else."
Rashan let the silence stretch between them. Jalil stood there, fists clenched, breath still uneven from exertion. His body was battered, his muscles shaking from exhaustion, and yet he had endured. He had taken every insult, every criticism, every dismissal, and had still shown up the next day, ready to push forward.
But today was different.
Rashan exhaled, shaking his head slowly. His expression was unreadable, but his voice was cold, final. "You know what? You're dismissed."
Jalil's breath hitched.
"You've failed."
The boy's posture stiffened. Rashan could see the way his fingers twitched, the way his chest rose and fell just a little faster.
"You will never be a warrior."
Jalil looked like he had seen a ghost. His mouth parted slightly, his shoulders sagging for just a second before he caught himself. Rashan could see him struggling to hold back the tears that burned in his eyes. Still a kid at the end of the day. Still human.
It actually sucked that Rashan had to do this. But he needed to be sure.
He turned away from him. "Go back to your mother. You have failed. You are not what I need."
He didn't look back as he walked away. He heard nothing—no argument, no cry of protest, just the quiet sound of someone standing in stunned silence, grasping at the weight of his words.
The next morning, before dawn, Rashan stood in the courtyard, arms crossed, watching the horizon. The sky was still dark, the first traces of sunrise barely creeping over the dunes. He had almost given up. Almost accepted that he had made a mistake, that his instincts had been wrong, that he had overestimated the boy's spirit. Then he saw him.
Jalil was running.
His pace was unsteady, his breath ragged, but he was running. Alone, without orders, without hope of proving himself.
Because it was all he knew to do.
Rashan waited, standing in the same spot as Jalil rounded the path. Eventually, the boy caught sight of him and slowed, chest rising and falling, sweat rolling down his forehead. His expression was hard to read—uncertainty, confusion, exhaustion—but not resentment.
He straightened, bowing his head. "Young master."
Rashan raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"
Jalil wiped the sweat from his brow, trying to control his breathing. "Training."
"Still have aspirations to be a warrior?"
Jalil said nothing.
Rashan studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Come. Let's get to training. They're waiting."
Jalil hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. "…What?"
Rashan smirked, gesturing for him to follow. "You didn't think I was going to coddle you, did you? You needed to learn the most important lesson there is."
Jalil still looked unsure, but he followed anyway.
"The world doesn't care about your effort." Rashan continued as they walked. "It doesn't care how much you bleed, how much you want something, or how hard you try. No one is going to stand beside you, pat your back, and tell you you're doing great. They'll just take what they want, step over you, and keep moving."
Jalil kept silent, his face unreadable.
"If you let someone else tell you that you've failed, and you believe them, then you were never meant to succeed in the first place."
Jalil's steps faltered for half a second, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. Then, slowly, his fists clenched.
Rashan's smirk widened. "Welcome back." As they called to training with Jalil in deep contemplation as he followed his young master.