Days bled into weeks, marked by a grueling new routine. The Crimson Hand presence remained a constant pressure, forcing Rhys and Boulder to maintain extreme caution, sticking to the deepest, most convoluted routes. Their existence became a triangulation between three points: the dank cellar hideout, the hidden sewer junction with its precious dripping stones, and the periphery of Master Kaelen's forge.
Supplies remained a critical issue. The credits Kaelen had given them were quickly spent on essential nutrient paste, water filters, and lamp oil. Widespread scavenging was simply too dangerous with Hand patrols actively searching for them. Rhys knew they couldn't rely on Kaelen's occasional generosity. Passive survival wasn't sustainable. He needed something concrete to trade, something consistently valuable.
The memory of Kaelen's reaction to the resonant gear and glassy rock sparked an idea. His Echo Sense wasn't just a tool for avoiding danger or finding cultivation spots; it was a divining rod for hidden value. Materials that hummed with clean, stable Aetherium Echoes, overlooked by mundane scavengers, were clearly prized by the blacksmith for his mysterious work. This was his leverage.
Rhys began dedicating specific, targeted scavenging runs solely to finding these resonant materials. He and Boulder would venture into decaying industrial sectors or collapsed Pre-Sundering residential blocks, Rhys meticulously scanning debris fields and eroded structures. It was slow, painstaking work. He learned to filter his Echo Sense with increasing precision, differentiating the faint, pure hum of valuable alloys or crystals from the chaotic static of hazardous energy pockets, the dull throb of common metals, or the deceptive glow of biologically active decay.
His finds were usually small but significant: a handful of geode-like nodules, drab grey on the outside but containing clusters of faintly glowing blue crystals within; several lengths of tough, insulated wire made from an unknown silvery alloy that pulsed with a cool, steady energy; a shard of opaque, obsidian-like material that felt strangely dense and absorbed ambient warmth, emitting a low resonant frequency. Each find required hours of searching, navigating treacherous ruins, and Boulder using his strength to shift heavy rubble concealing potential caches. But slowly, Rhys accumulated a small pouch of materials he instinctively felt Kaelen would value.
With his collateral secured, Rhys approached the forge again, this time with a specific purpose beyond mere barter. Kaelen was hammering a piece of dark, striated metal that seemed to drink the forge light, shaping it with powerful, precise blows. The rhythmic clang echoed the steady, grounded beat of Kaelen's own energy signature. Rhys waited patiently, respecting the craftsman's focus, until Kaelen plunged the glowing metal into a quenching trough with a violent hiss of steam.
Rhys stepped forward, holding out the pouch. "Found more of those… special scraps," he said, keeping his tone carefully neutral.
Kaelen eyed the pouch, then Rhys, his expression guarded. He took the pouch, emptying the contents onto his cluttered workbench. He picked through the items one by one – the blue crystals, the silvery wire, the obsidian shard. His initial skepticism softened into grudging interest, then a flicker of something akin to surprise in his deep-set eyes. He clearly recognized the quality, the purity of the resonance. These weren't common finds.
"What do you want for this lot?" Kaelen asked gruffly, already mentally assessing their worth for his own inscrutable purposes. "Credits?"
"No," Rhys shook his head, taking a steadying breath. This was the gamble. "Knowledge. Teach me. How to make my body stronger. Tougher." He deliberately kept his gaze focused on the physical aspect, framing it as a desperate need for mundane survival. "The Undercity… it breaks people. I don't want to break."
Kaelen went very still, his hammer resting on the anvil. He studied Rhys for a long, unnerving moment, his gaze seeming to bore right through him, perhaps sensing the deeper currents beneath Rhys's request – the faint thrum of the Aether Pool, the desperate drive for any kind of strength. He hefted the obsidian shard, feeling its weight, its resonance. The materials were undeniably valuable, useful for techniques few in Meridian still understood. Finally, after a silence thick with unspoken thoughts, he let out a heavy sigh that stirred the coal dust on the floor.
"Fine," he grunted, tossing the shard back onto the bench. "Materials are worth the effort. Barely." He fixed Rhys with a hard stare. "But the training… it's not like the fancy stances the shattered sects practice. It's pain. It's breaking down to build up. You won't like it."
Rhys simply nodded. "I understand."
Kaelen led him to a small, cleared area behind the forge, littered with discarded metal and smelling of soot and sweat. What followed was an introduction to a form of body refinement far removed from the elegant katas Rhys had occasionally glimpsed richer cultivators practicing topside. This was brutal, foundational conditioning.
First came the breathing. Kaelen demonstrated a deep, diaphragmatic technique, forcing Rhys to inhale until his lungs felt stretched to their absolute limit, then exhale slowly, deliberately, controlling the release. It felt unnatural, forced, making his head swim. Then came the stances. Low horse stances held until his thighs screamed and trembled uncontrollably, single-leg balances that tested his focus and endurance to the breaking point. Kaelen walked around him, offering only curt, critical commands: "Lower! Sink your weight! Shoulders back! Breathe, damn you, don't just gasp!"
The worst part involved weighted leather bags filled with packed sand and metal filings. Kaelen demonstrated methodically, striking specific points on his own arms, legs, and torso with controlled force. Then, he made Rhys do the same, guiding his initial strikes. The impact was jarring, sending shockwaves through his limbs, bruising flesh and rattling bone. It felt less like training, more like a systematic beating designed to deaden nerves and compact muscle fiber through sheer trauma.
Rhys struggled, gasping for breath, sweat stinging his eyes, muscles burning with an agony that eclipsed the memory of the Nexus energy surge. He nearly collapsed multiple times, only Kaelen's unyielding presence and barked commands keeping him upright. "Pain is a tool," Kaelen growled, watching Rhys tremble in a low stance. "Teaches you your limits. Then teaches you to ignore 'em. A weak vessel," he tapped his own solid chest, "can't hold power. Cracks under pressure. Remember that."
By the end of the session, Rhys was drenched in sweat, covered in rapidly forming bruises, and barely able to stand. His body felt like one giant ache. Kaelen regarded his state impassively, then tossed him a small, earthenware pot filled with a pungent, dark green salve. "For the bruises. Smells like hell, works like heaven. Practice every day. Same time. Don't slack off, or the trade wasn't worth my time."
Back in the cellar, applying the surprisingly soothing, albeit foul-smelling, salve to his bruised limbs, Rhys felt utterly hollowed out. The physical exhaustion was profound. Yet, as he sat catching his breath, a flicker of instinct guided him. He focused inward, drawing on his small, slowly growing Aether Pool. He circulated the cool, clean energy, directing it not randomly, but specifically towards the screaming muscles in his thighs and the throbbing bruises on his arms.
The effect wasn't instantaneous healing, not the dramatic regeneration whispered about in cultivator legends. But it was noticeable. A distinct soothing sensation flowed with the Aether, easing the sharpest edges of the pain. The deep ache seemed to recede faster than it normally would have. Where normally he would have been stiff and hobbled for days, he felt a subtle quickening of recovery, a lessening of inflammation. It was the first concrete synergy, a tangible link between his internal Aether cultivation and his battered physical form. His cultivation could aid his recovery from the brutal training Kaelen provided.
A grim determination settled over Rhys. The training was torture, but necessary. A stronger, more resilient body wasn't just crucial for surviving the Undercity's violence; he instinctively felt it would be essential for handling greater amounts of Aetherium energy as his cultivation progressed. Kaelen, gruff and dangerous as he might be, was an invaluable resource, providing both a path to physical strength and a market for the unique materials only Rhys could reliably find.
He now had two paths of advancement, intertwined and demanding: the painstaking cultivation of his Aether Pool at the hidden sewer junction, and the agonizing tempering of his physical vessel under Kaelen's harsh tutelage. Progress on both fronts felt agonizingly slow, but it was progress nonetheless. As he drifted into an exhausted sleep, fragmented whispers he'd overheard near the Undermarket drifted through his mind – chatter among older scavengers about a recent tunnel collapse uncovering structures from the 'Weaver's Era,' deep in an unstable sector. A forgotten age, rumored masters of energy… Weavers. The name resonated, planting a seed of dangerous curiosity. Perhaps true progress lay not just in incremental gains, but in seeking the source.