(Anastarka's POV)
"Begin."
The word was a stone dropping into the silent well of my despair. It was my only defiance against the crushing gravity, against the monstrous void that had swallowed my daughter.
But as the echoes of my own voice faded, the reality of my situation crashed down on me with more force than the 15g pressure.
'WTF… what was that? What was I thinking? Begin? Begin what?!'
My mind, which had been momentarily clear with righteous fury, was now a chaotic storm of panic.
'How? How can I save her? I'm powerless! I'm a broken toy in a dungeon! That thing… that Demon King… it used magic, it tore a hole in the world! I can't even stand up properly!'
As if summoned by my thoughts, the Demon King's voice, Jath'lyn's voice, echoed through the chamber. It wasn't just a sound; it was a presence, a needle of pure malice drilling into my mind.
"So, the little mouse has found its squeak. It is useless. Can you hear her, broken mother? Can you hear your precious treasure?"
And then I heard it.
"Mama! Mama, help me! It hurts! I'm scared!"
Kalyth's scream. It wasn't a memory. It was real, immediate, tearing through the fabric of the dimension, a phantom blade twisting in my heart.
"KALYTH!" I shrieked, clawing at the stone floor, my nails scraping uselessly.
"She cries for a mother who cannot even stand. A mother who let her be taken," the voice mocked, dripping with cruel amusement. "Every second she is in my grasp, a piece of her light becomes mine. A year is a long time for a child's soul to be… siphoned."
The scream echoed again, weaker this time, more desperate. It broke me. My newfound resolve crumbled into dust. Tears of helpless rage streamed down my face, sizzling on the strangely warm stones. I slammed my fist against the floor, a pathetic gesture that sent a jolt of pain up my arm but did nothing else.
'Useless… He's right, I'm useless… I can't do this… I'm not strong enough…'
Just as I was about to be completely consumed by the abyss of my own failure, the other voice returned. The grand, ethereal, choral voice of the System that had offered me this trial.
{YOU ARE CORRECT.}
The voice was blunt. No pity. Just a statement of fact.
'Huh?'
{YOU ARE NOT STRONG ENOUGH. YOU ARE WEAK. PATHETIC. A DUCHESS IN NAME ONLY. HAD YOU FACED THE DEMON KING NOW, YOU WOULD HAVE DIED BEFORE YOU COULD EVEN REGISTER YOUR OWN DEATH. YOUR CHILD WOULD BE LOST FOREVER.}
The words were harsher than the Duke's, but they didn't feel cruel. They felt… true. They were a cold, hard slap of reality.
"Then what was the point?!" I screamed at the empty air. "Why offer me a trial I can't win? Why give me hope just to crush it?!"
{THE TRIAL IS NOT TO DEFEAT HIM TODAY. THE TRIAL IS TO BECOME THE WOMAN WHO CAN DEFEAT HIM A YEAR FROM NOW. YOU ARE A CHOSEN ONE OF THE GODS, ANASTARKA VON VARKOVA. YOUR BLOODLINE SLEEPS. YOUR POWER IS A CAGED TIGER. WE ARE HERE TO UNLEASH IT.}
'Chosen one? Bloodline? I don't understand any of this…'
{YOU DO NOT NEED TO UNDERSTAND. YOU ONLY NEED TO OBEY. TO TRAIN. TO BECOME STRONG. I WILL PROVIDE THE MEANS. I WILL PROVIDE THE BEST INSTRUCTORS IN ALL OF CREATION.}
Another window of golden light popped into existence before my eyes. It showed my own status, my pathetic Level 25, my laughable stats.
{EVERY DROP OF SWEAT, EVERY STRAINED MUSCLE, EVERY DROP OF BLOOD YOU SPILL IN TRAINING WILL INCREASE YOUR BASE ATTRIBUTES. STRENGTH, VITALITY, AGILITY. YOU WILL GROW TANGIBLY STRONGER. HOWEVER, YOUR LEVEL WILL NOT INCREASE. THIS IS NOT A GIFT. THIS IS FORGING. YOU WILL EARN EVERY OUNCE OF YOUR NEW POWER.}
'So I can get stronger… but not level up? Why?'
{A LEVEL IS A MARKER OF EXPERIENCE AGAINST THE REAL WORLD. THIS REALM IS A HYPERBOLIC FORGE. IT STRENGTHENS THE STEEL; IT DOES NOT ADD TO ITS MASS. ARE YOU READY?}
"Ready for what? I'm still in this… this cell! This Spire of Despair!"
{THIS IS MERELY THE ANTECHAMBER. THE FORGE IS ELSEWHERE. A PLACE OUTSIDE OF TIME AND SPACE, WHERE THE VERY AIR WILL TEST YOUR LIMITS. DO YOU WISH TO ESCAPE THIS DEMON REALM AND ASCEND TO THE CELESTIAL ASCENSION GROUNDS?}
Celestial Ascension Grounds. The name was so grand, so holy, it felt utterly disconnected from my filthy, desperate reality. Escape? Yes, I wanted to escape. But…
"But my daughter!" I cried out, the image of Kalyth being dragged into the vortex flashing in my mind. "He took her here! If I leave, how can I save her? I have to climb the tower!"
{FOOLISH WOMAN,} the voice boomed, a hint of what sounded like divine impatience creeping in. {YOUR CHILD IS NOT IN THIS PHYSICAL LOCATION. THE DEMON KING TOOK HER SOUL TO HIS TRUE SANCTUM, A PLACE INTERWOVEN WITH THIS TRIAL. THE PATH TO HER IS NOT THROUGH THIS HALLWAY, BUT THROUGH YOUR OWN STRENGTH. WHEREVER YOU ARE, THE SPIRE OF DESPAIR WILL BE YOUR GOAL. THE CELESTIAL GROUNDS ARE SIMPLY THE TRAINING YARD. THERE ARE NO BUTS. THERE IS ONLY PREPARATION.}
Before I could argue, before I could voice another desperate plea, the voice declared:
{SUMMONING INSTRUCTORS.}
The air in the chamber crackled. Two pillars of light, one a brilliant, blinding white-gold like a miniature sun, the other a serene, razor-sharp silver like a sliver of the moon, erupted from the floor on either side of me.
I shielded my eyes, the sheer power radiating from them a palpable force.
From the silver light, a man stepped out. He was… unassuming. He was Japanese, his features sharp and focused, with a wisdom in his eyes that seemed ancient. He wore a simple, dark hakama, and two katana—one long, one short—were tucked into his obi. He wasn't muscular in the way the Duke's guards were. He was lean, wiry, like a wolf. He looked at me, and his gaze wasn't pitiful or disdainful; it was analytical, like a master craftsman inspecting a flawed piece of wood.
From the golden pillar of light, another figure emerged. This one was the complete opposite. He was a giant of a man, built like a mountain, with a great, thick white beard and hair that crackled with latent electricity. He wore an immaculate white toga bordered with gold, and his eyes, a piercing electric blue, radiated an immense, almost unbearable authority and arrogance. He wasn't holding a weapon, but I felt with absolute certainty that he was a weapon.
The two men stood there, the quiet swordsman and the roaring god, and stared down at me, a pathetic, weeping woman pinned to the floor.
The bearded giant scoffed, his voice a roll of thunder that shook the very stones. "Hmph! So this is the vessel? The last of the Varkova? By my cloudy crown, she's pathetic! Look at her, Musashi! She's naught but skin and bone and tears! How can this creature possibly wield my blessing?"
The swordsman, Musashi, simply stroked his chin, his gaze never leaving me. "The steel is rusted, Lord Zeus. The edge is dull. But the core… the core is true. It has not yet been quenched."
Zeus.
The name from my sealed blessing. This thunderous, arrogant god was the source of one of my dormant powers. It was too much to comprehend.
Zeus took a step towards me, the 15g gravity not seeming to affect him in the slightest. He loomed over me like a storm cloud. "We cannot work with this. This body is a disgrace. It has no muscle. Its bones are brittle. Its spirit is drenched in self-pity. This is not a warrior. This is a victim."
Every word was a nail in the coffin of my pride.
Musashi knelt, moving with a fluid grace that defied the pressure. He was now at eye level with me. His voice was calm, quiet, but carried an undeniable weight. "A victim can be reforged. But the process is not kind. Your body must be broken down to its base elements before it can be rebuilt. Your mind must be emptied of all weakness before it can be filled with strategy. It will be a living hell."
"A living hell is where I already am," I rasped, a spark of defiance cutting through my despair. "My daughter… I have to save her."
Zeus laughed, a booming, humorless sound. "Your love is a fuel, mortal. But you have no engine! We must build the engine first." He crossed his massive arms. "The divine trial allows one year. We cannot waste a single moment. Miyamoto Musashi here will be responsible for your body, your blade, your instincts. I shall be responsible for your mind, your mana, your divine authority."
The two of them. A legendary swordsman from my world's history and the King of the Gods. These were my teachers. My head was spinning.
Musashi spoke again, his voice laying out my sentence. "The first four months will be dedicated solely to forging your vessel. You will do nothing but push your physical limits. You will eat what we provide, sleep when we allow it, and spend every waking moment in excruciating exertion. We will break every muscle so it may rebuild stronger. We will harden your skin into armor. You will have no weapon. You are the weapon, and you are being forged."
'Four months… just physical training?'
Zeus picked up the thread, his voice dripping with condescension. "And for the following five months, once your body is no longer a pathetic liability, the true lessons will begin. Musashi will teach you the way of the sword, the path of the warrior. I," he puffed out his chest, "will teach you how to command the storm in your blood. You will learn to call down the lightning and summon the frost. You will learn what it means to have the favor of a god."
Nine months. Nine months of hell before I could even think about starting the trial. It felt like an eternity. Kalyth was suffering now.
"Nine months is too long!" I protested, pushing myself up on trembling arms. "I don't have that kind of time!"
"You have exactly that much time," Musashi said, his voice firm, cutting off any argument. "Attempt the Spire now, and you die on the first floor. Your daughter's soul is forfeit. Spend nine months with us, and you might have a chance to see the second. The choice is simple."
He was right. I knew he was right. My desperation was a poison, clouding my judgment.
I looked from the calm, immovable swordsman to the arrogant, powerful god. They were my only hope. I had to trust them. I had to trust the trial. For Kalyy..
I grit my teeth, the taste of blood and dirt in my mouth. I met their gazes, one serene, one stormy, and forced the last of my weakness down.
"I'll do it," I said, my voice no longer a whisper, but a raw, ragged declaration. "Whatever it takes. I'll do it."
Zeus smirked. "Good. Then let us depart this dreary cesspool."
He raised a hand, and the world dissolved into brilliant white light. The oppressive pressure vanished, the cold stone floor disappeared. I found myself standing in a vast, empty expanse under a sky that was a perpetual, serene dawn. Before me was a single, simple dojo. Behind me, endless plains. This was the Celestial Ascension Grounds.
My year of hell had begun.
(Kalyth's POV)
'And… scene! Annnnd cut! That's a wrap, people! Magnificent performance from everyone!'
I floated in a warm, comfortable darkness. The terrifying shadow tentacles were gone. The booming voice of the Demon King was silenced. The moment the "portal" closed, my bindings had dissolved and the Stasis Field kicked in.
It was a perfect, zero-gravity sensory deprivation tank. It was absolute bliss.
A familiar blue window popped up in my personal void.
[Master, your performance was exemplary. Maternal Empowerment Protocol, revised as Project Apotheosis, has been successfully initiated. Subject Anastarka has accepted the trial and has been transported to the Celestial Ascension Grounds with the instructor constructs.]
I did a slow, lazy backflip in the void, a massive grin plastered on my face.
"Akira, you magnificent bastard!" I cheered, my voice echoing only in my own head. "That was AMAZING! The special effects! The voice acting! The timing! You're a genius! A god-tier stage director!"
[I am merely fulfilling my function to ensure the highest probability of mission success, Master.]
"Don't be so modest! That was art! The Demon King? Jath'lyn the Soul-Collector? So chuuni, I love it! And pulling Zeus and Musashi out of the historical/mythological database? Chef's kiss! Perfect choices!"
I stretched languidly, feeling like a cat in a sunbeam. No crushing gravity, no dying mother, no murderous father. Just peace, quiet, and the sweet, sweet taste of victory.
'So, Mama's off to her training montage bootcamp. That gives me… one whole year.'
A year. Three hundred and sixty-five days. With nothing to do. No responsibilities. No expectations.
My otaku blood, which had been simmering with excitement, began to boil over. The possibilities were endless.
"YAHOOOO!" I shouted, pumping my fists in the void. "ONE YEAR OF FREEDOM! IT'S A VACATION! A HOLIDAY! WOOOOH!"
This was better than any isekai protagonist's starting bonus. I got to be the mastermind and go on break.
"Akira! My loyal, brilliant, beautiful system! You know what time it is, don't you?"
[I believe I do, Master. Would you like me to activate the media player from [Akira's Library]?]
"You know it! Full dive! Biggest screen imaginable! Comfiest beanbag chair in the universe! And an endless supply of cola and pizza-flavored potato chips! Let's get this party STARTED!"
[As you wish. Rendering entertainment environment.]
The comfortable darkness around me dissolved, replaced by the most incredible home theater I could ever have imagined. I was sitting in a ridiculously plush beanbag chair that molded perfectly to my small body. Before me was a screen that seemed to be a hundred feet tall, its picture quality so crisp it felt more real than reality. To my right, a floating tray materialized, holding an ice-cold glass of cola and a bag of chips that magically refilled itself.
This. Was. Heaven.
"Alright, Akira!" I said, grabbing a handful of chips and stuffing them in my mouth. Crunch. "First order of business. We're starting from the top. The absolute peak. The king of all kings."
[Please specify the media title, Master.]
I pointed a dramatic, chip-dusted finger at the screen, a fire in my eyes.
"Play One Piece! From Episode 1! I'm gonna have a marathon! I'm gonna watch the entire damn thing! Let's set sail for the Grand Line, Akira!"
[Loading… Episode 1: "I'm Luffy! The Man Who's Gonna Be King of the Pirates!". Now playing.]
The iconic opening music blasted from speakers that seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once. The familiar face of Gol D. Roger appeared on the screen.
I leaned back, sinking into the beanbag, a blissful sigh escaping my lips. My mother was off getting tortured by a god and a swordsman to become a legendary warrior.
And I was about to watch a rubber boy punch a sea monster.
'Heh. Ganbare, Mama,' I thought with a lazy, satisfied smile, popping another chip into my mouth. 'Work hard. Your daughter is counting on you. And she's also counting how many episodes until they get to Alabasta. This is gonna be great.'
(Anastarka's POV - Nine Months Later)
The first month was hell.
The second month was a deeper circle of that same hell.
The third month… the third month was when hell started to feel like home.
My days were a blur of unending, monotonous agony. Zeus and Musashi were not teachers; they were tormentors. They were slave drivers.
My mornings began before the celestial dawn, with Zeus roaring at me to run. I would run across the endless plains until my lungs burned, my legs gave out, and I collapsed into the dirt. The 15g gravity was gone here, but Zeus had a fun replacement: he'd call down small, localized lightning strikes right behind my heels, forcing me to run faster, pushing me past limits I never knew I had.
"FASTER, MORTAL! MY GRANDMOTHER RUNS FASTER THAN YOU, AND SHE'S A TITAN MADE OF ROCK!"
After the running came the strength training. There were no weights. There were just… rocks. Musashi would point to a boulder the size of a carriage and say, "Lift it."
The first time, I couldn't even budge it. I strained until the blood vessels in my eyes felt like they would burst. He made me stay there all day, pushing, straining, failing. The next day was the same. And the next. For a week, I pushed against an immovable object. It was a lesson in futility, in humility. Then, on the eighth day, it shifted. A fraction of an inch. It was the greatest victory of my life. By the end of the fourth month, I could lift it over my head.
My diet was a tasteless, high-energy paste that Akira's system materialized three times a day. My bed was the hard floor of the dojo. My only companion was the searing pain in every fiber of my being.
The soft hands of a Duchess became gnarled and covered in thick, hard calluses. My pale skin, once shielded from the sun, became tanned and weathered. The willowy, thin frame I'd had was gone, burned away and replaced by something new.
After the four months of physical forging were complete, the true lessons began.
Musashi handed me a simple wooden sword, a bokken.
"This is your only friend," he said, his voice quiet as ever. "Learn its weight. Its balance. It is an extension of your arm. Your arm is an extension of your will. For the next month, you will do nothing but swing it."
And so I did. Ten thousand swings a day. From dawn until dusk. He would correct my form with a sharp rap of his own bokken on my knuckles or my back. He taught me breathing. How to draw power not from my arms, but from my feet, my hips, my core. My world shrank to the simple, meditative whoosh of wood cutting through air.
While Musashi trained my body, Zeus trained my mind and my blood.
"YOUR POWER IS A RAGING SEA, FOOL!" he would bellow as I sat cross-legged, trying to meditate. "YOU TRY TO CUP IT IN YOUR HANDS! COMMAND IT! YOU ARE A VARKOVA! THE STORM IS YOUR BIRTHRIGHT! FEEL THE STATIC IN THE AIR! BEND IT TO YOUR WILL!"
He would have me sit in thunderstorms he created, forcing me to feel the raw, untamed energy of the lightning, to become one with it. He taught me to draw on the cold in my soul, a cold born of years of neglect, and shape it into armor of shimmering ice. The first time I managed to create a single, pathetic spark of lightning between my fingers, he called it "a flea's fart of electricity," but I saw a flicker of something—not pride, but at least grudging acknowledgement—in his stormy eyes.
The months bled into one another. The days of swinging the bokken turned into weeks of sparring against Musashi. He was a phantom, a ghost of movement. I could never touch him. He would disarm me, trip me, tap me on the forehead with his blade a hundred times in a row, all without breaking a sweat.
But I learned. I learned to see not his body, but his intent. I learned to feel the shift in the air before he moved. My [Blessing of the War God] was stirring, my combat intuition sharpening from a dull stone into a razor's edge.
My magic grew alongside my swordsmanship. I could call down a bolt of lightning, not as grand as Zeus's, but enough to shatter a boulder. I could encase myself in [Frost Armor] that could withstand a full-force blow from Musashi's bokken.
Nine months after I arrived in this place, I stood in the center of the dojo. I was no longer the woman who had been thrown into the dungeon.
That woman was dead.
My hair, once carefully coiffed, was now a practical, shoulder-length cut, tied back from my face. My body was a landscape of lean, defined muscle, etched into my back, my arms, my legs. My stomach was a plate of hardened sinew. My skin bore a roadmap of faint, silvery scars from training mishaps and spars.
I wore a simple, dark training gi, the fabric tough and comfortable. My hands rested on the hilt of a real katana, a gift from Musashi. Its steel was dark, seeming to drink the light.
I stood before my two instructors. For the first time, they were both silent.
Musashi just watched me, a faint, almost imperceptible nod his only comment.
Zeus, for once, was not shouting. He stroked his great white beard, his electric-blue eyes assessing me from head to toe. The condescension was gone, replaced by a look of intense scrutiny, like a smith examining a newly forged blade fresh from the fire.
I felt different. I was different. The air around me felt different. It wasn't just the confidence. It was an aura. A stillness. The intimidating presence of someone who had been to hell and had decided to redecorate.
Finally, Zeus spoke, his voice a low rumble, devoid of its usual arrogance.
"The vessel has been forged. The power has been awakened. The woman is gone." He looked at Musashi, then back at me, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "But a sword is useless until it has been tested in a true battle. A warrior is not a warrior until she has tasted blood."
He pointed a thick finger at me.
"The time for training is over, Anastarka von Varkova."