Cain ran for nearly an hour before reaching a secluded corner of the forest. Towering trees formed a canopy overhead. This place was his sanctuary—isolated, quiet, untouched by the scorn of others. Here, the air was cool, the shadows deep, and for a short time, the world felt bearable.
He paused to rest, catching his breath as beads of sweat rolled down his face. After a few minutes, he moved to a tree whose roots wound thickly around a pair of rusty old weights. Cain dragged them out and began lifting. The iron groaned with age, but he didn't care. The roughness made the work more satisfying.
Another hour passed in relentless repetition. He lifted, squatted, pressed, and pushed, his muscles straining, his breaths steady. When the weights exhausted him, he shifted to martial drills, his body flowing through sharp, disciplined motions. Punches, kicks, elbows, and pivots carved arcs through the air.
The benefits of physical training could never compare to Wave cultivation. Cain knew this all too well. But he also knew that a body honed to peak condition could draw Life Wave more efficiently. The difference was slight, almost negligible—but for someone like him, with no access to special resources, even a sliver of improvement mattered.
At last, he strapped on a pair of battered arm guards and weighted leg bands, positioning himself before a massive tree trunk. He inhaled deeply, steadied his stance, and struck.
Fist after fist slammed into the bark, each blow controlled, precise, and deliberate. The sound of impact echoed in the forest. His body moved with the practiced rhythm of someone who had spent countless hours training alone.
But pain soon flared in his side, sharp and merciless, a reminder of Jonathan's earlier strike. His ribs burned with every movement. Rather than retreat, Cain leaned into the agony, channeling his frustration into his blows. The more his ribs screamed, the harder he struck.
Minutes blurred into agony. Only when he noticed blood seeping from beneath his arm guards did he halt. His knuckles were raw, his breath ragged.
"Dammit!"
His voice broke the serenity of the forest, raw with fury. The stoicism he had clung to at school shattered, replaced by the frustration buried deep within.
"I train so hard—so why am I still so weak?!"
He had endured the sneers, the taunts, the contempt of his peers. He had walked with his head high, pretending their words meant nothing. But he was fourteen. He could not lie to himself forever. How could he accept that no matter how hard he worked, talent alone would bar him from success?
For a moment, despair threatened to consume him. But his eyes, still burning with fury, also glimmered with something else—resolution. No matter the odds, Cain refused to surrender.
He drew a long breath, trying to calm the storm in his chest. That was when it struck him—an overwhelming sense of danger, cold and absolute.
Instinct screamed. Cain hurled himself to the ground just as a spear whistled through the air. It pierced the tree he had been striking with a sickening crunch, sinking deep into the wood.
Cold sweat trickled down Cain's back. A second slower, and that spear would have impaled him.
"I guess even garbage can have decent instincts."
The mocking voice came from behind. Cain rose, fists clenched, and turned. A bulky figure stepped from the trees, a cruel smile plastered across his face.
Kiron.
Cain's jaw tightened. He recognized the youth instantly—the same brute who had stood beside Jonathan that morning.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Cain's voice was hoarse with anger.
Kiron strolled forward with infuriating calm. His grin widened. "Isn't it obvious? I'm here to teach you a lesson. Did you really think I'd let garbage like you insult me in front of everyone and walk away unscathed?"
Cain's glare hardened. "Do you think you can just kill me and get away with it?"
Even in the empire of the Godslayer Humankind, where strength ruled above all, society still upheld rules. Civilization would have collapsed centuries ago without them.
Kiron laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet forest. "Who's going to notice if an orphan disappears? Who's going to care? No one will even know what happened here."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black orb, smooth and metallic. Cain's stomach sank.
The moment he tried to connect to the A.I. Chip's communication protocols, he felt interference. His calls for help bounced back into silence.
"An electromagnetic jammer," Cain realized grimly. "That orb blocks all outgoing signals."
Before he could plan his next move, something else made his blood run colder.
A faint glow began at Kiron's lower abdomen, spreading outward until his entire body shimmered with light. A translucent sky-blue aura covered him from head to toe, radiating strength.
Cain's heart sank. He had seen this before. Jonathan had used it against him.
Wave Cloak.
Kiron sneered, flexing as his aura flared brighter. "What do you think? I advanced last week. I'm a Level One Wave Warrior now. With this cloak, your little tricks won't even scratch me."
He lunged before Cain could reply, covering the forty meters between them in four seconds. His speed was unnatural, his steps pounding against the forest floor like thunder.
Fear prickled Cain's spine, but he forced it down. Running would mean instant death—he'd never outpace someone cloaked in Wave. Instead, he forced his mind to stillness, analyzing every movement, every possibility.
At the last moment, Cain pressed his back against the tree and slipped aside. Kiron's fist slammed into the trunk where his head had been. Wood cracked. Splinters flew.
Cain struck in the chaos, his fist whipping into Kiron's temple. The blow made the bigger boy stumble, the aura blunting the damage but not the shock. Before Kiron could recover, Cain kicked sharply at his knee. Pain flared across Kiron's face as his leg buckled.
Cain pulled back immediately, dodging the retaliatory swing aimed at his chest. He spun and kicked upward, his heel smashing into Kiron's jaw.
The strikes weren't enough to break through the cloak. But they disrupted him, weakened his stance, rattled his senses. Cain had chosen his targets carefully: temple, knee, jaw—weak points where even a small impact mattered.
Kiron reeled, but the protection of his Wave Cloak kept him standing. His shock twisted into rage. The arrogant grin vanished, replaced by snarling fury.
"Fucking trash!" Kiron roared, spittle flying from his mouth.
Gone was the relaxed predator who had stalked into the forest. Now he attacked like a beast unchained, fists lashing out in a storm of violence. Each blow carried enough force to shatter stone, the Wave Cloak amplifying his strength.