The first thing Nero felt when he woke from a well-deserved night of sleep was quietude.
The kind that came after exhaustion had finally run its course.
His body, though rested, still carried the remnants of strain from the Shatterveil, but it was nothing he couldn't push through.
As he sat up, stretching his shoulders, his mind sharpened to full awareness.
One week.
That was all the time he had before meeting Dumbledore.
Rising from the bed, he dressed swiftly, each motion smooth and practiced.
As he stepped into the hall and made his way through the compound, a quiet anticipation stirred beneath his calm.
His clones had been working nonstop during his absence.
Now it was time to check on their progress.
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The dojo door slid open with a faint creak.
As Nero stepped into the dojo, he was greeted by a chorus of voices.
"Welcome back, boss."
Nero smirked.
His clones, four of them, stood at various points in the dojo, each mirroring his own sharp-eyed focus.
His shikigami clones were more than mere imitations.
They were extensions of his will, carrying the same personality, the same drive, even fragments of his stubborn pride.
Over the past three weeks, while he had fought to survive the horrors of the Shatterveil, they had remained here, refining his technique without pause.
They weren't the same four, naturally.
Each wave had handed off their knowledge before unraveling, like runners in a silent relay.
As long as they didn't run out of the shikigami paper Nero had crafted in advance, the system could theoretically sustain itself for quite some time.
He let his gaze sweep over them. "Three weeks of nonstop work. You holding up?"
One of the clones shrugged. "We're you. Of course we are."
"Besides," another added, cracking his neck, "we may not have been dodging death, but trying to grasp Muso without dying of frustration? That was its own battlefield."
Nero huffed a quiet laugh. "So? Anything new?"
The four exchanged glances before one of them shook his head.
"Not yet. We feel like we're getting closer, but Muso isn't something that can be rushed. As you know, it's about reaching a state of existence we haven't fully grasped yet. We need more time."
Another clone added, "That said, the foundations are solidifying. We've made small gains, but the gaps are still there. Muso is still beyond reach."
Nero nodded, absorbing the information.
It was as expected. Muso wasn't something he could brute force.
Still, every millimeter of progress mattered.
Nero invoked two other clones, as he turned his attention inward.
Muga. The principle of complete selflessness.
A state of absolute instinct in battle.
He had managed to enter it during his fight with Malrik.
But it hadn't come naturally.
Unlike Mu, who had molded himself into Muga's philosophy over decades, Nero had to fight for every second of it.
Muga wasn't built for him, nor was he built for it.
His instincts, his fighting style, and his very way of engaging with combat were misaligned with complete surrender.
At this stage, it was an imperfect fit, something he forced into place, rather than something that flowed through him.
The Shatterveil had exposed that misalignment.
His duel with Malrik had laid those cracks bare.
There were three core limitations.
Activation: the mental shift required to enter the state took too long to be practical in high-speed battle.
Duration: his body could sustain it only briefly before strain began to stack.
Instability: the longer he remained in it, the more his identity began to blur, dissolving into the rhythm of the battlefield.
He recalled the moment.
Cold air spinning, shadows pressing in, Malrik's venomous voice echoing.
Malrik had underestimated him, playing, not hunting.
If he had gone for the kill from the very start, Nero wouldn't have had the chance to enter Muga.
Protego Nivalis had been the true cornerstone of his survival.
The spell of snow and ice, inspired by Protego Diabolica, had bought him just enough time.
This sanctuary within the storm gained him enough time to peel away thoughts, one by one, until the stillness of Muga took hold.
If Malrik had pressed harder or faster from the start of the fight... it would have been over.
Even then, he had only held the state for a few moments.
His awareness expanded while his sense of self eroded.
The deeper he sank, the more the battle became everything… and he became nothing.
He muttered aloud, "Muga grants awareness, but not control. If I push too far, I'll be the one swallowed up."
One of the clones nodded grimly. "It's a double-edged sword. You see everything, but you forget who's holding the blade."
Nero gave a faint nod.
"And the real reason I slipped out of it," he continued, "was when I tried to kill Malrik with a Void-infused Diffindo. I channeled all my will into that single strike. But in doing so, I disrupted the balance."
He exhaled.
"Instead of flowing with Muga, I imposed myself on it. My will clashed with the stillness. And that break in harmony... made the spell veer off. It was aiming to cut him in two."
A pause. His gaze sharpened.
"Yet it only severed his arm."
The second clone crossed his arms. "Without refinement, the limitations will get us killed."
The first gave a lopsided smirk. "That just means we've got more work to do."
Nero exhaled slowly, as he fell silent for a moment.
There were at least two paths ahead.
Force Muga to fit.
Through sheer repetition. Muscle memory. Resistance training for the soul.
Or find, or create a state that better aligned with his nature.
Something where control and awareness could coexist.
Maybe Muso would offer that clarity. Maybe not.
Or maybe… the answer would lie between them.
He looked around the dojo. "Alright," he said finally.
"Time to go through your experiences."
The clones nodded in sync.
Nero stepped into the center of the space, lowered himself cross-legged, and closed his eyes.
The moment the link activated, it hit like a wave.
Three weeks of training.
Elemental flow tests. Meditation structures. Failed states. Accidental triggers. Adjusted forms.
Every note, every thought, every flicker of insight surged into him.
His body tensed. His breath hitched.
Processing clone feedback demanded discipline to sift what mattered from what didn't.
Time lost meaning.
Hours passed as he remained rooted, unmoving, as memories layered atop memories.
Absorbing. Understanding.
The clones had not reached a breakthrough in Muso, but their accumulated knowledge refined his understanding.
They had eliminated half a dozen false paths and traced the contour of his next training direction.
When he finally opened his eyes, the dojo was darker.
Evening had fallen. Shadows pooled across the floorboards.
His limbs ached. His thoughts were heavy.
But the knowledge had settled.
He rolled his shoulders, slow and deliberate.
He hadn't reached Muso. Far from it.
But he truly understood the scope of their progress.
And he understood what came next.
He had one week.
And every second of it would be spent sharpening his path forward.
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