Even though the heavy downpour outside had finally ceased, the world beyond Nero's tent remained soaked in silence. The air was cool—uncomfortably so—with a sharp chill that clung to the earth and whispered through the trees like a lingering ghost of the storm. Nero, still recovering from the ordeal of the night before, had to subtly regulate his body temperature throughout the night using small pulses of prana. A careless moment would've invited cold into his weakened system—something he could not afford.
Despite that, he slept soundlessly, his exhaustion so deep it drowned even the ache in his bones.
He awoke early, as he always did.
But unlike his usual routine—no morning jog, no physical drills beneath the rising sun. Today was different. He hadn't completed his goal the night before. The bones of his legs remained untouched, and that was unacceptable. There would be no progress, no rest—not until the foundation was forged.
