The training grounds bore the deep, violent scars of my merciless regime. The earth itself seemed to groan in protest, pockmarked with craters from detonated Shadow Bombs that had blackened the soil and left the air tasting of ozone. The training dummies, once sturdy constructs of wood and enchanted straw, now hung in tatters, their straw guts spilled across the dirt like the entrails of some bizarre, scarecrow-like beast. Even the reinforced steel targets, designed to withstand the onslaught of senior knights, bore deep, gouged wounds—courtesy of Volkin's spectral fangs and my own relentless drills.
I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow with the back of a leather-gloved hand, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My body ached, a deep, resonant pain that settled in my very bones. But it was a good ache. An earned ache.
Good.
[System: Progress Report]
