"Get up."
The words hit harder than the training stick smashing into Aslan's ribs.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself off the ground, his arms trembling like overcooked noodles. Dirt clung to his face, sweat stung his eyes, and his entire body felt like it had been run over by a stampede.
This wasn't what he signed up for.
When his grandfather, Kael Veil, promised to train him, Aslan expected… what? Cool fire tricks? Maybe a sword? Not… this.
"Your enemies won't wait for you to catch your breath," Kael said, voice sharp as broken glass. "Neither will your father."
That name. It always came back to that name.
His father — the man Aslan never met. The man who apparently hated him without even knowing he existed. The man twisted by the Dark Stone, now serving El Diablo H., the world's most dangerous lunatic.
Yeah, no pressure.
Aslan wiped the sweat from his forehead and straightened his stance.
"Again," Kael ordered.
And again, Aslan charged.
---
The Days That Broke Him
The first few days were pure hell.
Kael woke him before sunrise. They ran along the rocky cliffs until Aslan's lungs begged for mercy. His feet blistered. His legs burned. And still, Kael's voice chased him like a shadow.
"Faster."
"Again."
"You'll never survive like this."
When they weren't running, they were training.
Wooden swords. Bare-knuckle sparring. Balance drills on narrow logs above freezing water. And the worst part?
The fire trials.
Kael made him stand inches from open flames, his palms hovering just above the heat. The fire licked his skin, teasing, threatening. It took everything Aslan had not to flinch.
"Fear the fire, and it'll devour you," Kael warned. "Master it… and it'll kneel."
Easier said than done.
---
The Nights That Almost Broke Him
Aslan collapsed into bed every night, his body a symphony of bruises and aches. His hands were raw. His legs barely moved. His muscles screamed in protest.
Sometimes, he thought about quitting.
Sometimes, he wondered if his grandfather was insane.
And sometimes, when no one could see, he let the tears come.
But no matter how broken he felt… every morning, he got up.
Because deep down, under the doubt and frustration, burned a small, stubborn spark.
He couldn't run from his blood.
---
The First Spark of Hope
Weeks blurred together. The pain dulled. His footing steadied. His arms, weak and shaky before, now carried the weight of the wooden sword with ease.
And one morning, during another brutal sparring session, it happened.
Kael's training stick swung toward him — fast, sharp, brutal.
Instinct took over.
Thwack!
The stick slammed against Aslan's raised forearm… but this time, it didn't knock him down. His stance held. His grip tightened.
For the first time… he blocked it.
Kael's eyes widened — just a flicker, gone as fast as it came. But Aslan saw it.
Pride.
A crooked smile tugged at the corner of Aslan's mouth.
"Not bad," Kael muttered, stepping back. "Still weak, but not bad."
Aslan rolled his aching shoulder and grinned through the pain.
"I'll get there."