A sharp kick slammed into Nick's ribs.
He gasped, flinching awake, eyes snapping open to pitch-black sky. The stars still blinked coldly above. No hint of sunrise. No birds chirping. Just biting cold. Silence. Pain.
"Up."Takashi's voice cut through the dark like steel.
Nick groaned, his body stiff and sore, unwilling. "Wh… what time is it?"
"Two hours before sunrise."A pause."500 push-ups. You finish before dawn, or you start over."
Then he walked off, footsteps silent on the forest floor, vanishing into the trees as if he had never been there.
Nick blinked after him, still lying on the cold ground. His breath misted in the air. His arms felt like lead. His chest ached from yesterday's breathing drills. His back still burned from the weight run.
This is insane, he thought.
But he rolled over anyway, got into position, and pressed his palms into the damp dirt.
One. Two. Three.
His arms shook by the twentieth. His breath was already ragged by the fiftieth. By the hundredth, he wanted to scream.
Don't stop. If you stop, it means it was all for nothing. If you stop, you go back to who you were.
The push-ups blurred together. Somewhere past two hundred, the pain stopped being sharp. It became a dull, endless throb, like his body was being ground into stone.
At three hundred, his palms tore open. Blood mixed with sweat. He didn't stop.
At four hundred, he collapsed—once. Only once. He dragged himself back up.
The sky was still dark. No hint of gold on the horizon.
Four-fifty.Four-seventy.Four-eighty-nine.
Each breath now felt like fire in his throat. Each movement felt like it might kill him.
But then…
Five hundred.
He collapsed, face-down into the earth, chest heaving, arms twitching uncontrollably.
Behind him, from somewhere in the darkness, came a low voice.
"Hmph. Took you long enough."
Nick barely turned his head. "How many did I do?"
"Five hundred and twenty," Takashi replied, voice cold and unimpressed.
Then came the scorn: "A mere five-twenty?"
Nick forced his head up.
Takashi stood with arms crossed, his face shadowed by the trees above.
"What will happen," the man continued, "when you don't have enough strength to slash a demon's neck? Do you want to live in fear for the rest of your life? Is that what you want?"
Nick didn't answer. He couldn't.
"Rest for thirty minutes," Takashi said, already turning his back. "Then run five laps around the town. Stay on the outer edge—don't go near the inner paths. Be careful. And don't forget to take notes of your surroundings."
His voice was emotionless. Instructional. Like this was just another drill in a long chain meant to break the weak and shape the survivors.
Nick lay there, unmoving, his blood drying into the dirt, his pulse roaring like a waterfall in his ears.
Is this really worth it?
The thought came uninvited, heavy as guilt. He could quit. He could stop now. He could just… give in.
Become a demon. Eat. Grow strong. Kill. Survive.
That path offered power—immediate, overwhelming power. No pain. No crawling. No shame.
He nearly vomited at the thought. Not just from disgust, but from the push-ups. From the betrayal in his own mind.
He gritted his teeth and rolled onto his side. He wiped his face with his wrist and sat up.
That wasn't strength. That was surrender.
And Nick was done surrendering.
The edge of the town was still wrapped in fog when Nick began his jog. The sun hadn't risen yet, but the sky was beginning to lighten. Crickets chirped in the bushes. Dogs barked faintly in the distance.
His feet dragged at first, scraping against gravel. Each step sent shocks of pain up his legs.
But he kept going.
On the first lap, he focused on the layout of the buildings—cracked stone walls, rusted lanterns, patches of weeds between the cobblestones. The town felt abandoned in parts, the outskirts especially. Quiet. Ghostly.
By the second lap, his muscles screamed again. His knees buckled slightly on every turn.
The third lap nearly broke him. He doubled over halfway through, panting, vision blurry. The blood from his torn palms had seeped through his bandages again.
A faint memory flickered in his mind—his little brother chasing him around the courtyard back home, barefoot and laughing, yelling, "Bet you can't catch me!" They had run in circles until the sun dipped below the rooftops. Nick had always let him win.
The ache in his chest wasn't just from the running.
By the fourth lap, his wheezing sounded like choking. His heart pounded like it was trying to escape his chest. His hands clenched into fists, more from willpower than strength.
Still, he kept going.
On the fifth lap, his body finally betrayed him.
He dropped to his knees and crawled, dragging himself forward, elbows scraping the dirt. His shirt clung to him with sweat. His legs had long stopped listening.
But his eyes—his eyes stayed sharp.
He still scanned the buildings. Still took note of the tree roots near the west wall. The broken fence by the old shed. The crates stacked behind the alley near the watchtower.
Focus or die, he reminded himself.
Even on the ground. Even broken. He had to be better than he was yesterday.
Not for strength.Not for vengeance.But to never feel helpless again.
Nick dragged himself just past the training stone and collapsed, barely breathing. The sun was now peeking above the hills, casting long golden shadows across the clearing.
Then he heard footsteps—light, precise, unhurried.
A boy around his age entered the training grounds. His uniform was clean, his posture upright. Not a single drop of sweat marked his face.
"Finished," the boy said flatly, nodding once toward Takashi, who stood at the edge of the field with arms folded.
Takashi nodded back. "You're early. Again."
Nick looked up through blurred vision. The boy moved like a shadow—calm, effortless. Every breath measured.
Takashi gestured lazily in Nick's direction. "This one's new. Weak, but persistent."
The boy glanced at Nick. No sneer. No pity. Just quiet assessment.
"You're training too?" Nick rasped, still half-sprawled on the dirt.
"I've been here for three months," the boy replied, voice flat. "You?"
Nick forced himself upright. "Three days."
The boy gave a single, slow nod. "It shows."
He wasn't mocking. He was simply stating fact. That somehow made it worse.
Nick watched him walk off toward the sparring post, posture still perfect.
The gap between them felt like a canyon.
His fists curled against the dirt.
Three months?
Takashi's voice echoed from behind him. "If you want to catch up, you'll need more than determination."
Nick lowered his head, breathing heavily. Then raised it again.
"Then I'll find more."