The next few days blurred into one long, exhausting stream. Kalen was no longer idle. He rose before anyone else, when the halls of the dormitory were still dim, and ventured outside the academy. There, at the edge of the Moon Tour, his new route began.
Running.
Fifteen kilometers there. Fifteen back.
He didn't spare himself. His legs burned, his lungs burst, but he didn't stop. Every morning began with this hell, and that's exactly what he wanted. The pain was an anchor. A reminder. That he was still alive.
When he returned, he went straight to the old magic platform behind the building. There, on the cracked slabs, he began another part of his training: push-ups. First, one hundred times. Then one hundred and twenty. Then one hundred and fifty. No rest. No excuses. His arms trembled, his chest ached, but he pushed himself against the stone, as if trying to erase his weakness along with his sweat.
After — fiction.
He carved elemental circles in the air with runes, created mini-shields, summoned and absorbed light, created emptiness and studied how it distorted sound and space. His magic no longer followed the textbook. He was the textbook.
He didn't ask others. He didn't complain. He didn't seek praise. He just did.
Every day.
Sometimes Reina would notice him coming home late, with dark circles under his eyes and rolled-up sleeves, but she never asked him anything. Sometimes she would just look over her shoulder and say,
— Were you trying to kill yourself again by exercising?
"No. On the contrary," Kalen muttered in response. "I'm trying to get stronger."
And continued.
The tattoo on his back now sometimes pulsed with a soft hum. Like a curse.
***
It was changing.
He didn't talk to anyone, barely ate in the cafeteria, and skipped class. Someone would think-just closed. But Kalen knew that this was not isolation. It's a choice.
Training became the only way he could fill the emptiness inside him.
At dawn, when the academy was still asleep, he ran out of the gates. The Moon Crescent Tour is a circular path that leads down the slopes to an old, ruined bridge. It used to be a walking trail. Now it has become his personal survival course.
He was running. Running as if the demon himself was chasing him, breathing down his neck.
Fifteen kilometers there. Fifteen back.
On the way back, he didn't just walk. He picked up a stone.
Not a cobblestone. Not a brick. A boulder as tall as he was, hewn from the rock near the northern slope. He wrapped it with a rope and dragged it behind him. First, a hundred meters. Then two hundred. A day later, three hundred. The stone slipped, ate up the ground, and left furrows. But he pulled. With every drop of sweat, it was as if he was uprooting weakness.
And then push-ups. On your fists. On your knuckles. On one hand. Until your arms are shaking and you're vomiting.
Next — the sword.
He took a training blade from the armory. It wasn't sharp, but it was heavy. He started with simple moves: lunges, deflections, and stances. Then he focused on speed. He struck wooden targets in the forest, striking them until the handle slipped from his hand.
One day, the sword cracked, so he just took another one.
In the evening-magic.
He couldn't forget the void, only it was almost impossible for him to do anything because of his weak shadow before, but now it has become a little stronger, so he can already use magic at the level of a weakling, but he can cast magic. A black sphere with nothing in it — no light, no sound. He was trying to create it again. And at some point-it turned out. The sphere quivered in the air, burning out the silence. If you put a bird in there — it would go crazy and crash against the walls.
He was trembling. Not with fear, but with how easily she submitted.
But still he went on.
The wounds healed, and then new ones appeared. His lips were cracked, his fingernails were broken, and his hands ached every night. But he didn't complain. He knew that in two months, he would die.
Now he was living anew.
***
The darkness thickened almost instantly.
At first, he just closed his eyes. His breath was coming in short bursts after an hour-long workout—fifteen kilometers, followed by push-ups, then carrying a boulder up a slope. His body ached, and his mind was slowly shutting down like a burned-out lamp. And then...
...there was no room, no bed. No Reina, no Academy. Just the forest. A rotten, stinking forest, where even the air seemed dead.
Kallen stood barefoot on the wet ground. The mud squelched under his feet. In the distance, he could hear a thin whistle, as if someone was choking on a laugh.
He listened.
— ...and what are you waiting for, meat?
Something crawled out of the bushes. Small. Green. Ugly. Its eyes were like black beads, and its teeth were like rusty nails. It was a goblin.
"You fucking..." Kallen hissed, backing away.
And the goblin screamed. A high, whistling shriek. In response to the scream, the forest came to life. Dozens—no, hundreds—of small silhouettes moved in the darkness. They were approaching.
It's not just a dream..." Kalen realized. "Is it a test?"
Or even worse, a new form of torture.
He turned around. A sword appeared behind him. It was just stuck in the ground, as if waiting for him. No doubt, it was waiting for him.
He reached for his gun and pulled it out.
— Well, you freaks…