Nathaniel awoke with a sharp, involuntary gasp. His chest heaved, lungs burning as if he had been running a marathon in his sleep. Cold sweat clung to his skin, soaking through the sheets and plastering his hair to his forehead. For a long moment, he lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, unable to disentangle himself from the vivid remnants of the nightmare. Those colossal, shadowy eyes—their depth unfathomable, their stare piercing into the very core of his being—still haunted him. A voice echoed in his mind, one he could not quite recall, whispering questions and judgments he had no answers for.
"What… what kind of twisted dream was that?" he muttered, his voice shaking slightly. He wiped at his forehead with a trembling hand, yet the chill of unease lingered. Sleep had abandoned him entirely. No matter how he shifted, no matter how tightly he closed his eyes, rest refused to return. The oppressive weight of the dream pressed on his mind, and even the familiar presence of Thorn did little to soothe the gnawing tension within him.
Finally, frustration clawing at his chest, Nathaniel called Thorn into his consciousness.
"Thorn," he murmured, "I… I need to understand. I can't shake this dream."
A faint presence flickered in reply, calm yet perceptive. "Describe it," Thorn urged.
Nathaniel's words tumbled out—sharp and fast, fragmented by emotion. He recounted the void that stretched endlessly, the eyes that seemed older than time itself, and the radiant being that had shattered the darkness with blinding, almost unbearable brilliance. He described the fear, the awe, and the overwhelming sense that something far greater than him was watching, testing, and judging.
Thorn listened in silence, his presence a quiet hum in Nathaniel's mind. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured but unusually grave. "This… exceeds anything I have previously cataloged. I do not fully comprehend it, Nathaniel. What you experienced… it transcends the usual bounds of our plane, the limitations of what I can observe. You have touched something that even I cannot entirely measure."
Nathaniel's chest tightened. Thorn rarely admitted ignorance. If even Thorn could not understand, then whatever he had faced in his dream was beyond comprehension—an echo of forces vast and ancient, far beyond the city streets or the petty chaos of bandits.
He sat on the edge of his bed, mind racing. "Then I need to get stronger… no matter what. Faster. Harder. Better." The words were a vow whispered into the shadows, a promise he could not break.
With that thought burning in his chest, Nathaniel rose, slipping silently into the cool night. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth, faint smoke from distant chimneys, and the faint whisper of leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. He wandered until the faint gurgle of a nearby river reached his ears. Its waters glimmered under the moonlight, silver ribbons winding through darkness, mirroring the pulse of his own energy.
He drew his sword, the steel shimmering faintly with a silver hue that seemed to drink in the moonlight. The weapon thrummed faintly, responding to his intent as if it had waited for this very night.
Then, he began.
Every slash tore through the air with sharp, whistling resonance, cutting the stillness into ribbons of sound and motion. Every dash along the riverbank sent tremors into the ground beneath his feet. He spun, leapt, and struck again, muscles screaming, sweat streaming down his face. His reflection danced on the water's surface, distorted yet purposeful, a mirror of the warrior he was forging in the crucible of midnight.
Hours passed. The moon traced its slow arc across the sky, dipping lower as the night deepened. Nathaniel's breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of exertion, arms heavy, muscles trembling, but he refused to stop. He repeated a mantra in his mind: I must enter Deathburst Academy. I must become a Burst. Faster. Stronger. Now. Every movement, every strike, every leap reinforced his resolve, binding it tighter to his bones, as though the river itself flowed with his determination.
As dawn began to creep across the horizon, streaks of orange and gold painting the world, Nathaniel finally returned home. His body was coated in dirt and perspiration, his shirt clinging to his torso, his steps heavy yet resolute. Eddy was already awake, seated calmly with a steaming cup of tea, his posture composed, eyes quietly observing the young warrior's return.
Nathaniel staggered toward him, voice raw from exertion. "I… had a strange dream last night," he admitted, vulnerability threading through his usual confidence.
He recounted the dream once again, leaving nothing out. The void, the eyes, the radiant being—it all poured from him in a torrent of emotion and description. Eddy listened attentively, brows furrowed, drinking in every detail with the quiet patience that had always grounded Nathaniel.
"Dreams often carry meaning," Eddy said finally, setting down his cup. "But sometimes, they are merely shadows of the mind. Do not let it consume you. Focus on what is within your control—the academy opens soon. That is where your path lies."
Nathaniel exhaled deeply, nodding. Eddy's words, steady and measured, cut through the chaos of his emotions, anchoring him to the tangible, the achievable.
After a quick breakfast, Eddy extended his hand casually. "The pearl," he said softly. Nathaniel hesitated, then placed it into Eddy's palm. Without another word, Eddy departed for the bank to convert it into Zenkai, leaving Nathaniel to return to the riverside.
The day burned hot, the sun relentless, yet Nathaniel's resolve burned hotter. He trained until his muscles screamed in protest, until every fiber of his being trembled from exhaustion. His strikes became sharper, footwork swifter, movements blending strength, precision, and grace. He tested endurance, reflexes, and martial control, each swing of his sword carving him closer to the warrior he aspired to become. With each repetition, each swing, he could feel evolution—subtle, incremental, but undeniable—coursing through his body.
By late afternoon, he collapsed on the riverbank, chest rising and falling heavily, sweat soaking him through. The sky above was ablaze with crimson and gold, mirrored in the rippling water below. For the first time that day, he allowed himself a moment of rest, letting the serenity of the sunset wash over him.
Then—a shadow.
Nathaniel's eyes snapped open, adjusting to the sudden presence. A figure stood before him: an old man, tall and wiry, leaning slightly on a simple wooden cane. His hair was a cascade of white, his beard long and untamed, and his eyes sharp, piercing, hidden within wrinkles that spoke of countless battles and years uncounted. From Nathaniel's perspective, lying on the ground, the figure seemed enormous, looming like a mountain in motion.
The presence jolted him upright, heart hammering. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" he demanded, hand instinctively gripping his sword.
The old man tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable. His voice, raspy yet commanding, cut through the air. "You are strong, boy… but still far too weak."
Nathaniel's brow furrowed. The tone was dismissive, almost mocking, as if his countless hours of training meant nothing. Anger flared inside him. "What would a crumbling old man know about strength?" he shot back. "You look like you could drop dead any second. Don't mock me."
The old man chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Arrogant child. If you think you're strong, prove it."
Before Nathaniel could respond, the man raised his cane, striking the ground lightly. The impact unleashed a pressure wave, radiating outward like a shockwave. Nathaniel, still partially seated, was violently lifted into the air, forced onto his feet. His body trembled, a shiver running down his spine, sweat prickling his skin.
"What… was that?" he whispered, stunned, the sword feeling heavier in his grip.
Before he could recover, Thorn's voice erupted in his mind, urgent and frantic, almost panicked.
"Unknown threat detected… extreme power… caution advised!"
Nathaniel froze, pulse hammering in his ears. Instinct screamed at him to flee, yet a wild grin spread across his face. Excitement surged like electricity through his veins.
"Damn… this promises to be interesting," he muttered.
Ignoring Thorn's desperate warnings, he lowered his stance, eyes locked onto the mysterious old man. His pulse thundered with exhilaration. He refused to retreat. Not from an old man. Not from anyone.
With a defiant roar, Nathaniel charged forward, sword flashing, determined to test himself against the impossible. The air around him quivered with anticipation, each heartbeat echoing the unspoken promise: I will become stronger. No one will stop me.