The morning mist clung to the surface of the lake like a thin, silver veil, blurring the horizon and giving the world an ethereal, dreamlike quality. Nathaniel stood at the edge of the water, his chest heaving, muscles still aching from the previous day's grueling training. The early sun touched the treetops, casting slender beams through the fog, yet the boy scarcely noticed. His focus was on the figure before him.
Master Rich stood with his arms crossed behind his back, calm, unmoving, yet every inch of his presence radiated weight. It was the kind of weight that pressed against Nathaniel's very spirit, reminding him that this was no ordinary man he faced—this was a force of nature incarnate.
"You want strength," Master Rich said in his gravelly voice, his eyes fixed on Nathaniel, "then first, you must learn endurance. Without it, your power will crumble before it ever reaches its peak."
Nathaniel straightened his posture, clenching his fists in a futile attempt to appear confident. But when the old man set down the two massive weights in front of him, his heart nearly sank. These were no ordinary iron blocks. Dark and foreboding, they were etched with strange, pulsing runes that shimmered faintly, as if alive.
"These are not mere tools," Master Rich continued, his tone steady, unyielding. "They do not simply test your muscles. They will attack your mind. Each step you take with them will strip you of strength, clarity, and willpower. Every lap will attempt to break you from the inside out. Should you collapse, no one will judge you. But should you endure… even I will acknowledge your potential."
Nathaniel swallowed hard, the air thick and dry in his throat.
"How many laps?" he asked cautiously, his voice barely above a whisper.
"One thousand," Master Rich replied without hesitation, his gaze cold and absolute.
Nathaniel's eyes widened. "One… thousand?"
"Yes. One thousand laps around this lake," the old man said, tone final. There was no room for argument. No hesitation.
For a heartbeat, Nathaniel hesitated, gazing down at the weights, feeling their unnatural pull as if they sought to drain not just his muscles but his very essence. Every fiber of his being screamed that this was impossible. And yet… he bent, gripping the iron blocks.
The moment they touched his skin, a cold, almost malevolent sensation surged through him. The runes bit into his energy, tugging at it, draining him, forcing every ounce of resolve to fight for survival. His arms trembled violently, but still, he pressed forward.
---
The first hundred laps were grueling, yet manageable. Nathaniel's legs pumped with rhythmic determination, his breath measured and steady. The morning sun began to warm his sweat-soaked skin, and the fog around the lake gradually thinned, but his mind remained focused entirely on one thing: forward.
Master Rich stood silently at the lakeside, arms folded, his sharp eyes tracking every movement. Every so often, a faint narrowing of his gaze appeared—not in disapproval, but in meticulous assessment. This boy, Nathaniel, was extraordinary, yet the trial had only begun.
By lap two hundred, the world around him began to warp. Every step felt like he carried mountains. His chest burned, legs weighed like stone, and a heavy fog settled in his mind. Doubt began to creep in, whispering that he was not enough, that he should quit before he destroyed himself completely.
And then the voices began. Whispers, faint but cutting, crawling into his head like vipers.
"Too weak."
"Not enough."
"Quit before you collapse."
Nathaniel's hands tightened on the weights. Sweat sprayed into his eyes. Every muscle screamed. Every nerve burned. Yet he refused to yield. He shouted back into the empty morning air, voice hoarse but resolute:
"Shut up! I'm not done yet!"
Master Rich raised a brow, almost imperceptibly. Most warriors would have collapsed long ago; these weights were cursed, designed to break even the strongest minds and bodies before reaching five hundred laps. Yet Nathaniel moved forward, step after agonizing step, defying every limitation.
---
By lap five hundred, Nathaniel was unrecognizable. His clothes clung to him, soaked with sweat. Blood streaked his legs and hands, rubbed raw from friction and strain. His throat burned with each ragged breath, and his heartbeat pounded so loudly it seemed to echo across the lake. He fell to his knees, the weights clattering with a metallic roar, and for a long moment, it seemed he would not rise again.
"Enough," Master Rich's voice finally broke the silence. Calm, yet commanding. "No shame in stopping here. You have already proven you are different from the rest."
Nathaniel slammed his fists into the dirt, forcing himself upright. His body shook violently, sweat dripping from his brow, but his eyes blazed with undying defiance.
"No. You said one thousand… so I'll give you one thousand!"
A faint, approving smile flickered across Master Rich's face before vanishing, leaving only the stern mask that had defined him.
---
Time lost all meaning. The sun climbed, scorched the land at its zenith, and sank again, passing through the sky in a blur. Hours became a haze of footsteps, pain, and sheer willpower. Nathaniel's legs no longer felt like his own; they moved on instinct alone, dragging his battered body forward with the iron weights pulling at his soul.
By lap eight hundred, his vision blurred. Blackness gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. His body begged for release, each heartbeat a thunderous plea for respite. Yet his spirit roared louder than his agony.
"I… won't… stop!" he rasped.
Somehow, each staggered step brought him closer to nine hundred laps. His thoughts became fractured, scattered across memories, regrets, and fleeting flashes of his mother's face, his friends, his promise. Every step, a battle against despair.
By the final hundred laps, Nathaniel's motion was no longer running, but staggering. Each stride a torment. The lake's surface blurred into streaks of light and shadow, the trees a distorted mirage. His body trembled, yet the resolve in his heart burned brighter than ever.
The final lap arrived. Nathaniel collapsed face-first into the dirt, the cursed weights slipping from his hands. His muscles twitched uncontrollably, his lungs heaving raggedly. Every fiber of his body was screaming surrender—but he had done it.
He had reached one thousand laps.
---
Master Rich stepped forward, his shadow stretching over the exhausted boy. For the first time that day, his expression softened. "Incredible," he murmured. "Most warriors cannot surpass two hundred laps before their will shatters. The strongest often collapse before five hundred. But you… you reached one thousand on your first attempt. That is beyond talent. That is something… entirely different."
Nathaniel lifted his head just enough to offer the faintest smile, unable to form words.
"You possess enormous potential," Master Rich continued, voice low but commanding. "I will not waste it. Tomorrow, we begin anew."
And just like that, he vanished. No sound, no trace—only the lingering presence of his power and the fading mist that curled along the lake's surface.
---
Nathaniel lay on the ground for a long time, staring at the sky, numb and aching in every muscle, yet burning with an unquenchable fire. He half-laughed, half-wept, voice barely above a whisper:
"Tomorrow… huh?"
With painstaking effort, he rose to his feet, body swaying like a candle flickering in the wind. Each step was agony, yet the thought of telling Eddy propelled him forward. He grinned weakly, imagining the older man's reaction—half shock, half amusement, wholly proud.
"Wait until he hears this," Nathaniel muttered, hobbling along the forest path. "He's going to freak out. Just like the gossip-loving brother he is."
And so, battered, broken, yet triumphant, Nathaniel made his way home through the encroaching night, ready to share the impossible feat he had accomplished and to embrace whatever trials awaited him next under the tutelage of Master Rich.