The relentless training continued. For an entire week, Nathaniel met Master Rich at dawn by the lake, and they worked until the moon hung high above the trees. Each morning began the same: Master Rich would set down the cursed iron blocks, Nathaniel would strap them to his limbs, and the trial would begin anew. Endurance, Master Rich insisted, was the axis around which all true power revolved. Without it, skill and strength were nothing but brittle illusions.
The weights were merciless. At first glance, they seemed like ordinary blocks of iron, but upon closer inspection, faint runes glowed beneath their surface, pulsing as though alive. A cold hunger emanated from them, an invisible force that sought to drain the body as much as the mind. On the first day, Nathaniel felt their bite almost immediately. His legs grew heavy as lead, every breath felt thick and constricted, and thoughts tangled like knots in his skull. By the third day, the runes began to whisper: temptation cloaked as reason. "Rest. Accept defeat. Yield." On the fifth day, nausea arrived uninvited, a shadow that clung to his senses and refused to depart.
Yet Nathaniel did not bow. Each lap became a battle not only with his muscles but with his own psyche. The body adapted; the mind learned to push back against the whispered enticements. The more the weights tried to drain him, the harder his muscles became, the sharper his will. Sweat soaked his clothes; blisters blossomed across his palms; every inhalation tasted like iron, grit, and determination.
By the seventh day, a change occurred. The influence of the runes weakened, as though Nathaniel's physiology had rewritten their effect. Where they had once sapped him, now they clanged inertly against his limbs, heavy yet harmless. He could run until his lungs burned without the fog of nausea or doubt clouding his mind. Master Rich observed silently, merely nodding as Nathaniel completed the final thousandth lap, face smeared with dirt and blood, trembling but triumphant.
"Very well," Master Rich said quietly, stepping forward to steady the boy. "Endurance is won. You are no longer devoured by whispers. Now we move to the next stage."
Nathaniel barely had time to breathe before Master Rich led him back to the hut, where the lizard-man awaited—Ræl, the same figure Nathaniel had glimpsed before, but now closer, more imposing. His jade-green scales reflected the sunlight like shards of emerald, and his eyes held both patience and a hunger to measure, to judge. The air around him vibrated with a different kind of pressure, one that was not brute strength but anticipation.
"Who is this?" Nathaniel asked, breathless and wary.
"Politeness first," Master Rich said with a hint of amusement. "This is Ræl. He will be your sparring partner—your opposing force. Call him Ræl."
Ræl inclined his head. "Do not be afraid of learning through humiliation," he said dryly. "My power is not equal to Master Rich's, but I possess ancestral arts. For you—a mere child—I am more than enough."
Nathaniel bristled. The insult pried at his pride, and on reflex, he stepped forward, fists raised—a crude instinct to prove himself. Ræl's grin was faint, measured, patient. He did not flinch. Instead, he moved as though seeing the future unfold.
Nathaniel's first strike never connected. Ræl slid beneath it fluidly, like water accepting a stone, hands tracing Nathaniel's wrist, elbow, and shoulder in a cascade of precise controls, sending the boy sprawling before he could even exhale. There was no force, no brutality—only anticipation, a choreography of prediction. Dust rose from the earth as Nathaniel tasted humility.
"Cheating," he spat, glaring upward, voice trembling.
Ræl laughed softly, a dry, knowing sound. "Not cheating. Observation and heredity. You cannot master what your lineage did not grant you. But I will teach you what your blood lacks."
A spark of hope ignited in Nathaniel. He clenched his teeth. "Then I will master it."
"Calm," Ræl said. "We shall see."
Master Rich sat on the porch, watching the exchange with a small, approving smile. The training was not meant to break bone alone; it was designed to expand the imagination, to sharpen the mind, to teach the body to dance with possibility.
Ræl began slowly, guiding Nathaniel into a lesson in mental architecture. "Do you know how to create a clone?" he asked suddenly.
Nathaniel shook his head, breath uneven.
"Then listen carefully," Ræl said, voice sliding through the afternoon air like a blade with a soft edge. "A clone is born from thought. Every scar, every breath, every intent you possess must be imagined clearly. Infuse that image with your energy until imagination gains weight, then will it into form. In practice, you can create many."
Before Nathaniel could speak, Ræl's hands moved fluidly, and ten pale echoes of himself appeared in an instant. They shimmered briefly before solidifying, mirroring Ræl's stance, breathing, and even subtle movements. "There are two basic types," he continued. "Imperfect clones take a hit and vanish. They carry roughly ten percent of your strength. Perfect clones are rare, costly in energy, but persist—they can fight, bleed, and even think. Perfect clones hold roughly fifty percent of your power."
Nathaniel's eyes widened. "Can they think?"
"Only the ultimate clone—the rarest—approaches true autonomy," Ræl explained. "It develops emotions, nuance, a will echoing your own. It becomes a mirror capable of challenging you. You must command it with unwavering intent; otherwise, it will become a shadow beyond your control."
"And how many can you make?" Nathaniel asked, excitement sharpening his words.
"As many as your energy permits. Hundreds, thousands, even millions—limited only by your reservoir and focus," Ræl said, fingers flicking, and ten spectral Nathans sprang into existence before the boy could blink.
Nathaniel's mind raced. He attempted the technique himself, forcing concentration, channeling energy, stabilizing each form. Initial attempts faltered—the clones flickered and dissolved into nothingness. Sweat poured down his brow, muscles trembling. Repetition, focus, breath control—finally, ten pale Nathans stood, wobbling but tangible, their eyes wide with simulated awareness.
"Not bad," Ræl said, nodding. "Your nervous system adapted quickly. Remember: imperfect clones = 10% power, fade on damage; perfect clones = 50% power, persist; the ultimate clone = fully conscious. Control is everything."
He stepped forward, conjuring a single imperfect clone carrying only ten percent of his might, setting it in combat stance. "Defeat this one. Show me your will. If you can overcome even a ten-percent copy, you can begin to master your magic's forms."
Nathaniel's chest flared with the same fervor that had driven him through the thousand laps of the lake. He centered himself, breathing deep, feeling endurance hum through every sinew, every tendon.
"You don't know what you're waiting for," he muttered under his breath, grit cutting through fatigue. Then he shouted, voice raw with determination, "You have no idea what I can do!"
And with that, he lunged, striking not just with fists but with every ounce of concentration, will, and energy he possessed. The imperfect clone moved with a speed and precision that tested him as never before, but Nathaniel's training, his unbroken resolve, and the lessons of the thousand laps carried him forward.
Each strike, each dodge, each feint honed him further. Sweat mixed with blood, yet his eyes never wavered. The clone reacted, but Nathaniel's mind adapted faster, predicting and countering. Step by step, strike by strike, he pressed until the clone faltered, stumbled, and finally dissipated in a ripple of light and shadow.
Ræl's expression was unreadable, but a hint of pride glimmered in his reptilian eyes. "Good," he said simply. "You have begun to understand. Control is mastery, mastery is creation, and creation is power. All true strength begins here."
Nathaniel sank to his knees, chest heaving, body trembling, yet a smile broke across his face. A thrill unlike any before surged through him—proof that he could now bend not only his body, but his mind, and that the lessons of endurance and precision were only the beginning.
Master Rich remained on the porch, silent but approving, watching the boy's triumph with the quiet satisfaction of a teacher witnessing the awakening of potential.
The shadows of the lake stretched long as the sun began its descent, yet Nathaniel's heart burned brighter than the light. He had endured, he had failed, and now he had glimpsed the threshold of power.
Tomorrow, he knew, would demand more. But for the first time, he truly understood: strength was not given. It was earned through pain, patience, and unrelenting will—and he was ready to claim it.