The bruises never lasted.
Sirius sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, peeling back the sleeve of his tunic to reveal a faint mark along his forearm. Only yesterday, Zangan's training had slammed him against the wooden posts hard enough to leave angry welts. Today, the pain had dulled to almost nothing, the bruise fading faster than it should have.
Moonlight filtered through the rune-etched window, faint glyphs shimmering across his skin. For a moment it almost looked as if the sigils themselves were tracing his recovery, as though the city's magic noticed how quickly he healed.
He rubbed the skin, frowning. This wasn't the first time. The soreness from Cor's strikes vanished quicker than expected. The cuts from training dulled after a single night's rest. It wasn't that he didn't feel pain—he felt it acutely in the moment, sharp and overwhelming—but the recovery was faster, deeper, as if his body rewrote itself quietly in the dark.
He reached under his pillow, pulling free his notebook. Flipping to a blank page, he scribbled clumsily in jagged letters:
Body heals fast. Why? Pain → strength? Failures = less weak next day.
He stared at the words. It wasn't just healing. During training, when he repeated the same motion, his body seemed to learn on its own. A stance he stumbled through one day felt steadier the next. A roll that had knocked the wind from him last week now came naturally.
It was as if his body resonated with failure, adapting each time he broke.
---
The next morning, training with Zangan proved it again.
"Strike," the master commanded.
Sirius obeyed, driving his small fist into the wooden post. His knuckles stung, the vibration rattling up his arm. He winced but steadied himself.
"Again," Zangan said.
He struck. Pain sparked sharper this time. His small fist reddened.
"Again."
He hit again, harder. His whole arm ached.
Zangan's eyes narrowed. "Good. Pain teaches. But remember—don't strike with the hand alone. Strike with the body. From the legs, through the hips, into the fist. Flow."
Sirius nodded. He adjusted, recalling the tutorials he had once watched back in his old world, mimicking fighters on a glowing screen. He tried again, channeling his weight. The post rattled. His knuckles screamed.
Zangan grunted approval. "Better."
By the end of the session, his fists were raw, his arms trembling. He collapsed onto the floorboards, gasping. The crystal-inlaid wards beneath the floor pulsed faintly, as though absorbing his repeated falls.
Zangan crouched beside him. "You'll fail a thousand times. But failure isn't weakness—it's the forge. If you endure, your body will remember. Even when your mind doubts, the body recalls."
Sirius nodded faintly. He thought of the strange speed of his recovery, of how every fall left him slightly steadier. Maybe this was his forge.
---
That night, he dreamed.
He was falling—over and over, into darkness. Each time, the impact rattled him to pieces. But each time, his body shifted, bones aligning differently, muscles hardening, movements smoothing. By the hundredth fall, he landed lightly, rolling to his feet. By the thousandth, he struck back against the darkness itself.
When he woke, sweat clinging to his skin, he felt stronger. Not by much—he was still five, still small, still fragile. But there was something in the way his body moved, the way his fists curled, that felt different. As if the dream had carved itself into him.
He lit his lamp, pale-white glow spilling across his desk, and opened his notebook again.
Notes – Adaptive Resonance (???)
Fail → body adjusts.
Pain → next day less pain.
Fall once = stumble. Fall ten times = roll.
Sword swings → smoother after failing.
Like body "remembers" better than mind.
He underlined the final line twice:
If true… then failure is not enemy. Failure = growth.
And beneath it, in bold jagged letters:
So I must fail MORE.
---
The next day, he tested it.
During Cor's drills, Sirius deliberately let his stance break. Each time, Cor struck him down, wooden blade slamming against his guard until he crumpled.
"Pathetic," Cor barked. "Again."
Sirius obeyed. He stumbled, failed, fell. Again and again.
By the tenth time, his stance held longer. His arms no longer wobbled as quickly. Cor's strikes still hurt, but his body absorbed them better.
Cor narrowed his eyes, suspicion flickering. "You're learning faster than you should."
Sirius forced his breaths steady. "I… I won't waste failure."
Cor studied him, then smirked faintly. "Good. Then fail harder."
---
Days turned into weeks. Sirius threw himself into every lesson, every strike, every fall. Zangan's throws slammed him against the floorboards until his lungs burned, but each time he rose quicker. Cor's drills broke his stance, but each break rebuilt it stronger.
The bruises faded faster. The soreness dulled sooner. And the mistakes carved themselves into skill, until motions that once felt impossible became second nature.
One evening, after collapsing from a particularly brutal session, Sirius lay on the dojo floor, staring up at the ceiling beams laced with faint wards. Sweat stung his eyes, his chest heaved, but beneath the exhaustion was a strange exhilaration.
"I failed a hundred times today," he whispered to himself. "That means tomorrow… I'll be a hundred times stronger."
---
At home that night, Lyla brushed his hair while he sat silently at her knee. Her silver-handled brush glowed faintly with protective charms as it slipped through his white strands. She frowned at the fading marks along his arms. "Cor and Zangan push you too hard."
Sirius shook his head quickly. "No, Mother. I… I can take it. I'm getting stronger."
Her fingers paused, then resumed gently combing. "Stronger isn't always better, Sirius. Remember, your heart matters more than your arms."
Sirius nodded, but in his heart, he knew his arms, his legs, his whole body had to change. He had to endure. He had to adapt faster than anyone else—because the story he knew would not wait.
That night, he opened his notebook again, candlelight flickering against the pages.
Adaptive Resonance – My Gift?
Not normal. Others don't heal as fast.
Others don't learn as quick from mistakes.
I do.
Failure feeds me. Pain shapes me.
Hidden strength → slow, invisible, but real.
And beneath it, bold and underlined:
I will embrace failure. I will adapt. I will grow until fate itself cannot stop me.
He slid the notebook beneath his pillow and lay back, the words echoing in his mind like a promise.
Outside, Insomnia slept beneath its barrier, unaware. But in one small room, a boy with white hair and red eyes closed his eyes with a vow burning hotter than any fire:
Every failure would become strength.
Every fall would become his rise.
And one day, the world would learn the meaning of his gift.