Phaser didn't know how many times he had almost died. Honestly, he'd lost count after the first hundred. The only thing he did keep track of was how many times he'd heard that voice that greeted him every single time his consciousness faded.
Three hundred and seventy-four. That's how many times the voice had spoken to him. And every single time, it had taken over.
It didn't matter if he was sliced apart by wind, crushed by stone or burnt alive in Seirath's inferno. The instant he crossed that threshold between life and death, the voice appeared like it was waiting for him, speaking in that same tone that somehow carried both affection and warning.
"You're not ready yet."
"Keep going."
"I'm waiting, Phaser."
Every time he woke up again, he found himself lying on that cold gray concrete, his body soaked in blood that wasn't even dry before it vanished into the floor. He never asked how. He figured Seirath had a hand in that.
The weirdest part? He didn't feel hungry or thirsty. The body healed. The mind adapted. The exhaustion became part of the rhythm. He had stopped questioning the mechanics of this place weeks ago, or maybe months. He couldn't even tell anymore. If he had to guess, the domain had its own time flow. Maybe a day in the real world equaled months in here. It reminded him of the Chronological Palace. Either way, time didn't matter anymore. What mattered was progress.
And progress was happening painfully, brutally, but undeniably.
Every fight brought him to the edge but he noticed something strange. The closer he got to death, the better he became. His speed sharpened. His Void element flowed better. His perception stretched like elastic. Moments slowed down and he could almost see the path of Seirath's strikes before they came. Almost.
He still got hit, of course, enough to be clinically dead by anyone's standards. But he noticed how his healing was changing. At first, he'd lie broken for minutes before the pain dulled and his body reformed. Then it became seconds. He watched a gaping wound in his chest knit itself back together in a heartbeat. Sometimes it freaked him out. Other times, it just made him laugh, knowing he was breaking the rules of biology on a daily basis.
"Guess I'm getting good at dying," he'd mutter, and Seirath would just give him that small, unimpressed glance.
And every day — or what felt like every day — the fights grew harder.
Seirath wasn't even trying to kill him anymore. He was pushing him right to the line where Phaser's instincts would collapse, where his Concept Flux would flare in rebellion, and where Phaser had to fight tooth and nail to stay awake. At first, it was impossible. The moment the Concept took over, he blacked out. Everything went white. He'd wake up hours later, disoriented, and Seirath would be standing somewhere nearby, usually meditating like nothing happened.
But then, something changed.
On the seventieth try, Phaser managed to stay conscious for ten seconds before he blacked out. He counted. He remembered the exact feeling. He remembered Seirath shouting from a distance.
"Hold it! Don't lose control yet!"
He didn't. Not completely. And that was a win.
The next milestone came on the one hundred and fourteenth near-death experience. It took thirty seconds. That time, the world had warped around him. He'd watched himself fight, almost detached, as if he were a spectator in his own body. Now, after countless near deaths and revivals, he could last forty-three seconds before the world vanished. And during those seconds, he started remembering.
He realized what he was doing when he was unconscious all those times. His Xana was thickening and condensing. His body was weaving thorned tendrils of Void faster than thought, cutting through Seirath's elemental barriers. His wounds closed before they could even bleed. He saw flashes of himself in an unholy kind of beauty. Every strike left distortions in the void. Every step bent the space beneath his feet.
But then, reality set back in.
Because even after all of that, after all the speed and power and evolution, he still hadn't scratched Seirath. Not once.
The man didn't even look strained.
One time, Phaser had thrown everything he had. Seirath had caught the entire barrage with one hand and simply said, "Better." Then he flicked his wrist, and Phaser went flying fifty meters back into the ground. When Phaser asked him how that was even possible, Seirath gave him the most Seirath-like answer ever:
"Being an Ennèa Category doesn't mean you're stronger. It just means you have more Xana. I'm Októ Category, like every member of the House of Rameses. Our strength comes from refinement, not volume."
Phaser had frowned. "So… Categories are meaningless?"
"Not meaningless. Just misunderstood. Three things make a Fluxer strong. Their bloodline, training, and battle experience. That's the trinity. You can be a Commoner Fluxer with experience, but without a strong bloodline or formal Xana refinement, you'll never reach the power of a Noble. A House Fluxer has access to ancient techniques, deeper flows of Xana, and traditions that have evolved for centuries. That's what makes us dangerous. Not just how much energy we have, but how well we use it."
"So basically, I'm just a rookie trying to punch a god."
"Exactly. But at least you're learning how to survive the punch."
That had made Phaser laugh despite the blood dripping from his nose.
"Yeah, that's progress, I guess."
"Don't be discouraged. You're adapting faster than anyone I've ever seen. Your Concept is awakening. You'll be able to remain conscious soon. I have no doubt."
"How long do we have left?"
Seirath looked toward the dark horizon, his eyes faintly glowing.
"A month in here is a day out there. We've been here six months already. That means three months left before the transfer."
Phaser blinked. "Six months? Damn. No wonder my brain's starting to argue with itself."
"You're holding together better than most would."
"Guess I'm too stubborn to die," Phaser said, rubbing his chest where the last punch had gone straight through him.
"Good. Keep it that way. You'll need that stubbornness when you finally meet it."
Phaser stared up at the endless black sky. The void didn't feel oppressive anymore. It felt… comforting, like a world that had accepted him, bruises and all.
"Alright. Round three hundred and seventy-five, then."
"Make it count."
And as the air began to shimmer again, and the ground fractured and the storm gathered above, Phaser found himself smiling because somewhere between all those near deaths, between the pain and the exhaustion, he realized something simple and quiet.
He was becoming stronger.