From that day onward, my life became repetition.
Morning.
Pain.
Concentration.
Failure.
Again.
The iron weights never left my wrists or ankles. Even when I slept, I felt them like shackles.
The first few days, my body screamed.
Every step felt wrong.
Every breath heavier.
But what frustrated me more wasn't the pain.
It was the lack of progress.
Bharam's arrows missed more often than I liked.
Siena's strikes exposed openings I didn't even know I had.
And Rathen…
Rathen simply watched.
"You're leaking," he would say.
Leaking.
As if all my effort was spilling uselessly into the dirt.
When I finally stood under the sunlight for one full hour without disturbing the water, I expected something.
Approval.
Acknowledgment.
Instead, Rathen said calmly—
"Now focus it."
He began dividing Death Glare into stages.
"First — fear. The enemy senses threat. Their movement dulls."
"Second — paralysis. The body resists command."
"Third — collapse. Weak minds hallucinate. Strong ones freeze."
He made it sound simple.
It wasn't.
I practiced the first stage for an entire week.
Then he brought hens.
He placed one in front of me and stepped back.
"Focus."
I emptied my thoughts.
Compressed my killing intent.
Directed it.
The hen pecked the ground.
Unbothered.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Every failure meant restarting the one-hour stance.
By the tenth attempt, my arms trembled violently. Sweat burned my eyes.
"Again," Rathen said.
Frustration crept in.
What was I missing?
I had faced monsters.
Nearly died.
Accepted death — or at least I thought I had.
So why couldn't a simple hen feel it?
I stared harder. Forced my will forward.
For a brief second—
The hen stiffened.
Its head jerked slightly.
Then it resumed pecking.
My heart jumped.
"I saw that," Rathen said quietly.
But he didn't smile.
"Too unstable."
The words hit harder than failure.
Too unstable.
Siena didn't care about my doubts.
When Rathen finished, she was already waiting.
No greeting.
No question.
"Guard."
I barely lifted my hands before her elbow struck my ribs. Pain exploded through my side.
"Too slow."
She moved differently from others.
No wasted motion.
No dramatic swings.
Her techniques were not beautiful.
They were efficient.
Elbows.
Knees.
Shoulders.
Joint locks that twisted until my vision blurred.
"Your whole body is a weapon," she said coldly. "Use it."
My favorite technique — the one she called Surprise — only worked without hesitation.
Rapid punches high.
Force the guard.
Sudden strike to the inner thigh.
Knee to the chin.
The first time I hesitated, she countered and threw me onto my back.
"You are thinking about winning," she said, staring down at me.
"Think about ending."
Her words stayed with me.
Ending.
Not fighting.
Not competing.
Ending.
Some nights, I wondered what kind of person that would turn me into.
As the days passed, my body adapted.
The weights felt lighter.
My breathing steadier.
The soreness faded quicker.
But the mental strain didn't lessen.
It deepened.
One evening, Duracal reminded me about the leather shop. A week had passed already.
I hadn't noticed.
Training had swallowed time whole.
That night, I went to check on Rusty.
And stopped.
He had grown.
Not slightly.
Noticeably.
His six legs were thicker.
The curved horns more defined.
His red-brown eyes sharper.
For a moment, unease stirred in my chest.
He looked less like a mount.
More like something wild.
Predatory.
Monster-born creatures mature quickly.
But strength without direction becomes danger.
Was I raising a partner?
Or something that might one day outgrow control?
As if sensing my thoughts, Rusty lowered his head and nudged my hand.
Soft. Familiar.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
He trusted me.
That trust felt heavier than the iron weights.
If I failed to grow…
If I remained unstable…
He would follow anyway.
That realization unsettled me more than any training session.
I fed him quietly. His tail swayed, simple and content.
Unlike me.
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
My arms throbbed faintly from holding the containers. My ribs ached where Siena had struck.
But it wasn't the pain keeping me awake.
It was Rathen's words.
"You're leaking."
And the hen.
That brief second when it stiffened.
Too unstable.
Was I truly accepting death?
Or was I just surviving it?
There's a difference.
Accepting death means peace.
Surviving it means fear disguised as endurance.
If I was only enduring…
Then my Death Glare would never be complete.
I turned onto my side, staring into the darkness.
Tomorrow, training would repeat.
Weights.
Sunlight.
Impact.
Failure.
Again.
But for the first time since it began—
I wasn't certain I was moving toward strength.
I might simply be becoming harder.
And harder things…
Break differently.