The Aethelgard Vault didn't follow the laws of Earth. Inside, time stretched like heated gold. For every hour that passed in his quiet, empty suburban home, days passed in the training grounds of the mansion.
"Master Shren, your footwork is currently comparable to a drunken tortoise," Vane remarked, polished silver tray in hand. He watched as Shren tumbled into the dirt for the twentieth time that morning. "Perhaps less 'clumsy oaf' and more 'sovereign of the realm'?"
Shren groaned, wiping sweat from his brow. His body was already changing—the soft edges of his face sharpening into the chiseled features of a screen idol. "It's hard to look like a sovereign when Xiwu is trying to decapitate me, Vane!"
Xiwu stood a few paces away, her silver armor gleaming. A small, rare smile tugged at her lips. "If I do not try to kill you, the world surely will, Shren." She stepped closer, her icy blue eyes softening. She reached out, using her silken sleeve to wipe a smudge of dirt from his cheek. The touch lingered, a spark of electricity passing between the boy who was once nothing and the warrior who was everything.
To push him further, Vane opened the gate to the Land of Hell—a sub-dimension of jagged obsidian and gravity five times stronger than Earth's. There, Shren didn't just train; he evolved. He ran until his lungs felt like they were bursting, building the speed of an Olympic sprinter. He lifted boulders until his muscles tore and rebuilt themselves with the density of steel.
Between the grueling sessions, Shren retreated to the Vault's library. With his mind cleared of its old anxieties, he absorbed his entire school syllabus in days, his intellect sharpening alongside his blade.
The humor came from Vane's relentless "etiquette training."
"Master, a King does not eat a sandwich with both hands like a starving beast," Vane would sigh, gently adjusting Shren's posture with a literal measuring tape.
As the weeks bled together, the bond between Shren and Xiwu deepened. One evening, under the violet stars of the garden, the tension finally snapped. Xiwu, usually the stoic protector, leaned her forehead against his. "You are no longer the boy I was summoned to protect," she whispered. "You are the man I choose to follow."
The final night of the month was a blurred symphony of passion—a celebration of their shared journey and the new life Shren had claimed.
RIIIING.
The harsh, mechanical sound of the doorbell shattered the peace. Shren's eyes snapped open. He wasn't in the mansion; he was in his bedroom. The morning sun was peeking through the curtains.
He felt a weight on his arm. Xiwu was there, her long dark hair spilled across his chest, her breathing soft and rhythmic as she slept—not as a spirit, but in her physical form.
"Shren! We're home! Open the door, we forgot the spare key!" his mother's voice called out from the porch.
Shren looked at his reflection in the bedside mirror. A god-like physique, a legendary warrior in his bed, and a month of secrets behind him. The old Shren was dead.