Chapter 8: The Training

As Droit and Melnik walk back to the Cathedral, the dim glow of twilight casts a serene calm over the grounds.

"It was a hell of a ride for you, huh?" Melnik remarks, glancing at Droit with a half-smile.

"Yeah," Droit replies, his voice heavy. "I just went back to my world, and everything got intense... horrifying, even. Watching real people—real human beings—getting killed. It was too much."

Melnik nods thoughtfully. "Well, we can’t say for sure if it was real or not. Could’ve been like a dream... a really vivid one."

Droit shakes his head. "Maybe. But it sure didn’t feel like a dream."

Melnik claps him on the shoulder. "No worries, kid. You made it back in one piece. Go see the teachers and the other kids, get some food, and rest up. Tomorrow’s got its own horrors waiting." He grins, trying to lighten the mood.

When they arrive at the Cathedral, Miss Sukomi is waiting anxiously near the entrance. Her face lights up as soon as she sees them.

"God, I’m so glad you’re okay!" Sukomi exclaims, a wave of relief washing over her features.

Both Droit and Melnik smile. "It wasn’t easy, but here we are," Melnik says with a wink. "Though Droit here is starving—he might pass out in seconds if we don’t feed him."

"I’m not that hungry," Droit insists, trying to sound tough.

"Aww," Sukomi coos. "Don’t worry, you two get freshened up. I’ll whip up something special for you."

Droit and Melnik head off to their rooms while Sukomi joins Miss Daisy in the kitchen to prepare dinner.

"Are the guys okay?" - Daisy asks, her voice laced with concern.

"Yes! I’m so glad Droit is back," Sukomi replies, a relieved smile spreading across her face.

"Just Droit?" - Daisy teases, raising an eyebrow.

"No, I meant both," Sukomi stammers, her cheeks flushing pink. She

quickly turns back to her task, hoping Daisy won’t notice.

"Ohh, I see. Seems like you have a thing for Droit," Daisy says, a mischievous grin on her face.

"No, no! What are you saying? He’s like four years younger than me. I don’t see him like that," Sukomi says, waving her hands defensively as the blush deepens.

Daisy chuckles. "Sure, sure. Just so you know, a four-year age gap isn’t that big."

Sukomi huffs, trying to brush it off. "Stop it! He’s just... he’s brave, that’s all."

They share a laugh and focus on finishing the meal.

When Droit and Melnik return, the dining table is laden with steaming plates of food. Sukomi beams at them. "Dinner’s ready!"

Droit takes a bite, his eyes widening. "This is so good. It’s been forever since I’ve had real food."

Melnik feigns offense. "What? Were my snacks not enough for you?"

"Nope," Droit says with a mischievous grin.

Melnik gasps. "How dare you! Fine, I’ll eat this chocolate by myself."

Droit quickly backpedals. "I meant your snacks were not just good but amazing! You’re going to share, right?" His greedy smile makes everyone laugh.

The meal is filled with warmth and laughter, the tension of the day momentarily forgotten. After dinner, Droit retreats to his room. He sits at the foot of his bed, staring at the wall.

This time, he’s not overcome with fear. His gaze is steady, his jaw set with determination. In his eyes burns a newfound resolve, as if he’s ready to take on whatever challenges lie ahead—even if it means moving mountains.

The next day, Droit and Melnik return to the Sage's dimension.

"So, Droit, are you ready?" the Sage asks, his voice calm yet commanding.

"Yes," Droit replies, his tone steady with determination.

The Sage pulls a key from his bag, intricate and glowing faintly. He presses it against Droit’s chest. Suddenly, a blinding light floods the room. Droit is lifted several feet into the air, his body stretching as if pulled by an unseen force. His eyes and hair radiate with a brilliant glow.

Then, as abruptly as it began, it’s over. Droit is standing again, his breath steady, his body seemingly unchanged.

"How do you feel?" Melnik asks, stepping closer.

"Not much different," Droit admits, rolling his shoulders, "but... I feel lighter. Perfect, even—like there’s no pain or strain anywhere in my body."

"That’s the limiter cleanse," the Sage explains. "Unlocking it purifies your body."

"Okay, but I don’t feel... powerful," Droit says, his brow furrowing.

"That’s because you’re not. Yet," the Sage replies with a smirk. "Now go and train. The first door to your right leads to the training room. And one more thing—the time in there works differently. One hour here is equivalent to one year inside. Take your time, train thoroughly, and don’t worry about Dan. He can wait a few more hours."

"One hour to one year?" Melnik whistles. "Now that’s helpful!"

Droit and Melnik exchange a look before stepping into the room.

Inside, it’s pitch black, an endless void with no walls or boundaries. Yet, oddly enough, they can see each other clearly, as if illuminated by an unseen light.

"Are you ready?" Melnik asks, his voice echoing in the vast emptiness.

"Yes," Droit replies confidently.

Melnik grins, his form shifting. In an instant, he transforms into Alnik, the larger, fiercer version of himself.

"Oh, so it’s time," Alnik says, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Alright then, let’s have some fun, shall we?"

"Yeah, just tell me what to do," Droit says, standing tall despite the intimidating presence before him.

"Nothing too complicated to start," Alnik replies. "Give me 1,000 push-ups. In a row. Fail, and you start over from zero."

Droit’s jaw drops. "Are you kidding me? I can’t even do 20 at a time!"

Without warning, Alnik slaps Droit across the cheek, sending him hurtling into the void.

"I’m not asking you," Alnik growls, his voice reverberating in the darkness. "I’m telling you. Now, start!"

Droit groans as he pushes himself up, his resolve hardening. "Fine. Let’s do this."

Droit drops to the ground after completing 37 pushups, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Before he can fully relax, Alnik’s voice pierces through the silence like a whip.

“Who told you you can rest? Get up and start. Now,” Alnik commands, his tone cold and unyielding.

Droit stumbles back into position, his arms trembling as he begins again. This time, he collapses after only 15 pushups, his body screaming for relief.

“Again,” Alnik barks, unrelenting.

Droit's muscles quiver as he lowers himself to the ground and pushes up again. At the seventh pushup, his arms nearly give out, his breathing heavy and ragged.

“You know I’ll kill you if you don’t do it right?” Alnik growls, his words cutting through the haze of pain.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Droit grits his teeth and powers through. His body protests every movement, but he keeps going—20, 30, 35, 40. By the time he reaches 50, his face is soaked with sweat, and his heart feels like it’s pounding out of his chest.

“I did it!” Droit exclaims, a flicker of triumph in his voice.

Alnik’s expression doesn’t change. “Are you dumb? Why are you stopping? Again. Now.”

The brief moment of victory evaporates as Droit forces himself to the ground once more. Each pushup now feels like a war against his own body. He surpasses his previous record, pushing through gritted teeth until he reaches 99—but collapses before the 100th.

Alnik watches impassively. “Okay,” he finally says, his voice like ice. “Take five minutes. Then you start again.”

Droit lies on the floor, gasping, his body trembling. He knows this is only the beginning.

Five minutes later, Alnik’s voice breaks the silence again.

“Start again.”

Droit doesn’t have time to recover, but he pushes himself up. His arms scream in protest, his chest burning with every movement. He grits his teeth and powers through, struggling to reach 200 push-ups. But by the time he attempts the final one, his body gives up. He collapses to the ground, his body spent, mind barely hanging on.

“I can’t do anymore. I can’t feel my arms or my chest,” Droit gasps, his voice shaky, raw.

Alnik’s expression remains unchanged. “Again.”

Droit's head spins. The weight of his exhaustion feels like it’s crushing him, but there’s no room for weakness here. A week drags on in relentless training. His body no longer feels like his own. Each push-up takes every ounce of his remaining strength. His muscles are broken, his joints screaming, but still, Alnik orders him to keep going.

“495, 496, 497…” Droit counts aloud, each number a painful reminder of how far he’s pushed himself. With a gasp of effort, he falls to the floor, unable to move further.

“I’m done. Even without the limiter, this is the max I can do,” he murmurs through clenched teeth. His voice is barely a whisper now. “Can I have something to eat?”

Alnik’s response is brutal. He kicks Droit in the gut with a force that sends him flying ten feet across the dark expanse of the room.

Droit spits blood onto the ground, his body trembling with pain, but still, Alnik’s voice rings out.

“Again.”

Droit tries to push himself up, but his body feels like it’s disintegrating. The days blend together in a blur of pain and hunger, but he knows there is no escape. A week later, the sounds of his push-ups echo through the space, 673, 674, 675.

His hands shake with each movement, his bones nearly visible under his thin skin. The toll on his body is unbearable. At 675, a sickening crack splits the air. His right ulna snaps under the pressure, the bone between his wrist and elbow breaking with a sharp, agonizing snap.

Droit’s scream pierces the air, his pain so intense it feels like it could shatter his mind. His body crumples to the floor, his vision blurring as his shattered arm sends waves of excruciating agony through his whole being.

"Keep going," Alnik orders, cold and unfeeling. "No stopping."

Droit’s vision is hazy, every muscle trembling with pain. His broken ulna throbs like a pulsating fire, and his breath comes in ragged gasps.

“My bone is broken; I need to heal!” Droit whispers, his voice almost drowned out by the agony.

“It doesn’t matter. Push through it,” Alnik replies, his voice sharp and commanding.

“Are you crazy? That’s not possible,” Droit croaks, his eyes barely able to focus. His limbs twitch uncontrollably, sweat pouring down his body.

“Do it, now!” Alnik demands, his tone unwavering.

Droit shakes his head, tears slipping from his eyes. “No. I can’t.”

Alnik scoffs, stepping closer, his face expressionless. “We haven’t even started yet. And this is all you could do? Come on, break through your limits, rise above being a mere human.”

Droit clenches his jaw, eyes fixed on some distant point of nothingness, fighting against the exhaustion and agony clouding his mind. “I did all this because I had my limiter removed. But this is too much even with that,” he gasps, every word a struggle to form.

Alnik shakes his head, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Limiter removed? You think you’ve done all this because you don't have a limiter? This is just your normal human strength. What you do now will show how much Will you have and how much more you can grow. Your enhancement depends on your Will to go through pain and break through the walls your mind has set. Your body knows it, but you’re still a slave of your mind. You need to break through it.”

Droit’s breath is shallow and ragged, his chest heaving with each agonizing breath. His vision blurs, sweat pouring down in torrents as his body trembles under the strain. But he forces himself to keep going. One push-up, two, three, until he’s in a rhythm, every fiber of his being screaming for rest, for a break, but the relentless pressure from Alnik keeps him moving.

Tears blur his vision, his hands raw, his body on the verge of collapse. With every push-up, he feels his strength draining away, but he doesn’t stop. He forces himself to go beyond what should be possible, to reach beyond what he thinks he can do. He does till 802 and collapses, his arms giving way beneath him. His body is a mass of pain and exhaustion, but he’s done it.

He faints, his body shutting down, the darkness taking him.

When Droit awakens, he finds himself staring at the face of Melnik. His body is covered in bruises, but somehow, all the damage is healed. However, there’s nothing but bones—, no muscle. He’s a shell of what he was.

"This is not healthy. Do you want to stop?" Melnik asks, his tone uncharacteristically concerned.

“No. Please, change back. I can do this.” Droit’s voice is faint but firm.

Without hesitation, Melnik shifts back into Alnik.

"Ohh, wow, all healed. Good, good." Alnik grins, his voice full of mockery, before delivering a brutal kick to Droit’s stomach.

"Why?" Droit manages to ask from the floor, breathless and confused.

“No such reason. Now, again.” Alnik says with a cold indifference, stepping back as if expecting this.

The command hangs in the air, and despite the raw pain coursing through his body, Droit doesn’t hesitate. He rises with grim determination and starts the push-ups again. The first few are shaky, his bones creaking with the strain, but he pushes himself forward. He forces his arms to move, even though every muscle in his body is screaming in protest.

He pushes through the excruciating pain, feeling the fatigue, the despair clawing at him, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t give in.

1200 push-ups.

"I did it. I did it!!" Droit exclaims, the first glimmer of pride breaking through the exhaustion on his face.

Alnik nods, seemingly unimpressed. "Yeah, good, good. Now, give me 10,000 push-ups. No breaks, no food, and you start from zero again." His voice is almost playful, but the command is clear.

Droit looks at him, a pale impression of himself, his bones aching and body withering under the demand. But there’s something inside him that refuses to back down.

He starts again.

Day after day, week after week, Droit forces his body to comply. The push-ups feel like an eternity, each one harder than the last, his muscles burning, his skin raw, and yet he keeps going.

Finally, after what feels like an age, he reaches the 10,000th push-up. His body is a broken, battered mess, and as he completes the last one, his vision fades, and he falls into unconsciousness once again.

Droit’s eyes flutter open as the world around him slowly comes into focus. The familiar voice of Melnik calls to him, the harshness of the previous training faded from his mind. His body aches, but he’s alive. Barely.

“Wake up. You’re alright now,” Melnik says, his tone less sharp than usual, a faint trace of concern beneath his usual bravado.

Droit groans, lifting his head, his limbs heavy and trembling from the ordeal. He looks up at Melnik with a weary, determined expression.

"Turn back!" Droit’s voice is weak but firm, a demand laced with exhaustion.

Melnik tilts his head with a grin. “What? No hello, nothing? Seems like you’re enjoying this after all.” He shakes his head, amused, before changing back into Alnik.

"Hmm, you did okay. Now ask Melnik to give you some food and get some rest," Alnik adds, his voice colder, almost distant.

Droit groans again, though this time with the faintest trace of a smirk. "Rest? Really? Thanks!"

Alnik’s voice takes on a sharper edge. "Yeah, take 30 minutes. And come back. Also, eat as much as you can, and focus—no distractions. Feel the food going inside you, convert it into energy, and consume it all into your body."

Alnik shifts back to Melnik,gives Droit a teasing grin. “Huh, so you missed me and asked Alnik to change back, right?”

“Yeah! Missed you, buddy," Droit replies, a tired but grateful smile flickering on his lips. "But I only have 30 minutes and I need to eat. So, bring me as much food as you can.”

“Don’t worry. I’m ready. Just turn back.” Melnik gestures with enthusiasm, revealing a massive pile of food laid out before him, a feast in stark contrast to Droit’s skeletal frame.

Droit doesn’t need to be told twice. He sits down eagerly, shoveling food into his mouth as though he hasn’t eaten in days, his body reacting immediately. Each bite seems to restore more of him, filling the emptiness in his body. His movements are ravenous but controlled, as if his very survival depends on it. For 30 minutes, he eats non-stop, the food revitalizing him, pushing back the exhaustion that threatens to claim him.

As the minutes tick by, Droit’s body begins to change. His once bony frame begins to fill out, muscles slowly knitting themselves back into place, veins pushing their way to the surface as his strength returns. His arms, once thin and fragile, are now rippling with power, the muscle definition visible even without a mirror.

"Ahh, nice gains," Melnik says with a nod of approval, his eyes scanning Droit’s transformation.

Droit, still catching his breath, looks down at his arms in disbelief. "Damn! This is crazy!" He flexes his arm slightly, testing its newfound strength. “Turn back. Let’s do this.”

Melnik, now grinning from ear to ear, sees the change in Droit. The hunger in his eyes, the fierce desire to push forward—it’s there, stronger than ever. "Alright, let’s go. You've got the strength now. Time to test it."

Melnik shifts back into Alnik, his voice cold and commanding. "Alright, now it's time for squats. Start with 500."

Droit doesn’t flinch. His lips curl into a determined smirk as he nods. "Got it."

He starts immediately, his movements deliberate and focused. Each squat burns through his legs, but Droit embraces the pain. His breathing is steady, his resolve unshaken. Sweat pours down his face, but there’s no hesitation in his rhythm.

As he finishes the 500th squat, he stands upright, his legs trembling but his gaze steady. "What’s next?"

Alnik’s grin widens, a flicker of approval crossing his usually harsh expression. "5,000. No breaks."

"Good," Droit replies, rolling his shoulders as if loosening up. He drops into the first squat without a second thought.

The numbers climb—500, 1,000, 2,000. His body screams in protest, his ankles swelling, his knees grinding, but his mind is a fortress. He doesn’t count aloud; the numbers are etched into his mind as a quiet mantra.

At 3,000, his ligaments feel like they’re tearing, and his legs shake uncontrollably, but there’s no pause. Each squat is a testament to his unyielding will. The pain is no longer an enemy but a companion, a reminder that he’s pushing beyond what he once thought impossible.

Finally, at 5,000, Droit collapses to the ground, his legs completely spent. He stares up at Alnik with a faint smile despite the agony coursing through his body.

"Good," Alnik says, towering over him. "You’re starting to understand. Pain isn’t something to fight. It’s something to master."

Droit nods weakly, his voice steady despite his exhaustion. "I’m just getting started."

Alnik smirks, his approval unspoken but evident in his eyes. "Rest for a moment. You’ve earned it. But don’t get comfortable—we’re far from done."

Alnik summons a single weighted plate from thin air, letting it hover ominously.

“Where did that come from?” Droit asks, his curiosity piqued.

“This room is limitless,” Alnik explains with a smirk. “It can shift shape, size, or even atmosphere. Summoning a weighted plate is child’s play.”

Droit’s eyes light up. “Oh, so we can make it into something cool? Like a mountain top or an ocean view?”

“No,” Alnik replies flatly. “This setup eliminates distractions. We’ll deal with distractions later. For now, take this plate, put it on your back, and do ten push-ups.”

“Just ten?” Droit scoffs, crossing his arms. “Easy. Are you sure that’s enough?”

Alnik’s smirk deepens as he tosses the plate toward Droit. “Here, try it.”

The moment Droit catches it, his arms buckle under the crushing weight. With a sickening crack, his hands shatter as he crumples to the ground, screaming in agony.

“What… what is this thing?” Droit gasps, clutching his broken hands.

“Oh, did I forget to mention? The plate weighs 100 kilograms,” Alnik says nonchalantly. “What happened to all that attitude?” He shifts into Melnik to heal Droit’s injuries before reverting back.

Droit, gritting his teeth, attempts to lift the plate again, but the 100kg weight doesn’t budge. “A little help?” he asks, looking at Alnik.

“No,” Alnik says coldly. “This is your battle. Load it yourself, put it on your back, and do ten push-ups.”

For a week, Droit struggles to lift the plate, his body trembling with effort. Finally, he manages to balance it on his back but can barely complete a single push-up.

After a month of relentless attempts, drenched in sweat and driven by sheer willpower, Droit completes all ten.

“Good,” Alnik says, a sly grin forming on his face. “Now here’s another plate. Do one push-up with this.”

Droit eyes him warily. “Alright, but how much does this one weigh?”

“1,000 kilograms,” Alnik declares, fully expecting to see hesitation or fear.

Instead, Droit grins—a quirky, almost mischievous smile lighting up his face. “Alright!” he says with an eagerness that catches even Alnik off guard.

Alnik narrows his eyes, studying him. The shift in Droit is undeniable—he’s no longer burdened by self-doubt or hesitation. His resolve is unshakable.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Alnik mutters under his breath.

“What’s that?” Droit asks, tilting his head.

“Nothing,” Alnik snaps. “Now catch!”

He hurls the massive plate toward Droit, its sheer weight and speed promising devastation. But Droit, now honed and sharper than ever, sidesteps the flying plate just in time, the ground cracking where it lands.

“Nice reflexes,” Alnik admits. “But you still have to lift it.”

For the next month, Droit battles the plate. Every attempt results in torn muscles, fractured bones, and agonizing setbacks. But with each failure, he grows stronger, and with Alnik healing him in between, Droit refuses to back down.

Finally, after countless trials, drenched in sweat and emanating raw determination, Droit lifts the plate onto his back. His entire body trembles under the unimaginable weight, but his focus doesn’t waver.

“1… push-up…” Droit mutters as he lowers himself, his muscles screaming in protest.

With a triumphant roar, he pushes back up, completing the challenge.

Alnik, for once, smiles without a hint of malice. “You’ll do just fine,” he says quietly, almost to himself.

Droit sways slightly, his vision blurring as exhaustion grips him. It’s been days—possibly weeks—since he last ate, and every cell in his body screams for sustenance. Alnik notices his condition and raises an eyebrow.

“Do you want to rest? Maybe eat something?” Alnik asks, his tone oddly considerate for once.

“Yes, please,” Droit replies, his voice faint. “I’m devastated.”

Alnik nods thoughtfully. “Oh, of course. I should’ve given you something earlier. My apologies.” A small, mischievous smile creeps across his face.

Droit narrows his eyes. “You’re not actually going to feed me, are you?”

Without answering, Alnik summons a massive rod from nowhere and drops it directly at Droit’s feet. The ground trembles under its weight.

“Here. It’s a 500-kilogram rod. Do 50 squats,” Alnik commands, his voice sharp and unforgiving.

Droit stares at the rod, his legs trembling even before attempting to lift it.

At least he didn’t throw it at me this time, Droit thinks grimly.

The cycle begins anew—fractured legs, torn tendons, and excruciating pain. Each time Droit collapses, Alnik heals him, only for Droit to rise again and force his body through another rep. Weeks blur into months as Droit battles the rod, his determination is unwavering despite the relentless agony.

Finally, after conquering the initial 50 squats, Alnik nods approvingly. “Good. Now, do five reps with this,” he says, summoning another rod—this one ten times heavier.

“Five thousand kilograms?!” Droit exclaims, his voice rasping with disbelief.

“Don’t waste energy talking. Lift it,” Alnik snaps.

It takes Droit months of failure before he finally manages to complete the challenge. On the final squat, his knees nearly buckle, and his back gives way with a sickening crack. But he does it—he finishes the fifth rep before collapsing to the ground, unconscious.

Six months of brutal, soul-crushing training have pushed Droit far beyond what he thought humanly possible. Yet, even in his fainted state, a small, victorious smile lingers on his face.

Alnik, seeing that Droit has passed out from exhaustion, transforms into Melnik. He crouches down and places his hands on Droit’s broken body, gently healing him. Once he’s fully healed, Melnik stands up and gives a small nod of approval before summoning a large spread of food. The smell fills the air as Droit stirs awake, his hunger overwhelming the lingering fatigue.

Without hesitation, Droit lunges at the food, devouring it as if starved. He eats with a ferocity that matches his recent challenges.

Melnik watches him for a moment, then asks, “How much time do you have this time?”

Droit pauses, his mouth full, before shaking his head. “Oh, I guess he forgot to tell me,” he replies, smirking through the bite.

“Well, take your time. Eat to your heart’s content,” Melnik says, his tone relaxed as he watches Droit continue.

As Droit eats, his body begins to change once more. His muscles grow even larger and more defined, his veins becoming pronounced as his physique takes on a leaner, more radiant appearance.

Melnik, clearly impressed, picks up a fork from the table and starts to fiddle with it. He eyes Droit, a strange glint in his gaze.

“What?” Droit asks, noticing the way Melnik is watching him.

“Don’t move. Let me try something,” Melnik says with a grin.

Before Droit can react, Melnik shoves the fork toward his arm. Droit jumps from his seat, yelling, “What are you doing?!”

Melnik holds up the fork, which is now bent into a U-shape. “This,” he replies coolly.

Droit stares at the twisted metal in surprise, his heart racing. The relentless training had clearly taken its toll, transforming his body into something more than human. His muscles, once ordinary, now seemed beyond the limits of normal strength. He looks at his palm, forming a tight fist and flexing it as if testing his newfound power.

“This is crazy,” Droit mutters, staring at his fist with awe. “I want more.”

His body is no longer just recovering; it’s evolving, adapting, and pushing beyond the constraints of human potential. The realization hits him: he’s not just enduring the pain anymore—he’s thriving in it.

After finishing his meal, Droit gets back to training without hesitation.

"Alright! It's time to work on your speed and reflexes," Alnik announces, gesturing to two cones placed about 500 meters apart. "Run the distance in 30 seconds."

Droit nods and takes off, completing it with ease on his first try.

"Good. Now do it in 10 seconds," Alnik commands.

Droit furrows his brow but doesn’t argue. He starts running, pushing himself harder with each attempt. After several tries, he finally manages to hit the mark, his breathing heavy but his spirit unbroken.

"Seems like you’re getting it now," Alnik remarks, noticing Droit's newfound ability to surpass his limits without hesitation.

From 10 seconds, Alnik pushes him to 8, then 5, and finally down to a staggering 0.5 seconds from A to B. Droit grits his teeth through the grueling attempts, but he does them all, his body a blur of motion as he tears across the field.

Droit, now drenched in sweat, grins at Alnik with an energetic smile. "What’s next?"

"Do it again," Alnik says with a smirk. "But this time, you’ll do five sets. A to B and B to A count as one set. And you have to do that in 30 seconds"

Alnik watches Droit finish his sets with an effortless rhythm, a bored expression settling on his face. Then, a mischievous grin spreads across his lips, his eyes gleaming with a sudden idea.

Just as Droit is about to finish his first set, Alnik steps into his path, extending a foot. The move is subtle yet deliberate. Droit doesn’t see it coming. His momentum sends him sprawling to the ground, and a sharp twist in his ankle brings a scream of pain.

“What the hell was that?!” Droit growls, clutching his throbbing ankle. “Why did you do that?”

Alnik chuckles, his tone maddeningly casual. “I told you—this training is for speed and reflexes. If you’re going to get faster, you need to anticipate and adapt. Besides...” He leans in slightly, his grin widening. “I was getting bored. I want to play too.”

Droit’s glare could pierce steel. “Okay, let me guess. You’re not going to let Melnik heal my ankle, are you?”

Alnik simplysmiles, a silent confirmation that feels louder than words.

“Start again,” he commands.

Gritting his teeth, Droit forces himself to stand. His twisted ankle screams with every step as he starts running again. Each stride is a battle, each landing sends fresh waves of pain shooting up his leg.

Alnik doesn’t make it easy. He appears unpredictably, aiming for Droit’s weak points, ensuring he stumbles, falls, or veers off course every time. It’s infuriating. It’s agonizing. And it feels like Alnik is toying with him—his strikes too precise, too perfectly timed.

“No way this isn’t cheating!” Droit yells, barely dodging Alnik’s outstretched arm, his body twisting awkwardly to compensate for his injury.

But Alnik just laughs. “Cheating? This is survival, boy. Learn to keep up—or fall behind and stay there.”

With each attempt, Droit rises, battered and bruised, his frustration fueling his resolve. The pain is unbearable, but something deeper within him refuses to quit. His focus sharpens, and his reflexes, honed through endless suffering, begin to evolve.

This brutal game continues for days. Each attempt ends the same way—Droit stumbling, falling, or wincing in pain as Alnik’s relentless attacks find their mark. But one day, something changes.

Droit’s focus sharpens to a razor’s edge. As Alnik moves in to strike, Droit sidesteps smoothly, evading the attack with a precision he’s never shown before. For the first time, he finishes the entire lap unscathed.

Alnik doesn’t intervene again during that sprint. He simply watches, a flicker of approval flashing across his usually impassive face.

“Good,” Alnik says, his tone unreadable. “Now do the same five sets. But this time, finish them in ten seconds.”

Droit doesn’t hesitate. His body moves instinctively, each stride faster than the last. The challenge intensifies with every iteration—ten seconds becomes five, five becomes three, three becomes one, and finally, 0.5 seconds.

Throughout it all, Alnik’s interference remains merciless. His attacks come faster, harder, and more unpredictable, leaving Droit bruised and battered at every turn. Yet Droit pushes forward, unyielding.

By the end, something shifts within him. The pain no longer registers—or perhaps it no longer matters. It’s as if his body has accepted the suffering as a part of the process, a constant companion rather than an adversary.

Finally, Droit collapses at the finish line, breathing hard but otherwise stoic. Alnik steps forward, his expression calm yet firm.

“Well done,” he mutters, his tone surprisingly neutral. Without warning, Alnik’s form shimmers and softens, his sharp features melting into the gentler visage of Melnik.

Melnik kneels beside Droit, his hands glowing faintly as he begins to heal the torn muscles and fractured bones.

“Refuel,” Melnik says warmly. “You’ve earned it. Take thirty minutes—rest, eat, and recover.”

Droit nods, his face a mix of exhaustion and determination.

Scene: Outside the training room.

The monk sits quietly, his gaze fixed on the leaves above, their gentle rustling filling the serene air. His expression is distant, as though his thoughts are far away.

“I wonder if you’re keeping out of trouble,” he mutters softly, as if speaking to someone from a memory.

His mind drifts back to the past.

In the depths of a dense forest, a small monkey is tied to a tree, trembling as an apple balances precariously on his head. A teenage dragon named Lei stands nearby, grinning mischievously, a knife poised in his clawed hand. Lei’s aim is far from precise. The little monkey’s body is covered in shallow wounds, each one a testament to Lei’s careless game.

With a flick of his hand, Lei throws another knife. The blade narrowly misses the apple but slices off the monkey’s left ear. The little monkey’s agonized scream echoes through the forest.

Not far away, a teenage monkey named Wufen hears the cry. His ears perk up, and without hesitation, he races toward the sound. Bursting through the foliage, he freezes momentarily, taking in the scene. His eyes narrow in fury as he sees the wounded monkey and Lei’s smug grin.

Wufen wastes no time. He rushes forward, untying the little monkey in a swift motion. As the bindings fall away, he hurls a sharp curse at Lei.

The dragon laughs, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Ah, finally, a bigger target,” he sneers.

Lei raises his hand, summoning a crackling light arrow. With a flick, he launches it toward Wufen, but Wufen leaps aside with agility born of experience.

“Missed,” Wufen taunts, his tone sharp and defiant.

Lei growls, summoning another arrow, this time crackling with thunderous energy. He throws it with more force, yet Wufen continues to evade him, his movements fluid and precise, his defiance unwavering.

Wufen picks up a hefty rock and hurls it at Lei with surprising precision. The rock strikes Lei squarely, and he lets out a furious roar. "You dare attack me? Do you even know who I am?" Lei snarls, his eyes narrowing. "I am the son of Ao Guang, the Dragon King of the East Sea!"

With that, Lei channels his energy, summoning a crackling arrow of pure lightning in his palm. He smirks confidently and hurls it at Wufen once more. Wufen deftly dodges the attack, but something about Lei’s smile makes his heart race.

Turning around, Wufen's worst fear materializes: the lightning bolt has struck the little monkey, who now lies unconscious on the forest floor. A surge of rage overtakes Wufen, his body trembling with fury.

Before Lei can react, Wufen lunges forward, his speed and strength catching the dragon completely off guard. Grabbing Lei by the neck, Wufen drags him through the forest with unrelenting force, smashing him against every tree, rock, and obstacle in their path. The air fills with the sound of snapping branches and Lei’s pained roars as Wufen’s anger fuels his relentless assault.

Finally, Wufen drops Lei to the ground. The dragon groans weakly, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. Standing over him, Wufen's voice cuts through the tense air like a blade.

"You think you're powerful because of your father? Let me enlighten you," Wufen growls. "I am no ordinary monkey. I, too, am a descendant of a god. But not just any god—a god who bested your father."

Lei’s eyes widen in shock as Wufen continues, his voice laced with cold fury.

"I am Sun Wufen, direct descendant of Sun Wukong—the Monkey King."

Scene: Inside the training room.

Alnik dangles a small ball by a thin thread, letting it sway lazily in front of Droit. Then, without warning, he swings it into a rapid spin. The ball blurs through the air, a whirlwind of movement.

“Count,” Alnik orders.

Droit narrows his eyes, tracking the motion. Five seconds pass before Alnik stops the ball.

“How many rotations?”

Droit hesitates, his mind racing. “Seven hundred?”

Crack!

A sharp snap echoes through the space—Alnik has broken Droit’s index finger. Pain shoots through his hand, but Droit clenches his jaw. No scream. No protest.

“We’re not guessing here,” Alnik says coldly. “Give me the exact number or die.”

Droit breathes heavily, forcing himself to stay calm. “Again.”

Alnik swings the ball once more. Another five seconds. Another blur. Another wrong answer.

Snap!

Another finger. Another failure.

By the third time, Droit’s hand is mangled. His breath is ragged, his vision wavering. Yet, before he can brace himself for another break, Alnik’s expression shifts—boredom replaced by something darker.

Without warning, he drives a fist into Droit’s gut, sending him crashing to the floor. Then, he kicks him, hard enough to send him skidding. Blood spatters across the ground. Droit tries to push himself up, but another strike comes. Then another. And another.

Then—rip.

A searing pain explodes in Droit’s body. His arm is gone. Torn from his shoulder like dead weight. Blood pours from the wound, but he doesn’t scream. He can’t. He’s too broken for that. Tears spill down his face, but not from pain—no, it’s the realization.

Alnik lifts him by the collar, his voice calm, almost casual.

“Is this a joke to you?” he murmurs. “Have you gotten comfortable? Do you think I care about you? Have you forgotten why you’re here?”

Droit’s breath is shallow, his mind clouded, but then—Alnik leans in.

“If you fail me again,” Alnik whispers, “I won’t kill you. I’ll kill Dan instead.”

The words send ice through Droit’s veins. His eyes widen. He forgot. He let himself believe Alnik had a heart, that maybe he was something more than a devil in human skin.

He was wrong.

“I understand,” Droit rasps. His voice is weak but unwavering. “Give me the ball. Five minutes.” Then, he takes a shaky breath and looks up at Alnik. “And… change into Melnik. Let him heal me first.”

Alnik only stares at him. Then, slowly, a smirk creeps onto his face.

Instead of answering, he grips Droit’s burning shoulder.

Pain flares as flames sear his wound shut. The scent of scorched flesh fills the air.

“You’ll get your arm back when you get it right,” Alnik says.

Here's the rewritten version with the tense, suspenseful tone you prefer:

Droit swings the ball again and again, forcing his mind to track its motion, pushing himself past exhaustion. Five minutes. No breaks. No hesitation. When he finally stops, he hands it back to Alnik, his breath steady, his gaze unshaken.

Alnik wastes no time. He flicks the ball into motion, spinning it faster than before. Five seconds pass. Then—he stops.

“How many?”

Droit doesn’t hesitate. “997.”

Crack!

His fourth finger snaps. Pain shoots up his arm, but Droit doesn’t flinch. His hand is ruined, twisted, and useless, but he refuses to show weakness.

“Close,” Alnik muses. “Try again.”

Droit resets his focus. This time, he follows the ball with every fiber of his being. When Alnik stops, the number is clear in his mind.

“1002.”

Alnik nods. “Hmm. Good.”

Before Droit can catch his breath, Alnik swings the ball again—but this time, only for a second.

Droit’s stomach drops.

The ball doesn’t move—it appears to move and stop at the same time, too fast for him to process. His mind blanks. His body tenses. He can’t count what he can’t even see.

Alnik says nothing. He simply swings again, this time for two seconds.

Droit sees a blur. Just a blur. The numbers? A mystery.

His knees buckle. No.Just when he thought he had evolved when he believed he was stronger, he realizes—he’s nothing. He’s small. Weak. Pathetic.

A cold voice shatters his spiraling thoughts.

“Do not think,” Alnik commands. “Clear your mind. Don’t just stare at the ball. Consume it. Understand it. Focus your eyes and your brain on nothing else.”

Droit clenches his fists, inhaling deeply. His vision sharpens. The world narrows.

Then—something shifts.

A close-up shot reveals his pupils. A vague brown ring begins to form, circling his irises, faint but growing.

Alnik swings the ball. Two seconds.

Droit watches. This time, his brain sees it.

“10,024.”

Alnik stops. “10,025.”

And breaks his thumb.

Droit crumples to the ground. His vision blurs, veins bulging around his eyes, his mind on the verge of snapping. The sheer strain is too much.

Without warning—SLAP.

The impact sends a shock through his body. Droit gasps, eyes wide.

“This!” Alnik roars. “This is when you push past! Stand up! Let yourself go blind if that’s what it takes! Do not fear—Evolve now!”

Droit staggers to his feet. His breath ragged. Blood drips from his eyes. But he sees.

“Good,” Alnik smirks. “Now—count.”

The ball swings. One second.

“19,628,” Droit says, his voice hollow, distant.

Silence. Then—

Alnik grins. “Correct.”

He places a mirror in front of Droit’s face.

Droit stares. His eyes are different. A black ring now circles his pupils, his bloodied gaze locked in something… more.

“Whoa… what is this?”

“Your eyes have evolved,” Alnik states. “You can switch them off.”

“How? And… why?”

Alnik shrugs. “You already know how. It should be like breathing now. And as for why? Because you’re practically announcing to your enemies that you’ve awakened.” His grin widens. “That’s never a good thing.”

Then—without a word—Alnik shifts. His body morphs, his presence softens, and in an instant, Melnik stands in his place.

“You have six hours,” Melnik says. “Heal. Eat. Sleep.”

Droit exhales, his vision still swirling.

Today marks One year.

He has survived one year of this hell.

After six hours, Droit is somewhat rested. He stands before Alnik again, ready for the next brutal lesson. Alnik explains that this training is about sensing his surroundings—even with his eyes closed.

"I'll be slapping you," Alnik says, blindfolding Droit. "You can only use one hand to stop me. If you fail, you get slapped."

Alnik strikes toward Droit’s right cheek—but Droit catches his wrist. He heard the shift in the air, felt the movement. For the first time, Droit completes a training without a beating.

Next, Alnik ups the difficulty. "Tell me where I’ll be standing in five seconds."

Droit hesitates. His mind is blank. He listens, but it’s not enough.

"Read the airflow," Alnik instructs. "Use your ears. Just like before."

It takes time, but eventually, Droit starts to get it. He successfully tracks Alnik’s movements. Then, Alnik throws a ball and orders him to retrieve it—within one second. Droit fails multiple times but finally succeeds.

Alnik grins and throws five balls. "Get them all in a second."

Droit is faster now, his body reacting before his mind processes. He retrieves them with ease.

"Good. One month, and you’ve got a hang of it." Alnik snaps his fingers, and the void transforms into a vast, lush forest. The air is alive with rustling leaves and flowing water. A cut-down tree serves as a seat, where Alnik gestures for Droit to sit.

Droit tilts his head, listening. "Are we in a forest? I hear a stream, wind through the leaves… are there birds? Can I remove the blindfold for a second?"

"No. Instead, tell me what you see."

Droit focuses. "Forest. Trees everywhere. A stream behind me. Squirrels playing on the tree to my right."

"Good. Now, tell me where I’ll be in five seconds."

Droit strains his senses, but the forest is different. The open air shifts unpredictably. He has no answer. "I… I don’t know. Everything’s moving."

"That’s why you need to hear everything," Alnik says, unimpressed. "Is that so hard?"

Droit grits his teeth. "Okay, wait."

Ten seconds pass. Still nothing.

Then, Alnik slaps him. Hard. Droit doesn’t see it coming.

A week passes. Droit is no better. Alnik grows impatient. The slaps escalate—first to breaking bones, then tearing out nails. Droit screams, but the torture continues. A month in, Droit can only vaguely sense Alnik’s position.

"Do you not know how to focus? By now, you should have formed a complete image of this place, sensed the air flows."

Droit, panting through the pain, says, "I know the surroundings… but the air changes constantly. Is there another way?"

Alnik smirks. "Yes. See for yourself."

He rips off Droit’s blindfold.

Droit, bleeding and broken, exhales. He’s too weak to stand but breathes in the crisp air. Relief washes over him.

"Are you ready now?" Alnik asks.

"Yes." Droit closes his eyes to refocus.

"Oh, no, no." Alnik steps forward, fingers curling. "You don’t deserve them anymore."

His fingers drive into Droit’s eye sockets.

Agony explodes in Droit’s head. He thrashes, and screams. Blood drips down his face as he gasps for breath.

Alnik’s voice is filled with fury. "Dumb bitch, took a whole month and all you did was sit here sniffing the wind! Either tell me where I am now, or stay blind forever."

Droit’s mind stops. How? How does it always get worse?

Thirty minutes pass. Alnik does nothing—because there’s nothing left to break that won’t ruin the training. Droit has only two working organs left: his ears and his mouth.

Finally, Droit speaks. He describes the forest perfectly. Unbeknownst to him, Alnik changed their surroundings after taking his eyes—but Droit still perceives it all.

"Where will I be in five seconds?" Alnik challenges.

Droit answers, down to Alnik’s posture and the number of steps he takes.

Alnik nods. "Alright. You’re getting the gist of it. What do you see in your mind?"

"Nothing. But I can feel everything, like a brush painting over a blank canvas."

Alnik hums in approval. "Final exam. When I say ‘now,’ count the number of leaves falling."

Droit takes a breath. "Give me ten minutes. I need peace, not pain."

Alnik scoffs. "Fine. Whatever makes this training end."

Ten minutes later, before Alnik even asks, Droit speaks. "Five thousand, seven hundred fifty-nine leaves are drifting through the air. One hundred twenty more will fall within seconds."

Alnik’s grin returns. "And how many squirrels?"

"Twelve."

Alnik chuckles. "Not bad. I’m bringing Melnik out. He’ll heal you and get you something to eat. You have thirty minutes."

Droit smirks. Indicating to Alnik that Droit knows he smiled.

Alnik rolls his eyes and vanishes.

Melnik arrives and works his magic. As Droit opens his eyes, his vision floods with overwhelming detail. The world is sharper, too intense. He stumbles, but within seconds, adjusts.

Melnik whistles. "You got a tattoo or something from Alnik?"

Droit blinks, then grins. "Oh, yeah. Cool tattoo, huh?" He flicks his eyes back to normal, smirking.

With this training, 4 more months have passed.

Scene: Sage's Story Continuation

Through the ravaged forest, a group of ox-like beasts charges forward, their heavy steps crushing fallen branches and torn-up earth beneath them. The destruction left in Wufen’s wake is unmistakable—uprooted trees, deep gashes in the ground, and shattered boulders strewn across their path.

Then, they see him.

Prince Ao Lei lies motionless amidst the wreckage, his body battered, his breathing shallow. Without hesitation, the beasts lift him carefully and rush toward the sea, their powerful strides unyielding.

Beneath the ocean’s depths, within the vast Ao Guang Palace, tension crackles like a coming storm. The news spreads like wildfire—the prince has returned, but he is unconscious.

Ao Guang reclines upon an opulent bed of dark silk, his towering seven-foot frame barely contained by the luxurious fabric. His body is a fusion of man and dragon—sleek crimson scales gleaming under the dim glow of lanterns. A thick mane of white fur spills over his shoulders, wild yet regal.

Then, the whispers reach him.

A sudden golden glow cuts through the dimness as his eyes snap open—slitted pupils narrowing, sharp as blades. His clawed fingers twitch, the razor tips glinting in the low light.

The air grows heavy, charged with something old, something primordial. The very walls of the palace seem to shift, as though awaiting his command.

Then, Ao Guang moves.

He strides into the hearing hall, where the ox-beasts kneel, cradling Ao Lei’s limp body. With one swift motion, Guang takes his son into his arms, his grip unshaken, yet filled with quiet fury.

His voice is low, like distant thunder.

"Who did this?"

Ao Lei stirs, his breath weak, his voice barely a whisper.

"Wu… Wufen… It was… Son Wufen…"

The name is like a dagger.

A violent shudder courses through Ao Guang’s frame. His white fur bristles, his fangs baring in silent rage. The air tightens, the room itself trembling beneath his growing wrath.

The Son Clan.

His golden gaze darkens, molten rage boiling just beneath the surface. His claws flex, curling into fists.

Then, his voice—cold, sharp, undeniable—shatters the silence.

"GO! BRING ME SON WUFEN—NOW!"

The command explodes through the hall like a crashing wave. Warriors scatter, their armored forms vanishing into the ocean’s depths, rushing toward vengeance.

And in the heart of his palace, Ao Guang stands, his fury vast as the sea, his vengeance only beginning.

Scene: Inside the training room.

For the next two months, Droit learns to hold his breath underwater. Or rather, Alnik forces him to.

There were many ways to train this skill, but Alnik, being Alnik, chose the most brutal—drowning. Over and over, he shoves Droit into the lake deep in the forest, holding him down until his body spasms, his lungs scream, and darkness creeps in. Just as death is about to claim him, a violent shock rips him back to life. No warnings. No mercy. Just endless suffocation and revival until his body adapts out of sheer necessity.

By the end of it, Droit can hold his breath for an impossible amount of time. Not because he mastered a technique—but because he had no other choice.

"Okay, what's next?" Droit asks, dripping wet, his breath steady despite the ordeal.

"Flying," Alnik says casually.

Droit blinks. "What? You serious?"

"Yeah, sure."

Droit grins. "Dude, that's, like, one of my top superpowers!"

"Yeah, yeah, don't piss yourself in excitement," Alnik mutters, picking up a stick. He drags a line across the dirt, then conjures a vest. It lands with a thud so heavy that the ground shakes slightly.

"Put that on. Then jump over the line," Alnik instructs.

Droit reaches for the vest—and immediately regrets it.

His arms nearly snap in half from the sheer weight. His spine locks up, knees trembling under the impossible mass.

"The hell is this made of?!"

"Ten thousand kilograms," Alnik says, exhaling smoke.

Droit collapses onto the ground. There’s no lifting this thing—not with his arms. So instead, he drags himself underneath it, inch by inch, and fastens the straps around his body. It’s like being buried alive.

Days pass before he can even stand. More days before he can walk. Every step is like moving through wet concrete. His bones ache. His lungs burn.

Then comes the jump.

The moment he lifts his heels—both calves tear apart.

He collapses instantly, body writhing in pain.

Alnik doesn’t react. With a lazy snap of his fingers, Melnik appears, heals the damage in seconds, and vanishes.

"Try again," Alnik says.

Droit does. And again. And again. Each time, his body holds up a little better. His muscles stop breaking, but jumping still feels impossible.

The line is right there. Just a step away. If he could walk across, it’d be effortless. But with this weight? It’s a goddamn mountain.

Failure after failure.

Then, finally—he lifts off.

Only for a second.

He lands directly on the line and shatters his spine in half.

Another heal. Another attempt.

Then, finally—Droit jumps.

He soars past the line. The vest crashes to the ground as he rips it off. Relief floods through him.

He laughs, ecstatic, and jumps again.

But this time—he doesn’t come back down.

His body launches skyward. The force of his leap sends him rocketing toward the clouds.

The entire forest spreads beneath him—an endless ocean of green with no end in sight.

For the first time, he feels free. Weightless. Limitless.

Then he looks down.

Panic strikes.

He’s too high. Way too high. The trees below look like tiny specks, and if he falls from this height—he’s paste.

Gravity wins. He plummets. The wind howls past him. The trees rush toward him like a hungry beast.

And yet—he lands.

His body absorbs the impact effortlessly. No broken bones. No crushed limbs. Just a smooth, perfect landing.

Droit stares in disbelief. "Did you see that?!"

Alnik exhales smoke. "What kind of dumbass question is that?"

Droit grins. "Okay, so… how do I actually fly?"

"Jump mid-air. Learn to control it," Alnik mutters, lighting a hand-rolled cigarette as he lies down sideways like he’s completely done teaching.

Droit doesn’t waste time. He jumps—then jumps again mid-air.

It takes a few tries, but soon—he’s soaring. He twists, flips, and glides through the sky like it’s second nature.

For the first time since entering this hell—he's actually happy.

Another three months pass.

Twenty-one months under Alnik’s brutal training.

Droit stretches, rolling his shoulders. "Alright, what's next? Maybe shooting lasers from my eyes?"

Alnik exhales through his nose, a slow, disappointed sound. "Next," he mutters, "and the last part of your training… is all on you."

Droit blinks. "Huh?"

"Sit here and meditate."

Droit tilts his head. "Wait, seriously? That’s it? That’s the grand finale? Not gonna lie, I was expecting something a little more—"

"Shut up." Alnik flicks a hand-rolled cigarette into his mouth and lights it with a snap of his fingers. "Tell me. What is meditation?"

Droit shrugs. "You just sit and don’t think of anything, right?"

Alnik exhales smoke. "Can you do that?"

"Yeah, I don’t think much."

Alnik lets out another disappointed whimper, shaking his head.

"Meditation isn’t about emptying your mind. It’s about focus. I want you to focus on three things—your surroundings, your inner self, and your thoughts."

Droit scratches his head. "Okay, surroundings? Easy. But inner self? Thoughts?"

"Close your eyes," Alnik commands. "Stop talking. Focus on your thoughts. Work through them. Understand your subconscious. If you do it right, you’ll hear yourself. You’ll talk to yourself. And if you go deeper… you might even hear the One."

Droit frowns. "The One? You mean God?"

Alnik scoffs. "Not the gods of your religions. I mean the One. Existence itself. All things are part of it. Even you. Now sit and meditate."

Droit sighs but obeys, settling against a tree. Five minutes pass. He cracks one eye open.

Alnik is lying on the ground, gazing at the sky, cigarette burning lazily between his fingers.

Without even looking, he speaks. "Close your eyes. Meditate until I say otherwise."

Droit groans but tries again. He focuses. An hour drags by. He opens his eyes.

"Not yet," Alnik says flatly. "Again."

Droit huffs but closes his eyes. This time, twenty minutes in, boredom gnaws at him. He peeks one eye open.

"Did I tell you to stop?" Alnik doesn’t even glance his way.

"But it’s boring," Droit mutters.

Alnik exhales smoke, eyes still on the sky. "I could take your eyes again. Lock you in a black void for eternity. That might help you focus. Want to try?"

Droit stiffens, swallowing hard.

"Yeah. That’s what I thought," Alnik mutters. "Now. Try again."

Without a word, Droit closes his eyes again. This time, he dives deep—deeper than before.

He lets his thoughts unfold, playing every moment back like an unbroken thread. The night he left his apartment. Meeting Melnik. Dan’s demise. Every scream, every breath, every mistake. He follows each memory, letting them drag him through the past.

Then, he shifts focus. Melnik—why does he have two sides? What is he, really?

Alnik—how does his mind work? Why does he revel in pain, in chaos, yet still lead Droit forward?

And then… himself.

Droit begins unraveling his own thoughts, the ones buried beneath fear and exhaustion. Before he can reach the core, something shifts. A presence emerges—a voice, distant yet near, guiding him through this mental labyrinth.

It doesn’t speak words, not at first. It moves through him, nudging him toward something vast, something beyond.

Then, just as clarity begins to take form—

A sharp kick to his ribs jolts him back.

"Hey, are you asleep? Wake up."

Droit’s eyes snap open. Alnik stands over him, cigarette gone, arms crossed. His face is unreadable.

Droit blinks, his mind still tangled in the lingering remnants of the voice. "What happened?"

"Three months," Alnik says flatly. "That’s what happened. I’m bored out of my damn mind. Your training is done."

Droit slowly stands, his body feeling both impossibly light and unbearably heavy.

Two years.

He exhales. It’s finally over.

Scene: Sage's Story Continuation

The city near Mount Huaguo is in chaos. The thunderous stomps of Ox soldiers shake the streets, their massive hooves cracking stone as they storm through, toppling stalls and scattering terrified villagers. Smoke rises where their reckless destruction leaves its mark.

Deep in the nearby forest, beneath the shade of an ancient tree, a lone figure sits in perfect stillness. His white fur glows faintly in the dappled sunlight, his sharp eyes closed in quiet meditation.

A frantic chattering breaks the silence.

“Oh, divine Wufen, help us! The Ox soldiers are destroying the city—they're searching for you!”

Wufen opens his eyes. A group of monkeys, their small bodies trembling, cling to the tree’s roots, their faces full of fear.

His expression darkens. Without a word, he rises.

The city is worse than he expected. He steps over shattered carts and broken tiles, his sharp gaze locking onto the advancing Ox soldiers. They turn as he approaches, the captain at their head—his armor caked in dust, his horns gleaming under the dimming sky.

Wufen folds his arms. “What is happening? Why are you looking for me?”

“For what you did to the prince.” The captain’s voice is thick with menace. “Lord Ao wants to see you. Now.”

Wufen’s brow furrows. He didn’t touch any prince. But deep in his gut, a suspicion takes root. His nephew… he wouldn’t—would he?

There’s no time to question. He exhales slowly, then nods. “Fine. I’ll come with you.”

The palace of Ao Guang is heavy withtension. Golden pillars rise toward the sky, yet the air inside is thick—dense with the weight of judgment. Wufen kneels before the Dragon King, his white fur catching the flickering torchlight.

Ao Guang sits on his massive throne, his piercing golden eyes locked onto Wufen. Fury radiates from his very being, his red-scaled fists gripping the armrests.

“You little monkey!” His voice booms through the hall. “How dare you lay hands on my son?! Have you no shame?!”

Wufen’s face remains calm. “I did no such thing. This is a mistake. Do you have proof?”

Ao Guang snarls. “I do not need proof. My son’s words are all the proof I require.” His lip curls. “I know your kind. The descendants of Son Wukong—always stirring trouble. I, Ao Guang, know the truth. And I declare your guilt. You shall be punished.”

A murmur ripples through the court. The semi-gods and nobles nod in agreement.

Wufen sighs. “If you’ve already decided, then there’s nothing I can say. I am not strong enough to fight you, nor do I wish to. If accepting punishment will end this, then so be it.”

Ao Guang’s lips twist into a grin. “Hah! I knew you would submit. But I am no fool. I will not take chances.” His eyes narrow. “You will be sent to the Prison of No Return.”

A hush falls over the court. Even the semi-gods hesitate.

Wufen’s breath catches in his throat. His fingers twitch. “Wait—what? No sin is great enough to warrant that!”

“The sin of beating my son to the brink of death is more than enough.” Ao Guang leans forward. “He was unconscious for hours. Ribs broken. How could you do that to a child? A being who harms the young is capable of any crime.”

The court murmurs in agreement.

Wufen’s hands tremble, not with fear, but restraint. He could run. He could fight. But if he did… what would happen to him? His nephew—his family, a boy with the potential to surpass even Wukong himself. If he became a target, his life would be over before it even began.

He clenches his jaw. No. He has to let this happen.

Ao Guang stands, his towering form casting a long shadow. Just then, the heavy doors burst open.

“Wait!”

Ao Lie stumbles into the hall, his breath ragged. His wounds still fresh.

“This!” he shouts. “This is..”

Wufen’s eyes widen. Before Lie can say another word, Wufen flicks his fingers. A silent spell seals the prince’s mouth shut.

Ao Guang notices. His golden eyes flare.

Wufen forces a smirk. “What’s wrong? Didn’t you already decide I’m a sinner? Go ahead. Punish me. Or do you admit that you were wrong?”

The court falls silent.

Dozens of eyes turn to Ao Guang. He grits his teeth. His pride is a mountain—immovable, absolute. He cannot take back his words now. But deep inside, doubt coils around him like a serpent.

Lie wouldn’t have spoken up unless something was wrong.

Closing his eyes, Ao Guang reaches out with his divine senses. He searches… and finds him.

Son Wufen. A mere boy, a teenager, sleeping peacefully on a rock in a distant cave.

His fingers tighten on his staff.

No.

No one can know the truth. No one can know that his son was beaten—by a mere child.

And yet, this is a golden opportunity. If the sage Wufen is imprisoned, the Wukong bloodline is shackled. And if the younger Wufen grows stronger…

His decision is made.

“Shall I go, or are you planning to do something?” Wufen’s voice cuts through the silence.

Ao Guang exhales slowly. Then—

“Fine. No point in wasting time.”

He lifts his staff. A whirlpool of divine energy swirls around it, twisting and rising, growing brighter and brighter until—

A blinding bolt of light erupts.

It strikes Wufen dead center.

Lie lunges forward, reaching for him—but Ao Guang grabs his shoulder, holding him back. The young prince’s eyes widen in horror as Wufen is swallowed by the light.

And then—he is gone.

Scene: In Sage Dimension.

The Sage opens his eyes and sees Droit and Melnik standing before him.

“Oh, you’ve grown. You look... astounding,” the Sage remarks, his gaze lingering on Droit’s transformed physique.

Droit grins, energy crackling in his words. “Yeah. And now, I’m ready to fight.”