CHAPTER 32: CHAPTER 32 — THE MONTH OF BREAKING

Bright wasn’t sure why Hailen’s words cut so deeply.

"You’ll learn when it breaks you — or when you break it." He repeated.

For a moment, the training yard was silent. The wind dragged lines across the sand. The shadows of the metal posts stretched long and thin.

Bright stared at the ground until his breath steadied.

He finally stood.

"Then teach me how to break it," he said.

Hailen didn’t smile, but something shifted in his posture—approval, maybe, or challenge.

"Then your real training begins."

Bright had thought the past days were brutal.

He was wrong.

Hailen woke him before sunrise each morning—no alarms, no taps. The old fighter simply began the day with a strike aimed at Bright’s ribs or neck. If Bright blocked it, training started. If he didn’t, training also started.

The schedule never changed:

Strength. Endurance. Instinct. Pain. Repeat.

There were no breaks long enough to matter.

On the first morning, Hailen dragged a crate to the middle of the yard and kicked it open.

Inside were weighted rings.

"Put them on," he said.

Bright slid one onto each wrist and ankle. The moment the metal touched his skin, his limbs dropped. His shoulders nearly buckled.

"Hailen—this is—"

"Standard weight," Hailen cut in. "If you can’t walk with them, you’ll never fight with them."

Bright gritted his teeth, forcing his legs to straighten.

"Good," Hailen said. "Run."

Bright blinked. "Run where?"

"Around the yard. Until you collapse."

When he finally fell—face-first in sand, chest heaving—the sun was fully up.

But the real torture came after.

Hailen had him hold push-up positions until his arms vibrated uncontrollably. Sit-ups with weights pressed against his chest. Squats while Hailen threw pebbles—small enough to mock him, fast enough to bruise.

"Strength is not built in comfort," Hailen said as Bright gasped through another repetition. "And muscle alone does not win battles. But without muscle, you die before the real fight begins."

Bright continued even when his hands bled. The sand soaked crimson, then brown, then faded as he sweated through it.

By the fifth day, the soreness in his body was no longer pain—it was an anchor, a presence. His muscles tightened and adapted.

He began to change.

Elsewhere,while Bright bled through the sand, the others were not idle.

The gravity chambers pumped up to two-times normal weight as Duncan marched with his full armor on. The metallic plates clamped tightly to his shoulders, chest, and back, converting every movement into a test of will.

Sparks and kinetic bursts hammered his defenses.

He didn’t dodge but endured.

The technicians monitoring all training procedures whispered that his durability was a bit remarkable for a fledgling.

But Duncan didn’t care about that.

He cared about never again being too weak to survive the shroud.

Adam’s chamber was lit entirely by holographic grids. His brow furrowed as he processed simulations at impossible speeds.

Strategy drills.

Reaction models.

Mental fortification sequences.

His cognition-enhancing ability core—freshly purchased—had begun to integrate. His thoughts ran faster. His predictions grew sharper. Even casual conversation with him felt subtly different, as if he was always three steps ahead.

He didn’t boast and didn’t need to, but he always saw himself as the dark horse in their motley crew, because most troops always believet that strength was a true measure of power but Adam thought differently.

Most heads of the army weren’t just in control through strength but the ones that were, were easily manipulated, and Adam always swore to be the wolf in the wild that feeds with cunning and not the sheep in the farm that grazes whenever, because the grass have no power to fight back.

For Bessia and Silas The scout-tactician drilled them relentlessly.

Bessia’s arms trembled as she steadied her aim across longer and longer distances. Her shots became cleaner—less hesitation, more resolve.

Silas practiced movement so fluid he sometimes seemed to flicker between footsteps. His instructor forced him to navigate obstacle courses blindfolded, relying on sound, airflow, and instinct.

Both saved their merit points, holding onto hope.

And fear.

They knew that the next ability they picked would define their combat future as it always had for everyone else.

Bright learned something new in the second week:

Muscles recover.

But lungs?

Lungs burn forever.

Hailen’s methods changed.

Now it wasn’t about weights—it was about breath.

He forced Bright through high-intensity bursts: sprinting, sudden stops, short dodges, explosive lunges, all while wearing the same weighted rings.

Bright’s heart hammered so hard it hurt.

Sometimes his danger sense spiked with no attack following. Other times Hailen struck him when he least expected.

"Your breath must follow your intent, not your fear," Hailen said.

Bright gasped. "I’m... trying."

"No." Hailen circled him like a predator. "You’re surviving. There’s a difference."

Then Hailen struck.

Not a blow to injure—just enough to throw Bright off balance.

Bright stumbled.

The world blurred.

And suddenly everything sharpened.

His danger sense flared—loud but clear, like a bell ringing underwater.

He felt the air shift behind him before Hailen moved.

He ducked.

The attack missed.

Hailen raised an eyebrow. "Good. Again."

By the end of week two, Bright could run laps with the weights without falling. His footwork smoothed. His breathing synced with movement.

His body was slower than Hailen’s, but his reactions—those were sharpening.

He could feel the world’s intentions, not just the world’s threats.

On the first day of week three, Hailen tossed Bright a black cloth.

"Blindfold."

Bright tied it without complaint.

"Now walk."

"Into what?"

"The yard. The world. Doesn’t matter. Walk."

Bright moved cautiously at first, weighting each step as if the ground might vanish.

Sand shifted under him.

Wind brushed past his ear.

A faint tremor tickled the back of his neck—danger.

He stepped aside.

A pebble whistled but smacked the back of his head.

"Again." Hailen called.

Over and over, Hailen attacked in silence: a thrown stone, a quick jab, a shift of the sand.

Bright began to feel intention like temperature—warm when danger approached, cooler when it faded. But he couldn’t pinpoint where without his senses.

He moved smoother still , less jerk, more flow on his steps.

The blindfold still relevant became less taxing.

Then the exercises changed again.

Hailen sat him in the center of the yard.

"Stillness," he commanded.

Bright frowned. "But we’re training—"

"This is training. Be still."

For hours, Bright sat cross-legged as Hailen walked circles around him with the silent tread of a phantom.

The silence was suffocating.

Every time Bright reacted too quickly, Hailen smacked his shoulder with a stick.

"Too early."

Every time he reacted too late?

"Too slow."

Bright hated it.

Hated the stillness.

Hated the waiting.

Hated the precision.

But by the end of the week, he could react at exactly the right moment—not when fear told him, not when instinct panicked, but when intention demanded it.

His senses were aligning.

His mind was catching up with his ability but he could feel he could never get a 100% use with his ability because even with all his training the ability’s bedrock still came from intuition.

But something inside his chest—his core—throbbed stronger each day.

The final stretch of the month was the hardest.

Not because the training was worse—it wasn’t.

It was because Bright was different now.

His body responded faster.

His breath steadied quicker.

His senses sharpened naturally.

He felt stronger.

He felt close.

And Hailen knew it.

"Take off the weights," Hailen said as they stepped into the yard on the first day of week four.

Bright blinked. "For real?"

"You’ve earned it. Let’s see if it mattered."

Bright unlatched the rings and braced for relief.

Instead, the world felt wrong.

Too light.

Too fast.

Too... empty.

Hailen attacked.

Bright nearly tripped from how quickly his body responded.

"Oh," Hailen said dryly. "You were holding back more than you thought."

Bright caught himself.

Then he moved.

And this time, Hailen nodded—not approving, not condescending, but simply acknowledging:

Bright was no longer the same recruit.

The rest of the week was a blur of high-speed drills.

Without the weights, Bright’s footwork was sharper, his strikes more controlled, his reflexes cleaner. Danger Sense had become something whisper-thin and precise, no longer loud noise but subtle warnings shaped by intent.

Hailen pushed him harder.

Sand clouds exploded under their feet. The sound of metal, bone, and grit filled the yard. At times Bright barely dodged fatal strikes. Other times he read Hailen’s movement before it happened.

At night, Bright collapsed on his cot, staring at the ceiling.

His core pulsed—loud, warm, alive.

Almost overflowing.

It felt like every fiber of his being was pressing against some unseen boundary.

He knew what it meant.

Everyone in the team did.

He wasn’t the only one. Duncan’s core was flickering through his armor. Adam’s eyes gleamed with data streams only he could see. Even Bessia and Silas felt their power rising with each day.

Initiation hovered over them like a storm waiting to break.

And Bright—Bright felt the thunder gathering inside his chest.

The last day of the month came with no ceremony.

No speech.

No warning.

Just Hailen standing at the center of the yard, arms folded.

Bright jogged toward him, muscles aching, breath steady.

"Today," Hailen said, "you fight me at your limit."

Bright inhaled deeply. His core pulsed like a heartbeat not entirely his own.

"I thought we’ve been doing that," he said.

"No," Hailen replied. "You’ve been fighting not to lose. Today you fight to win."

Bright’s hand tightened around his blade.

The air around them stilled.

The yard was silent.

Even the wind waited.

Then—

Hailen moved.

Bright moved too.

And this time, Bright wasn’t behind.

He was with the strike—anticipating not danger but intent. He dodged by inches, countered by instinct, pressed forward with purpose.

The sand churned beneath them in spirals.

Metal clanged.

Breath rasped.

And at some point Bright realized—Hailen was pushing harder than ever.

The old fighter’s mechanical arm whirred with power. His strikes grew sharper, faster, more lethal.

Bright’s danger sense screamed—but in harmony, not panic.

He shifted, slipped, redirected.

His blade grazed Hailen’s sleeve.

A first.

Hailen stepped back, eyes narrowing, then—

He smiled.

A real smile.

"Good," he said quietly. "Now finish this."

Bright’s core throbbed like a drum.

His vision tunneled.

Not from exhaustion—but from something breaking loose inside him.

He rushed forward—

And his core finally pushed back.

A burst of heat ignited in his chest.

His limbs sparked with unfamiliar strength.

For a heartbeat, the world felt slow, as if every grain of sand hung suspended.

Hailen’s strike came—

And Bright saw ten versions of it before it even landed.

He moved.

Perfectly.

Cleanly.

Then—

BOOM.

A shockwave blasted outward as Bright’s core spasmed violently.

He stumbled, clutching his chest.

Light leaked through his fingers.

Hailen caught him before he fell.

"It seems," the instructor murmured, "you are ready for what comes next."

Bright could barely breathe.

His core wasn’t just full.

It was breaking.

Changing.

Becoming something else.

Something more.

"Welcome," Hailen said softly, "to the edge of Initiation."