CHAPTER 253: FORGED IN PAIN

Dylan had thought that after forcing Julius to take up a weapon, the colossus would attack without hesitation. But against all odds, he remained still, staff in hand, and slowly turned his head, as if trying to show him something.

Intrigued, Dylan followed his gaze.

The sight froze him.

It was a field of ruins. The trees, once standing like living ramparts, now lay shattered on the ground, split in two, punctured like mere toys. Broken branches formed a chaotic carpet, while crushed trunks still bore the circular scars of projectile impacts. The earth was gouged with craters, as if after a bombardment. The air reeked of sap, torn soil, and blood.

His blood.

He felt it everywhere: on his skin, in his mouth, clinging to the rags of his clothes. He felt like a puppet torn to shreds, every movement sparking an electric agony.

But the most troubling detail wasn’t there.

It was the blood dripping from himself. He was bare-chested, old scars etched across his flesh like furrows, his pants nothing but tatters. Yet not a single fresh wound marked his body. No gashes, no bruises. The blood seemed to have flowed without ever coming from anywhere.

A living paradox.

"No matter how you look at it..." Julius said, shaking his head slowly, like an old master before an undeniable truth. "This regeneration ability is truly terrifying."

His gaze fixed on Dylan—grave, heavy, unflinching.

"If you master it... you could become the worst nightmare on a battlefield. An enemy who doesn’t die, no matter the wounds."

Dylan, breath ragged, shot him a dark glare. His lips still trembled with pain, but his words snapped back sharp as defiance.

"I’d rather not be wounded at all. Maybe I regenerate, sure... but the pain stays. And believe me, it’s inhumanly unbearable."

A heavy silence fell. Julius locked eyes with him.

And in an even, cold tone, he replied:

"That’s why I’m training you."

He lifted the staff slightly, not to strike, but to press his point.

"Even awakened, your body remains fragile. Not because it’s weak... but because it hasn’t been forged yet. These little stones..." he gestured with his chin at the rubble strewn across the ground, "...hurled as fast as sound, shouldn’t leave you in such a state."

He paused, scanning Dylan from head to toe without a trace of compassion.

"Looking at you... I know I’ve got work to do."

Julius spun the staff through the air, the wood whistling like a whip. The sharp crack that followed was more unsettling than any projectile.

"Enough with the stones," he growled. "A soldier doesn’t always choose his weapon, but he must learn to endure all of the enemy’s. Now let’s see what your body is worth against something other than projectiles."

Dylan flinched. Every fiber of his being was already begging for mercy, yet his legs, heavy and trembling, refused to step back.

The colossus advanced with calm strides, his feet crushing splinters of wood and stone. With every step, the world seemed to shrink around Dylan, as though the very air compressed against him.

Then, without warning, Julius struck.

Not a killing blow, no. A sharp sweep aimed at the ribs. Dylan raised his arms clumsily, and the impact rang through his entire skeleton. His breath cut off in an instant, as if an anvil had crushed him.

"Too slow," Julius declared, relentless.

A second strike came, faster, aimed at his thigh. Dylan tried to retreat, but the pain in his legs pinned him down. The staff smacked into his flesh with a dull thud, and his knees buckled.

Julius didn’t stop. Each strike was measured, methodical, powerful enough to shake him, but never to kill. He was forging him, just as he’d said. Every blow was a lesson.

"An awakened who relies on regeneration... is already dead," he thundered between strikes. "If you endure without acting, you’re no warrior. You’re just a sack of flesh on borrowed time."

Dylan, doubled over, spat a ribbon of blood. His vision wavered, but this time, his hands didn’t hang uselessly.

On the next strike, he tried to catch the staff. His fingers slipped along the wood, but the motion was enough to slightly deflect the blow. A tiny shift—but Julius noticed.

The colossus let out a grunt that almost sounded like approval.

"Good. That’s what I want to see. The pain will never disappear. But if you learn to act with it... then you can turn your body into a weapon."

And already, the staff was rising again.

"Your regeneration may look... special," Julius said, lowering the staff, his voice now heavy, grave. "But special doesn’t mean invincible. Think about it: there could be someone—or some beast—capable of bypassing that gift. A toxin, a rune, a strike at a place it can’t mend fast enough. With no alternative, you die."

The words fell on Dylan like a rain of cold stone. He had lived in the illusion that a broken finger, a pierced heart, would simply knit back together. Julius had just torn away that veil of safety. Regeneration got you back on your feet, but not unharmed. Regeneration robbed you of the right to make mistakes.

Anger flared up in Dylan, raw and sharp, but it quickly hardened into something keener: a resolve that sliced through pain. If his gift wasn’t a guarantee, then it had to become just one advantage among many—speed, strategy, anticipation, cunning. He had to learn to survive without depending on a single net to keep him from drowning.

Julius rested the staff on his shoulder and studied him, as though weighing the man and the boy within. "What I want to teach you," he went on, "is to have alternatives. To turn regeneration into a last resort, not a permanent crutch. The soldier who knows a thousand ways to survive is more dangerous than the awakened who knows only how to come back."

He stepped forward, planting his foot firmly, and without warning, gave Dylan’s forearm a sharp strike—not to break, but to illustrate. "If they cut off your regeneration, find the path of combat. If they blind you, learn to feel. If they pin you down, become unpredictable."

Dylan swallowed blood, felt the burn in his ribs—but for the first time in hours, it wasn’t only pain speaking. It was the space between heartbeats, the narrow gap where life slipped in. He nodded, pride burning on his lips.

Julius picked up two small stones, rolling them in his palm as though weighing options. "Start with this: the priority isn’t to endure, but to decide what to endure. Choose." He tossed the stones in front of Dylan. "Find three ways not to rely on your flesh. A plan, a move, a coincidence you’d force into being. Show me those, and we’ll move on."

He didn’t smile—this was a promise, dry and burning.

Dylan, his muscles still throbbing, picked up a stone, turning it between his numb fingers—and for the first time, it didn’t feel just heavy. It held a possibility: diversion, leverage, the memory of a gesture from another life. Beneath the turmoil of his wounds, he thought he heard a faint war-drum rhythm—a beat he could learn to command.