**Chapter 13: A Strong Body Nurtures a Strong Soul**

  Ray lay sprawled on the cracked earth, his chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths. Sweat drenched his body, seeping into the rough fabric of his once-tattered clothes—now replaced by light leather armor, molded to his growing frame. His muscles burned, every fiber in his arms and legs trembling from exhaustion. In his hand, he clutched a chokutō—its blade chipped and unpolished, its handle nothing more than white bandages wrapped hastily around the tang.

  The air was thick with dust, disturbed by his relentless training. The wind carried the scent of dried blood, the ground beneath him stained with past battles. He had long since stopped noticing the ache in his limbs, the soreness in his shoulders. This pain had become his companion.

  "Hey, Alkan," Ray rasped, swallowing down the dryness in his throat. "Are you sure this is the way to awaken? Because all I’ve been doing for the past month is exhausting myself to the point of collapse."

  Alkan stood a few paces away, his sharp eyes observing Ray with an expression of quiet scrutiny. He remained still, arms crossed over his chest, the barest hint of a smirk playing on his lips. His silhouette, cast long by the dim light of the fungus growing in the large cavern, made him seem like a statue carved from shadow.

  "As I said," Alkan finally spoke, his voice calm yet unwavering, "a strong body nurtures a strong soul. If your body isn’t capable of withstanding the toll of the final awakening process, then you will shatter before you even begin."

  Ray exhaled sharply, rolling onto his side before pushing himself up. The dull pain in his ribs flared as he did, a reminder of his grueling training. He wasn't the same frail figure who had arrived here a month ago. His once skeletal frame had thickened with muscle—still lean, still too thin, but no longer fragile.

  Yet, despite the visible progress, his body remained weak compared to true warriors. He was seventeen, but anyone looking at him would have mistaken him for a malnourished child of thirteen.

  Alkan seemed to read his thoughts. "I’m still surprised that you’re an adult," he mused, tapping a finger against his chin. "I thought you were a kid. Then again, considering how slaves are treated, I suppose it isn’t that surprising."

  Ray said nothing, merely shaking his head before gripping his sword tighter. It was easier to focus on the task than to dwell on memories best left buried.

  Alkan’s smirk vanished. "Enough rest. Get up. You still have a hundred more swings to go."

  Ray groaned but obeyed, adjusting his stance. His arms felt like lead, and his fingers screamed in protest as he raised the blade overhead. Each swing sent a dull ache through his shoulders, but he forced himself to continue.

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  "I’ve been doing nothing but swinging this sword thousands of times in the same motion," Ray muttered between gritted teeth. "Even the physical exercises feel more useful than this."

  Alkan’s eyes darkened, his expression unreadable. "Is that so?"

  Without another word, a faint shimmer of dust coalesced around Alkan’s palm, condensing into the shape of a straight sword. He moved without warning. One moment he was standing still, the next he was upon Ray, blade flashing toward his neck.

  Instinct screamed. Ray barely had time to react, his body moving before his mind could process the danger. He stumbled back, his arms raising, his sword swinging downward. The impact sent vibrations through his arms, the force of the clash numbing his fingers.

  Then, silence.

  Alkan stepped back, his blade vanishing into the air. A satisfied smile tugged at his lips. "Is this really useless?"

  Ray blinked, staring at his own hands. His grip on the sword was firm. His stance, despite the exhaustion, was steady. He had reacted purely on instinct—on repetition drilled into his very bones.

  "You see," Alkan continued, "even if your mind doesn’t know what to do, your body—after repeating the same motion over and over—will know what to do in order to survive."

  Ray exhaled sharply, realization settling in. This training wasn’t just about building strength. It was about survival.

  Alkan turned away, walking back to his previous spot. "After enough time, your body will be able to fight without you consciously commanding it. That’s what I’m training you for."

  The past month had taught Ray much—especially about Alkan. What were once considered miracles in the living world were merely remnants of a far older truth. Before the OUTER curse had descended upon humanity, there had been those who awakened through a method known as taming.

  It was a brutal process. Strengthen the body to its peak. Then, sense the essence around and within oneself. After that, enter a trance-like state to gather the fragmented essence into a single focal point within the body. It was a river of power, chaotic and unrelenting, but if one succeeded, their body would begin absorbing essence naturally, strengthening with time.

  "Although I am training you to awaken," Alkan admitted, "in reality, I am only making you strong enough to fight dormant beasts of the lowest level without dying. The actual awakening process? Strengthening your body alone will take at least a year. Even if we take the unconventional route, the accumulation process will still take another two years."

  Ray let out a bitter laugh. "So, surviving here is even harder than I imagined."

  Alkan said nothing. He didn’t need to.

  Aside from learning about awakening, Ray had seen something else—something disturbing. Alkan had the ability to summon a weapon like an awakened from the living world. He had called it a boon of the trial, the only mercy granted in this forsaken place. Killing outer creatures sometimes yielded rewards. Weapons, tools—items of power stored within the soul. The living world called them relics.

  But what unsettled Ray most was how similar these trial rewards were to the Outer Bond’s mechanics. The implication was clear: this place was an earlier version of the Outer Bond. Or perhaps, it was an echo—an imitation of the past, crafted for his trial.

  How fitting, Ray thought bitterly. My first trial takes place in the first version of the Outer Bond.

  He shook his head, clearing his mind. Dwelling on such thoughts wouldn’t help him. What mattered was survival.

  Gripping his sword once more, he resumed his swings. But this time, he wasn’t just mindlessly following orders. He understood. And that understanding fueled his determination.

  The path ahead was long. Grueling. Perhaps even impossible.

  But he would not falter.