Dawn rose, redder than the day before.

  The wind had stilled. Yet the ground still hummed faintly, as if the earth itself sensed what was to come.

  Garlan opened his eyes, lying against the warm wall of a stone alcove. Marenna still slept, her hand resting on his chest. He watched her for a moment. Then he rose quietly, without a word, and stepped into the open air.

  The sky was thick with golden dust. He drew a deep breath. His body ached, but the pain had changed. It was no longer a limit. It was a reminder: he was moving forward.

  He clenched his fists. His muscles answered. Less trembling. More solid.

  He was ready.

  When Darak’Thar saw him arrive on the training plateau, the Primordial, still in humanoid form, wore an expression that looked almost like muted satisfaction.

  — You walk like stone. You no longer collapse under your own weight.

  Garlan answered without flinching:

  — I’m hungry. For rock.

  Darak’Thar let out a short rumble, almost a laugh.

  — Then let’s see what your stomach can endure.

  Morning training looked the same. On the surface. But this time, Garlan climbed the stair with the living stone on his back without falling. He panted, yes. He strained. But he did not falter.

  In draconic form, he pushed the plateau’s limits. He leapt higher. Crawled faster. Endured longer.

  Gravity no longer crushed him. It accompanied him.

  Darak’Thar watched in silence, noting the micro-adjustments in stance, the way Garlan adapted without thought. His body had begun to register pain as nothing more than another factor. His mind no longer fought it. He absorbed it.

  Afternoon came. The arena waited. The draconids too.

  But this time, Garlan did not drag himself to meet them. He descended. Straight. Steady. Silent.

  Three draconids stood in the center, massive, rooted to the earth. Waiting.

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  He raised his hand. Motioned them forward.

  — Come on. All three of you.

  From the heights, Marenna pinched the bridge of her nose, exasperated.

  — Great… gave him too much confidence last night. Guess I’m on emergency healing duty again.

  The three charged at once, a mass of living stone. But Garlan did not move. Not yet.

  Then he slipped between them.

  He wasn’t dodging. He was dancing. Beneath blows, between massive torsos, rocky fists, brutal sweeps—he moved with the grace of wind. Light. Precise. Fluid.

  Each step was a strike. Each dodge, a counter. A blow to the flank of the first. An uppercut to the second’s jaw. A leg sweep to bring the third down.

  One by one, they crashed into the ground.

  And Garlan still stood. Breath calm.

  From his perch, Darak’Thar raised his eyes skyward, exasperated.

  — I didn’t ask for a ballerina. I asked you to take hits, to harden yourself.

  He snapped his fingers.

  Instantly, Garlan was slammed flat, his body crushed beneath a hundredfold gravity. Gravity x100.

  He couldn’t move. Even breathing became torture.

  — Since you dance too well, you’ll learn to crawl. And if you survive this… then maybe you’ll understand what “strength” means.

  After long minutes, Darak’Thar finally released the pressure.

  Face pressed to the dirt, Garlan lifted his head slowly, eyes burning with rage.

  — Hit me.

  Darak’Thar watched, impassive.

  — Hit me! I’ll take it! Come on, hit me!

  Without a word, Darak—still in humanoid form—lifted his arm… and delivered a brutal backhand.

  The blow was so violent that Garlan flew, slamming into a nearby stone wall, rubble exploding around him.

  He came back at once. Limping. Eyes locked on Darak. Determined.

  — Again.

  Darak’Thar turned to Marenna, his voice deeper than ever:

  — Heal him after each strike. Or he won’t survive this.

  Tension tightened her face. She knew she couldn’t keep pace with such punishment. She focused. Closed her eyes. Reached for something new.

  From her palms sprouted a slender vine, branching instantly into a web of luminescent roots. They crawled to Garlan, fastening to his skin like a living tattoo.

  — A healing root… autonomous, she whispered. You’re not alone anymore.

  Darak’Thar resumed. A storm of blows, brutal, methodical, crashed down on Garlan. Each impact thundered like a drumbeat in the canyon.

  Marenna struggled to keep up. Her magic pulsed, split, channeled through the root—but the pace was inhuman.

  — Who is he training here? Him… or me? Or both of us?

  At last, the day ended. The sky darkened, shaded in orange and ash.

  Garlan lay sprawled on the ground, bruised, battered, fissured. He looked less like a half-dragon than a pile of overcooked potatoes.

  Marenna, kneeling, sweat dripping down her face, looked like a wilted plant drained of all sap.

  They gazed at each other. One with no strength left. The other with no mana. And neither regretted a thing.

  Silence stretched, heavy yet full of meaning.

  — Think he’ll hit us with gravity x100 again tomorrow? Garlan muttered, half-delirious.

  Marenna exhaled, a faint smile breaking across her face:

  — If he does, I’ll root him down.

  From his perch, without even turning, Darak’Thar rumbled:

  — That was only the warm-up.