The morning sun was already harsh when Kael carried a set of heavy, metal weights into the training field. The air shimmered faintly with heat, the forge's distant breath rising behind them. Rogan stood there waiting, his hands fidgeting against the straps of his worn tunic.
Kael dropped the metal pieces with a solid thud. Dust scattered.
"These," he said, "are yours."
Rogan blinked. "How heavy?"
Kael smirked. "Fifty kilograms in total. Same size as Alder's."
Rogan's eyes widened. "Alder's? That—he's twice my size!"
Kael chuckled. "Then it's a good match."
He lifted one bracer and handed it over. "Ten kilos each arm, ten each leg, ten on the chest. You'll feel it in places you didn't know existed."
Rogan took the weights, already struggling to lift the first one. "Do I… put them all on?"
"Unless you plan to fight monsters naked," Kael replied dryly. "Yes."
Rogan looked up at him, nervous but determined. "Uh… sorry, I didn't catch your name."
Kael smiled faintly. "Kael. Seren's teacher."
Rogan paused, hearing that word teacher, and the way Kael's tone carried quiet pride. "I'm Rogan," he said, extending his hand awkwardly. "It's nice to meet you."
Kael sensed something in Rogan's tone—an unspoken thought, a quiet question about what "teacher" meant to Seren. He smirked but said nothing.
Once the last strap was buckled, Rogan straightened—and immediately staggered. His knees shook. The world seemed to grow heavier.
"Move," Kael said simply.
Rogan tried. His boots barely scraped the ground. Every step felt like walking through thick mud.
Maerin watched from a short distance, arms folded. "This might take a while," she said dryly.
Kael grinned. "He'll get it. He just needs a start."
Turning to her, he added, "You can handle his basics. Seren and I have our own training to do."
Maerin waved them off. "Go. I'll make sure your student here doesn't break his spine."
As Kael and Seren left toward the far field, Maerin turned her sharp eyes back to Rogan. "Alright, boy," she said. "Tell me—did the Guild ever teach you proper conditioning?"
Rogan hesitated. "Uh… no. They just taught us how to swing a sword and not die too fast."
Maerin sighed and muttered under her breath, "The Guild gets worse every year…"
Then, with a commanding voice that filled the clearing, she said, "Listen carefully, boy. This is your new regimen."
Rogan stiffened like a soldier before a general.
"First," Maerin said, "you'll do one hundred push-ups.
Place your hands flat against the ground, shoulder-width apart.
Keep your body straight—no sagging, no arching.
Lower your chest until it nearly touches the dirt, then rise until your arms are straight again.
That is one. Do it again until your arms shake, then keep going."
Rogan dropped to the ground, hands sinking slightly into the soil. The first push-up felt like trying to lift a mountain. By twenty, his arms quivered. By fifty, his elbows burned. When he reached eighty, he couldn't tell if he was breathing or just gasping.
Maerin didn't move. She simply watched.
When he finally hit one hundred, he collapsed face-first into the dirt. His entire body trembled, sweat dripping from his chin.
"Good," she said. "Now, squats."
Rogan groaned. "Squats?"
Maerin's tone left no room for argument. "Stand tall with your feet shoulder-width apart. Keep your back straight, chest up. Lower yourself as if sitting on an invisible chair—knees bent, thighs level with the ground. Then push through your heels and stand again. One hundred."
Rogan wanted to protest, but one look at Maerin's glare killed the thought. He began moving—slowly, painfully. Every time he rose, the weights dragged him back down.
By the end, he could barely stand.
"Now," Maerin said, "run five laps around the village."
Rogan blinked at her. "Run?!"
"Did I stutter?"
He swallowed hard. "…No, ma'am."
And he ran—or tried to. His legs screamed, lungs burning, sweat pouring down his face as he trudged through the dirt roads. Villagers stopped what they were doing to watch the strange young man dragging himself around the perimeter like a wounded beast.
When he finally stumbled to a stop after his fifth lap, he could barely breathe. Maerin handed him a wooden cup of water.
"You'll get a week to adjust," she said, her voice calm again. "Once you can move without thinking about falling, we start blacksmithing."
Rogan nodded weakly, water spilling down his chin. "Y-yes… ma'am."
Maerin turned and walked toward the forge, already planning his next stage of training. "Rest while you can, boy," she muttered. "Tomorrow will hurt worse."
---
Day 1 – The Hardest Start
Rogan woke before dawn, every limb screaming. Even lifting his arms hurt. He forced himself through the same routine—push-ups, squats, laps—each one slower than the last. Villagers whispered about his training, but he ignored them. His muscles burned, but deep down he felt something—stubbornness.
---
Day 2 – The Heavier Morning
His arms refused to straighten properly, but Maerin's words echoed in his skull: "Control your strength. Don't fight the weight—feel it."
He learned to pace himself. His push-ups steadied. His squats gained rhythm. Still, each lap felt endless.
---
Day 3 – The Strain
Blisters tore open. Sweat soaked his shirt. But when Maerin saw him finish the hundredth push-up without collapsing, she nodded. "Good. You're learning endurance."
Rogan didn't reply—he was too tired to speak.
---
Day 4 – The Adjustment
Something changed. The weights no longer crushed him. His balance improved; the tremors in his arms faded. Maerin saw it too. "You're adapting faster than I expected," she said. Rogan smiled through gritted teeth.
---
Day 5 – The Focus
Now the pain became background noise. His breathing found a rhythm—inhale down, exhale up. His body, once rebelling, began to obey. Villagers stopped whispering and began nodding at him as he ran past.
---
Day 6 – The Discipline
Maerin stood at the forge doorway, arms folded. Rogan's movements were smooth now. Controlled. Each push-up clean, each squat balanced. He no longer grunted with effort.
When he passed her on his run, she called out, "Remember, control isn't about strength—it's about trust in your own limits."
Rogan nodded between breaths. "Yes… ma'am."
---
Day 7 – The Foundation
The final morning of the first week dawned golden and quiet.
Rogan finished his routine before Maerin even came outside. When she saw him, he was already striking the air with slow, controlled movements—no sword, just motion and breath.
When she approached, he stopped and bowed slightly.
"I think," he said, "I'm starting to understand what Alder meant."
Maerin smiled faintly. "Good. Then tomorrow, we begin with fire and steel."
She turned toward the forge, smoke already curling from its chimney. Rogan followed, the rhythm of his footsteps heavier—but steadier than ever before.