Erika practically crawled back into his cultivation chamber.
The heavy black-iron door boomed shut behind him, sealing him off from the outside world. His back slid down the cold metal until he collapsed in a heap on the floor, devoid of even the strength to lift a finger.
His lungs were tattered bellows, each breath a searing rip through his chest. His heart hammered against his eardrums, a frantic drum threatening to shatter his ribs and break free. The muscles in his legs trembled violently, uncontrollably, a deep, aching weakness shot through with faint spasms. His thin novice robes were soaked through with sweat, and now, in the still air of the chamber, the dampness brought waves of chill.
He closed his eyes, but his mind relentlessly replayed the frantic sprint.
The dark corridor flying past, the cold air whipping his face, the fire in his lungs, the heart pounding in his ears… the sensory memories washed over his exhausted nerves like a tidal wave.
And amidst this chaos of sensation, one cold, clear number echoed in his mind, carved into his marrow as if by a chisel, refusing to leave:
"Twenty-seven…"
"Twenty-seven…"
"Twenty-seven…"
That was the number of steps he had counted in his mind, from the door of Wolfgang's contemplation cell to the moment his legs gave out and he crumpled before his own chamber door. Twenty-seven steps. A distance that normally meant nothing, but in that state of draining every last drop of potential, relying purely on physical strength in a desperate flight, each step had felt agonizingly long and distinct.
The number felt like a cold mockery, an unsolvable riddle.
Sprawled on the floor, his thoughts were a tangled mess, yet he was too exhausted to think deeply. An absurd, almost self-destructive notion began to take root in his mind.
If this was about physical training… why this form? This seemingly pointless, brutal method, as if training some tireless superhuman?
A grim, near-hysterical twist pulled at his lips in a soundless sneer.
"Heh… hehe… Wants me to… to race a high-tier cleric who just forged his second Mark… who can lift people with his mind and swing them around?"
The thought itself was a bad joke. Pitting his own weak, barely-trained body against Wolfgang's scarred, inhuman frame that housed such terrifying power? This wasn't training. It was a predetermined, meaningless humiliation!
"I get it… I get it now…" he rasped, his voice hoarse and dry with self-mockery. "He wants me… to run faster and faster, farther and farther… until I can catch his shadow? Hahahaha…"
The hollow, bitter laughter echoed strangely in the silent chamber. He was mocking his own naivety, mocking the possible deeper manipulation and test hidden behind this seeming "opportunity." He felt like a mouse thrown into a wheel, running desperately without knowing the destination, or even if the running itself had any meaning.
Wolfgang had only given the instruction—"run back to your room. Your fastest speed." He hadn't set a time limit, a standard to meet, or even said when the next session would be. He'd only said—"come find him next time you think you can outrun him."
"Think you can outrun him"?
It sounded more like an offhand, insincere dismissal. Erika even doubted if Wolfgang truly expected him to ever "outrun" him. Perhaps it was just an excuse to send him away, a trap to make him doubt himself and struggle pointlessly.
He didn't understand.
And he had no energy to understand.
What consumed him now was the wreckage left behind by the receding tidal wave of exhaustion. Not just physical, but mental. That desperate sprint had not only drained his strength but also detonated the accumulated fear, anxiety, helplessness, and futureless dread of the past days. As his strength vanished, it all settled into a heavy, crushing sense of void.
Thinking? Analyzing? Understanding the true meaning of the training?
Staying conscious was a struggle. His eyelids were leaden weights, every blink a monumental effort. The chaotic thoughts about his Mark, Anna, Cecilia, the Sanctum's conspiracies—all grew distant and blurred, overridden by a more primal craving for rest.
He remained slumped against the door, his back to the cold metal, consciousness wavering on the edge of wakefulness and stupor. The chamber's eternal, low hum of energy now sounded like a lullaby.
"Twenty-seven steps…"
It was the last thought circling in his mind, laden with boundless confusion and a thread of defiance, before exhaustion finally claimed him, dragging him into a deep sleep.
He didn't know how long he slept, or how he would face this "first lesson" upon waking—a lesson that seemed to offer hope, yet had plunged him into a new kind of confuse.
He only knew that now, he was like a young beast stripped of all pretense and strength, forced to curl up in a temporary haven, licking its wounds, and gathering strength for… a next run that might never even be possible.
The exhaustion from last night's soul-wrenching run had not yet fully receded; a dull ache still lingered in his muscles. Yet, Erika forced himself awake early. His mind was still clouded with confusion over Wolfgang's training method and the haunting number twenty-seven. Despite his bewilderment, a sliver of hope remained buried deep within—perhaps in today's class, Wolfgang would offer further guidance, or at the very least, he might catch a glimpse of the deeper mysteries behind the 'Mind-Blade' or physical conditioning from his lecture.
Carrying this mix of anticipation and bewilderment, he headed for the Indoctrination Hall. The morning Sanctum precinct was still shrouded in that eerie quiet, a stark contrast to the turmoil within him.
However, as he moved to step into the familiar classroom as usual, a tall, cold figure stood like an iron tower, blocking the doorway.
It was Wolfgang.
His face was utterly expressionless, as if carved from metal, his eyes sharp as blades, piercing directly into Erika. There was none of the complex scrutiny from the contemplation cell yesterday, not a trace of the fragile "master-disciple" bond that might have begun to form. Only pure, impersonal ice.
"Halt."
Wolfgang's voice wasn't loud, but it carried the chill of an icicle, instantly freezing the air at the classroom entrance and silencing the faint murmurs within. All student eyes turned towards them.
Erika's steps faltered. He looked up, stunned, meeting Wolfgang's utterly frigid gaze. "Instructor…?"
"You," Wolfgang cut him off, his voice clear enough to reach every corner of the room, laced with undisguised reproach, "will not enter today."
Erika froze, his mind struggling to catch up. "...What?"
"I said, you will not attend this class." Wolfgang repeated, his tone final and brooking no argument. "A student who is lazy and deceitful on the path of cultivation, who cannot even persevere in fulfilling the most basic requirements, has no right to sit in my classroom."
Lazy? Deceitful?
The words hit Erika like physical blows. His desperate sprint last night, his collapse from utter exhaustion, the twenty-seven steps etched into his very bones… all of it, in Wolfgang's mouth, had become 'lazy'?!
A hot wave of absurdity, injustice, and anger rushed to his head. He instinctively opened his mouth to refute, to demand, to shout out how he had run back last night!
"I…" he managed a single word.
"What? Still want to make excuses?" A faint, utterly scornful twist touched Wolfgang's lips, his eyes looking at Erika as if he were hopeless garbage. "No courage even to face your own indolence? It seems you didn't hear a single word I said yesterday."
His voice suddenly rose, cracking like a whip in the silent air, striking Erika across the face:
"A student as habitually lazy and hopeless as you are utterly unworthy of the qualification to become a cleric! I advise you to abandon this unrealistic notion now! Rather than wasting the Sanctum's resources here, why don't you go to the gates now, pick up a broom—that place might suit you better!"
With that, before Erika could muster any reaction, Wolfgang swung his arm sharply—
BANG!!
The heavy wooden classroom door was slammed shut, hard and mercilessly, right in his face! The loud report echoed in the corridor, like a final verdict, completely severing Erika from the class he had hoped for, from his potential peers, from the path he had just glimpsed a sliver of hope upon.
Erika was utterly dumbfounded.
He stood rigid before the closed door, like a statue instantly frozen. Wolfgang's icy, humiliating words still echoed in his ears. Before him was the sealed door, seemingly never to open for him again.
So heartless…
How… how could he be so heartless?!
A massive shock of betrayal, mockery, and utter rejection swept over him like a tsunami. Yesterday's "first lesson," the "I owe you," the demonstration that seemed harsh but held hidden guidance… was it all false? Just a passing whim, a game? Or was it simply because he hadn't run fast enough last night, hadn't performed well enough, that it was sufficient for this high-tier cleric to turn on him instantly, casting him into the dust?
His mind felt filled with heavy lead, his thoughts turning thick and chaotic. Countless notions surged, collided, and exploded uncontrollably.
Did I do something wrong?
Did I misunderstand his meaning?
Was my running posture incorrect? My breathing wrong?
Or… did he never truly intend to teach me from the start? Was it all just my own wishful thinking and stupid fantasy?
Self-doubt, like black vines, twisted tightly around his heart, squeezing, almost suffocating him. Wolfgang's merciless accusations were like a key, unlocking the cage deep within him named "Inferiority" and "Incompetence." Balthasar's contempt, the Tribunal's pressure, his own meager power, his helplessness regarding Anna's situation… all the pent-up negativity detonated at this moment, corroding his will like venom.
He could almost hear the faint sounds of discussion, the possible laughter and mockery from the other students behind the door. Every gaze, even through the wood, felt like a needle pricking his back.
Standing in the empty corridor, he felt like a clown, like a piece of trash casually discarded. Anger burned in his chest with no outlet; injustice choked his throat with no voice.
What could he do?
Charge in and argue? That would only invite more humiliation, perhaps even harsher punishment.
Give up in despair, actually go to the gates and sweep? Wouldn't that just prove Wolfgang's "prophecy" right, admitting he was indeed worthless?
No…
He didn't know how long he stood there. Maybe minutes, maybe an eternity. In the chaos and darkness of his thoughts, one incredibly faint, yet stubbornly persistent notion, like a candle flame swaying in a storm, flickered defiantly to life.
He remembered the wind whistling past during yesterday's run, the drumming of his heart, the muscle-tearing pain, and… the final count of twenty-seven steps.
That was the only thing he was certain of, the thing he had truly done.
The thing Wolfgang had demanded he do.
Even if he didn't understand it, even if the demand seemed absurd and cruel, even if he was now ruthlessly shut out and humiliated…
It seemed to be the only thing he could grasp, the only thing he could do right now.
He jerked his head up. Though confusion and hurt still lingered in his eyes, something else dominated now—a stubborn, almost fanatical defiance born from being cornered.
He stopped looking at the closed door. He stopped trying to understand Wolfgang's mercurial actions.
He turned around, his back to the classroom, facing the other end of the corridor, the direction leading to the priory and his cultivation chamber.
Then, he took a step.
At first, it was unsteady, weighed down by physical and mental exhaustion. But quickly, his pace began to quicken, growing firmer, faster!
He stopped thinking about the 'why'. He stopped agonizing over right and wrong. He stopped feeling those piercing gazes and chaotic thoughts.
He channeled all his confusion, anger, injustice, and resentment into a single, pure force, pouring it into his legs.
He began to run.
Along the same route as yesterday, mustering every ounce of strength he could squeeze out now, he sprinted with all his might towards that cold, singular, temporary "goal" he could still call his own—his cultivation chamber.
The wind whistled in his ears again. His heart hammered violently again. Familiar aches shot through his muscles again.
But this time, his mind held no numbers, no questions. Only one thought burned with crystal clarity, searing like a brand:
Run.