Two Weeks.
Morgan stared at the same worn spot on the library floor, the wood polished to a dull sheen from countless footsteps. Two weeks had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand, each one blending seamlessly into the next, a monotonous loop of disappointment. He shifted in his chair, the wooden seat creaking under the strain of his restlessness. The stats he had been tracking—numbers that once excited him—now felt like shackles, binding him to a reality he was desperate to escape. He couldn't shake the feeling that he should be improving, even if just a little. But two weeks felt like a lifetime of stagnation, and the truth gnawed at him: he had accomplished nothing significant.
Frustration simmered beneath his skin, a slow burn that threatened to erupt. He could hear the quiet whispers of hope that urged him forward, a persistent voice that insisted he could be better. Yet, doubt clung to him like a shadow, whispering that perhaps he was simply not cut out for this.
He had devoted himself to the prince's advice, immersing himself in the aether cleansing techniques that golden-haired, wide-smiled devil had recommended. In the past three-hundred-thirty-six hours, he had devoured all three manuals on the subject. They were hardly worthy of the name, he thought grimly; flimsy pamphlets filled with sparse text and minimal illustrations that left him more bewildered than enlightened. The techniques, however, were much different from the standardized ones he had to practice every day as a soldier. The methods he had always known never did much for him, so he did not expect much from these either. Different formula, same type of outcome, right? The diagrams seemed to mock him, their intricate lines and shapes dancing just out of reach of his understanding. Each session in the library had morphed into a frantic race against time, an urgent plea to grasp something—anything—that might illuminate the path to progress.
Now, the final hurdle loomed before him: practice.
Practice.
The word sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through him, electrifying his limbs. He could feel the warmth of determination flickering within, battling against the cold grip of fear. Should he just try? The theories danced tantalizingly in his mind, each one a promise of potential, but the real test lay in the execution. His heart pounded in his chest, a wild drumbeat that filled his ears as he envisioned the attempt ahead. The ghost of failure loomed large, a dark cloud threatening to overshadow his resolve. But how else was he supposed to improve?
With a deep breath, he closed his eyes, envisioning the techniques he had studied: the fluid movements, the precise mental focus. If he didn't take that first step, he would remain trapped in this cycle of mediocrity. And as the weight of his hesitation pressed down on him, he clenched his fists, ready to break free.
Morgan sat cross-legged on the training mat, the last manual sprawled beside him, its crisp pages already softening beneath the restless fidgeting of his fingers. Each crease and wrinkle in the paper bore witness to his frustration and determination, a testament to the hours spent grappling with concepts that felt just out of reach. His eyes traced the diagrams for what must have been the tenth time that morning—swirling lines of light, intricate circles, hastily scrawled annotations about balance, focus, and flow.
Balance. Focus. Flow. Easier said than done.
"Aether cleansing is as simple as stilling the energy within your core until it resonates with the rhythm of the world, then guiding the excess outward, like water spilling over the lip of a cup," the manual assured him, its words echoing in his mind with a patronizing simplicity.
His inner voice retorted with a dry, mocking edge. Simple, indeed, as if it were merely pouring a drink. But when he attempted to visualize the process—his hand hovering over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of mana—he found it anything but. It doesn't spill. It sticks. Burns. It felt as if the cup had been forged wrong, the edges sharp and unforgiving.
He closed the manual with a soft thud, tilting his head toward the ceiling as if an answer might descend from the rafters. Silence enveloped him, thick and suffocating, amplifying the storm of doubts swirling in his mind like a tempest.
He clenched his jaw, recalling the promise he'd made to himself. He wasn't going to break it. If his aether wanted to be stubborn, then he'd meet it with a stubbornness forged in resolve. If brute force was the only answer, then so be it.
Straightening his back, he settled his hands on his knees, grounding himself. He focused inward, summoning every ounce of willpower as he pictured his energy, willing it into stillness, striving to synchronize it with the world around him. With each breath, he felt his body grow lighter, almost weightless, as if he were transcending the confines of the mat beneath him. Each inhale filled him with a sense of purpose, while each exhale released some of the tension that had coiled tightly within him. Still, he pressed on, fueled by a fierce determination.
He concentrated, envisioning the energy condensing into a core, attempting to push the excess outward. But it resisted, clinging to him like sticky tar, heavy and unyielding. Dizziness engulfed him, a swirling vortex that threatened to pull him under, but he refused to yield. This was his body—his will—and he'd be damned if energy dictated the terms of their dance.
He forced harder, the pressure building to an unbearable intensity. It stung, burned, ached—each push feeling like a hawk hornet had driven its stinger deep into his flesh. His sense of self unraveled in the chaos, the pain blurring the lines between the physical and something far deeper, more primal.
Gasping, he tore himself from the depths of that overwhelming state, his eyes flying open. The pain sharpened, settling like a vice around his shoulder. With trembling hands, he tugged down his collar, nausea crashing over him like a wave.
Something was embedded in his skin. Black. Shiny. Painful.
"What the hell…" he muttered, his voice barely a whisper, disbelief mingling with a rush of panic that tightened his throat.
This wasn't something he could handle alone. The thought of the aether cleansing faded into the background as urgency surged. Time to see the nurse.
He slipped the manual into his subspace, the familiar weight replaced by a growing sense of dread as he made his way to the infirmary. Each step felt brutal, as if the ground beneath him were shifting with every movement, sending jolts of pain radiating through his shoulder. The corridor stretched on endlessly, a tunnel of anxiety where every footfall was a battle against the throbbing ache that consumed him.
After a short, hesitant knock, the door swung open to reveal the nurse. She was small, her light green skin a soothing balm against the chaos in his mind, and her vine-like hair was tied back neatly, framing her delicate features. Her uniform—a blend of a crisp white lab coat and practical nurse's attire—floated around her with a gentle grace, a comforting presence amidst the storm of his thoughts.
"Sit," she instructed, her voice calm and steady as she glided to her desk. Picking up a form, she glanced at him, her eyes a mix of curiosity and concern. "Name and ID number?"
Morgan swallowed hard, trying to focus on her words, but the pain pulsed relentlessly, drawing his attention back to the sharp sting in his shoulder. "Morgan Nyxarios, ID 0427," he managed to reply, each word a struggle as his mind raced with questions and concerns. What had happened to him? What was embedded in his skin?
She scribbled something on the form, her movements fluid and efficient. "Can you tell me what brought you here today?"
Morgan, through shaking breaths, tried his best to explain the aether cleansing, the pain that had built up, and now… the something lodged in his skin.
The nurse frowned, her expression shifting to one of serious concern as she listened intently. "Take off your shirt. Let's have a look."
A sense of vulnerability washed over him as he obeyed her command, the cool air brushing against his skin as he slipped the fabric off. He felt exposed, but her calm demeanor helped to ease some of his anxiety. She donned a pair of gloves, her movements precise and practiced, as she leaned in to examine him. After a moment, her brows rose, surprise mingled with a hint of approval in her gaze.
"It's a good thing you came when you did," she said, her voice a soothing balm amidst the turmoil in his mind. "That's dark aether leaving your body—a physical manifestation of the cleansing process." She straightened, her tone shifting to one of encouragement. "It means you're making progress. You'll need to push through the pain and force it out fully. When you do, you'll be fine."
Morgan stared at her, skepticism etched on his face. "Progress? It hurts like hell."
"Oh, and make sure to keep them," she added casually, a playful lilt to her voice. "Souvenirs of your growth. Collect them in a jar if you like. They're not worth much to anyone else, but they could mean something to you."
He blinked, momentarily taken aback by her lightheartedness amidst his discomfort. "Souvenirs, huh?"
"Absolutely," she replied, a genuine smile breaking across her features. "Every mark tells a story."
He might not feel it now, but he was on the path to becoming the person he wanted to be.
With a newfound determination igniting within him, he nodded. "All right, I'll keep them."
The nurse finished her examination, giving him a reassuring nod. "Well, it seems to me that despite your lack of progress in cleansing over the last few years you've been with us, you've finally made some progress, which is normal and happens more often than you think. It also means that this entire time, dark aether has been building up, so there is a bit more than usual. Instead of liquid, the dark aether is presenting as solid. This can also be normal; we just have to proceed with the same techniques. It will be more painful than usual, but that's fine—just get past the initial hurdle, and it will be okay," she spoke after the examination, explaining what was going on. "Just remember: growth often comes with discomfort. Embrace it, and don't shy away from the challenge. You're doing well, even if it doesn't feel like it right now."
Morgan absorbed her words deeply while getting dressed, the fabric of his clothes wrapping around him like a protective shield against the world. As he stepped out of the infirmary, the dull ache in his shoulder remained, but he felt a sense of relief knowing it was not life-threatening.