Morning came harsh and gray.
The dome's cracked ceiling let the first light spill in uneven patches across the floor, falling over broken weights and dusted sparring mats.
Eghosa's body screamed with soreness — shoulders stiff, ribs tight, legs heavy — but she was already stretching before sunrise.
Trisha stumbled in half-awake, hair in a bun, eyes glaring daggers at nothing.
"You're insane," she muttered. "You actually slept here?"
"Didn't want to lose the rhythm," Eghosa replied, rolling her neck. "Besides… pain means progress."
From the far end of the hall, Theran's voice cut through the silence.
"Pain means you survived the first day."
He stepped out of the shadows — still in black training gear, expression calm but unreadable.
In his hands, he held a long bamboo staff and a timer cube.
"Today," he said, "we move from endurance to control. Yesterday you learned how to withstand pressure.
Today, you'll learn how to act inside it."
He tossed the staff to the ground with a loud clack.
"This isn't about technique. It's about how your body reacts when pain becomes constant — when fatigue becomes noise."
He activated the timer cube. Red lines flared across the floor, forming a large grid.
"You'll move inside this pattern. One of you attacks. The other defends.
There are only two rules — don't step out of the grid… and don't stop moving."
Trisha's eyes narrowed.
"And what's the catch?"
Theran smiled slightly.
"You'll find out when you stop."
Before either could respond, the floor beneath them vibrated.
Tiny discs rose from the tiles — small emitters glowing faint blue.
"Motion field," he explained. "It reacts to stillness. If you stop moving, it shocks you."
Trisha blinked.
"You're joking."
"I don't joke," Theran replied. "Begin."
Without warning, the emitters activated. A faint hum filled the air — alive, waiting.
Eghosa took a deep breath. She lunged first — short, fast movements, testing the pattern.
Trisha parried, her stance light, graceful, every motion controlled.
For the first few seconds, it felt manageable.
Then the pressure started.
Every missed step drew a faint spark of static at their feet — mild at first, then stronger.
They were being forced to fight and stay mobile — no room for hesitation.
Eghosa's muscles burned.
Trisha's breathing quickened, her hair sticking to her face.
Their blades clashed, feet sliding just within the glowing grid.
Theran's voice carried through the hall, calm and merciless.
"You feel it, don't you?
The burn. The weight.
That's what it means to fight when your body says stop.
The enemy doesn't wait for you to rest — so you don't rest."
Eghosa's left foot faltered for half a heartbeat — the floor sparked — pain surged through her ankle like lightning.
She bit her lip, forcing herself to keep moving.
"Good," Theran said quietly. "Now use that pain. Don't run from it. Let it keep you awake."
She pushed harder, her body remembering the rhythm of the water from yesterday — don't fight, adapt.
Every strike flowed smoother, every breath steadier.
Trisha noticed, matching her tempo — together they began to move like mirrored flames inside the glowing square.
By the fifth minute, sweat ran like rain down their faces.
By the eighth, both were barely standing — but still moving.
"Enough," Theran called finally.
The grid faded.
Both collapsed to their knees, gasping, their blades clattering beside them.
He walked toward them slowly, eyes hard but proud.
"Pain. Fatigue. Doubt. These are the first enemies every warrior meets."
"Once you learn to stop fearing them, you'll start hearing what your instincts are trying to say."
Eghosa looked up, breathing heavy but steady.
"What are they saying now?"
Theran smirked.
"They're saying you're not dead yet. So get up."
Trisha groaned.
"I hate him."
"You'll thank me when you stop dying so easily," he replied flatly.
Despite herself, Trisha laughed, and even Eghosa cracked a weak grin.
As the day faded into evening light, Theran finally dismissed them.
Eghosa's stomach twisted — half fear, half thrill.
She wiped sweat from her brow, eyes glowing faint with determination.
"Then I'll be ready."
Theran looked back over his shoulder as he walked away.
"No," he said softly. "You'll learn to be ready."
The dome lights dimmed behind him, leaving the two girls kneeling in the fading glow — exhausted, bruised, and quietly alive.
For the first time since the UNE trials, Eghosa felt something new stirring inside her —
not fear, not pride… but the raw pulse of growth.
Days blurred into one another.
Morning, dusk, night — it stopped mattering.
Each sunrise found Eghosa and Trisha at the dome, drenched in sweat before the city had even woken.
Each night found them crawling home, muscles trembling, blades heavier than they had any right to be.
The rhythm became absolute.
Wake. Run. Endure. Train. Collapse. Repeat.
Theran was relentless.
He never raised his voice. He never praised.
He only adjusted — faster tempo, heavier resistance, longer holds beneath the high-pressure water.
"Pain is a language," he told them once, watching as Eghosa's arm shook mid push-up.
"If you stop to feel it, you forget to listen."
At first, they broke easily.
Every breath was a war. Every step was a complaint their bodies screamed but their pride swallowed.
But slowly — subtly — something began to change.
Trisha, who once relied on skill and precision, learned to hold her ground even when her arms burned numb.
Eghosa, who once hesitated before striking, found herself moving before thinking, her instincts cutting through exhaustion like a second heartbeat.
Their bodies adapted — muscle layering over fatigue, breath syncing to rhythm.
By the end of the second week, even Theran's red eyes showed faint satisfaction.
"You're no longer fighting the water," he said one morning.
"You're learning to breathe in it."
When they weren't training, they barely spoke — exhaustion had a way of silencing everything unnecessary.
Meals became fuel, sleep became medicine.
And yet, both girls smiled more than before.
Because for the first time, every ache, every bruise, every gasp of air meant something.
The dome had become a second home — its broken walls echoing the rhythm of their progress.
They were no longer two girls chasing survival; they were beginning to resemble warriors in shape and soul.
Three weeks bled together like ink in water.
Days stopped having names — only rhythm.
Every dawn began in the old dome, the air thick with dust and the echo of strain.
Eghosa and Trisha trained until their arms trembled and the world blurred at the edges, until even their shadows moved slower than their breath.
When the sun set, they walked home in silence, too tired to speak, too alive to stop.
Theran's training was merciless but exact.
There was no shouting, no mercy, no wasted word.
Only adjustments — longer holds under the high-pressure water, faster rotations in the motion grid, heavier resistance drills.
"You can't win if your body breaks before your will," he told them.
"Endurance is the mother of every victory."
He was right.
At first, their lungs rebelled, their muscles screamed.
They failed, fell, gasped, and rose again.
But something changed with every fall.
Their stances grew steadier, their timing sharper.
They began to understand that endurance wasn't survival — it was control in chaos.
Trisha, once the elegant duelist, now swung with precision and grit.
Eghosa, once reactive, now struck first, moving with instinct born of countless bruises.
By the end of the third week, even Theran's impassive stare softened.
"You're starting to look less like students," he said, tossing them both a towel.
"And more like people who understand what it costs to stand."
The words lingered longer than any praise could.
That night, Eghosa sat outside the dome's cracked window, watching the city's lights flicker in the distance.
Her comm blinked — a message from the UNE:
"Summons to Empire Royal Academy: 7 days remaining."
Seven days.
After all the chaos, the exhaustion, the silent nights — it was almost time.
She exhaled slowly, looking at the dome that had become their forge.
It smelled of sweat, metal, and purpose.
Trisha dropped beside her, equally drained, hair clinging to her skin.
"A week left," she said. "And I still feel like we've barely begun."
Eghosa smiled faintly.
"Maybe that's the point. You never stop beginning."
They sat there, wordless, the night thick with quiet resolve.
Beyond the clouds, the Empire Royal Academy waited — a world of higher stakes, brighter lights, and sharper blades.
But for now, they had one week left to give everything.
And Eghosa knew, deep down, that this was only the silence before the storm.
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