[The Training Grounds - Sector 4 - Late Afternoon]
The impact echoed across the empty yard.
Kael's fist drove into the wooden post. The entire structure shuddered, splinters burst outward, and a crack spread up the grain, slow and deliberate. He pulled back, reset his stance, and struck again.
The wood groaned.
His knuckles were raw. Blood seeped from the splits in his skin—not fresh wounds, just old ones that refused to fully close. The flesh had hardened over the past month. Calluses layered over calluses. Bone pressed closer to the surface.
He drove his fist forward again. Another strike. Another crack. The post leaned. He shifted his footing and struck again.
His body had changed. He stood above most men now, his shoulders pulling at the seams of his coat, sleeves riding short along his forearms, leather straining when he bent his arms. His old boots pressed tight across the top of his feet. The weight in him had settled deep and compact, packed close beneath the skin.
