(Arin's POV)
The thick dawn fog still hung low over the stone floor of Instructor Brook's Private Training Arena, creating a silence that felt almost sacred. The sky above was still a dense purple-gray, untouched by the warmth of the morning sun. The air here was so cold it froze the breath, turning every exhale from the lungs into thick white steam that floated for a moment before vanishing, swallowed by the chill.
I stood alone in the middle of that vast arena. In my right hand, the Adamantium Sword given by Selena was gripped tightly. The dark gray metal felt piercingly cold, penetrating the leather gloves I wore.
My mind drifted back to the lines in the old Iron Manifesto book I read in the third-floor library the other day. The book discussed the theory of the Professional Tier and the Mana Redaction technique.
"Professional Tier is not about how hard you hit, but about frequency. Aura vibration that severs mana bonds."
Theoretically, I understood the mechanism well. It was pure wave physics. If I could vibrate the dense aura around my sword at a high frequency, I could create a microscopic saw that cut through enemy magic structures before the magic touched me.
The problem was I didn't have liquid mana that could be flowed easily like mages. I only had the Piston Heart. A crude biological machine pumping mana-mixed blood at high pressure.
"If I cannot vibrate the mana..." I muttered softly, my eyes closed in full focus, "then I must vibrate the vessel."
I took a deep breath.
Inhale... Hold for a moment...
My heart responded instantly.
THUMP... THUMP...
Usually, I used this rhythm to pump pure strength for a single explosive strike. But this time, I tried to do something different. I sent electrical signals to my right arm muscles. I ordered those muscle fibers to tense and relax hundreds of times in a single second.
I tried to create Micro-Tremors or controlled micro-twitches. The goal was to synchronize the heartbeat with muscle contractions to create resonance on the sword blade.
VWOOM...
The sword in my hand began to hum softly. The sound was low, yet painful to the ears like the buzz of a giant angry bee. The air around the sword blade looked distorted, vibrating violently as if reality around it were being stirred.
"It works..." I thought to myself, a smile of victory starting to carve thinly at the corner of my lips.
The theory turned out to be correct. My body could become a living tuning fork. With this technique, I could cut Maya's fire magic or Elena's ice.
However, the smile vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced by pure horror.
CRACK!
That was not the sound of magic breaking. Nor the sound of a target being split.
It was the sound from inside my own arm.
"ARGH!"
Excruciating pain exploded from my wrist, traveled up to the elbow, then struck the shoulder like a lightning bolt. It didn't feel like being hit by a blunt object, but like thousands of hot needles exploding inside my bone marrow simultaneously.
My muscles experienced a violent spasm, rejecting the vibration frequency I created.
The heavy Adamantium Sword slipped from my grasp, flung to the side, and embedded itself in the stone ground with a clank that sounded pathetic.
I fell to my knees, clutching my uncontrollably trembling right arm.
"Hah... hah... Damn it..."
Fresh blood dripped profusely from skin pores along my right arm. Not cut wounds, but pores bursting from the inside. My blood capillaries exploded due to excessive vibration pressure. My bicep muscle felt mushy and hot; there were probably muscle fibers torn severely there.
Three seconds.
I could only hold that technique for three seconds before my own body shattered to pieces.
"Truly pathetic."
A heavy and rough voice was heard from the direction of the arena entrance, breaking my groans of pain.
I turned with a grimacing face, cold sweat mixed with blood wetting my temples. Instructor Brook stood there, leaning casually against a stone pillar while eating a green apple. His eyes looked at me with a mixture of boredom and annoyance, as if seeing a stupid fly trying to hit a glass window repeatedly.
"What do you think your body is made of, Kid? Iron?" Brook walked closer, his heavy footsteps vibrating the floor, feeling more intimidating than any monster.
He stopped right in front of me, staring at my bloody arm with a cold gaze. "You just tried the Resonance technique, right? Trying to mimic Professional Tier just because you read one old book in the library?"
"I... was just testing a theory," I answered while trying to stand, though my legs wobbled holding back the pain.
Brook snorted roughly, throwing his apple core into a trash bin with an accurate toss without looking. He walked past it, pulled my Adamantium sword stuck in the ground with one hand, then threw it back at me.
"Catch your sword."
I caught it with my left hand. My right hand was still completely numb, throbbing with burning pain.
"Your theory is indeed correct. But your vessel is cracked," said Brook sharply. He tapped his own broad chest which was hard as granite rock.
"Listen closely, Arin. Professional Tier is called 'Professional' not because the technique is hard to understand. But because your body must have evolved to withstand it."
Brook raised his empty hand. Suddenly, a dense red aura enveloped his fist. The air around him vibrated, emitting a humming sound the same as what I tried earlier. But Brook was not in pain. No blood came out of his pores. His muscles held that vibration perfectly, making it a deadly weapon, not a boomerang hurting himself.
"That vibration destroys," explained Brook while turning off his aura. "Action-reaction law, Kid. If you vibrate the sword to destroy magic, that vibration travels back to the hilt, then to your hand. Ordinary human bones would turn to powder if they withstood a frequency that high."
He pointed to my arm which was now bruised purple.
"You are new to Senior Tier. Your body is just learning to be 'dense'. Do not try to be 'vibration' before your bones are as hard as diamonds. You can only do that once or twice as a suicide attack. More than that? Your hand will have to be amputated."
I looked down, staring at my severely damaged arm.
Brook's words slapped my consciousness hard. The euphoria of political victory at Duke Rhyms' house and the business success of the antibiotic factory lately made me forget myself. I forgot who I truly was.
I felt strong because I managed to manipulate nobles and make money. But here, in this arena, money and politics had no value at all.
I was still flawed. The serum and Piston Heart gave me a shortcut, but that shortcut had a high price. I was not Elena born with perfect mana circuits, or Rose whose bones were trained since infancy. I was a defective product forced to work beyond capacity.
"So... what should I do, Instructor?" I asked, swallowing bitter shame. "The Midterm Exam is a Dungeon. I need a weapon to fight area magic. If I cannot cut magic, I will be an easy target."
"You already have a weapon," Brook pointed to my chest with his rough index finger. "You have hardness of head."
He walked to the weapon rack at the edge of the arena. Instead of taking a sword, he kicked a pitch-black iron post embedded in the corner of the arena. The post was usually used for Golem destructive power training.
"Forget that vibration trick for now. That is a suicide ace, not a daily technique," ordered Brook firmly. "We go back to basics. Conditioning Training."
"What do you mean by conditioning?"
"Take off those toy gloves," ordered Brook, pointing to the Feather-Touch Glove on my left hand. "That thing makes you spoiled. You get used to hitting without feeling the impact."
I took off the luxurious glove and put it in my pocket. Now both my hands were bare. My right hand was still trembling and bleeding.
"You will hit that iron post," Brook pointed to the cold and hard black post. "Without Aura. Without breathing techniques. Just pure physical."
"Hit an iron post?" I stared at the post in disbelief. "That is crazy!"
"Yes. Until your bones micro-fracture, then heal harder. Until your muscles tear, then grow denser," Brook grinned sadistically, a grin promising long suffering.
"Wolff's Law, Kid. Bones adapt to load. You want your body to withstand Professional vibration? Then make your body as hard as a Golem. You have been too comfortable sitting in soft chairs dining with Dukes, Arin. You have been too busy counting money from your mushroom factory. Time to go back to being a meat punching bag."
I stared at that black iron post. Its surface was rough, cold, and merciless. It was a primitive and painful ancient method. There were no scientific shortcuts here. No physics formulas could save my hands from the pain of impact.
But that was the only way to densify my cracked vessel.
"Fine," I stored my sword, clenched my still-painful right hand, then my left hand. "I will do it!"
One Hour Later.
CLANG!
CLANG!
CLANG!
The sound of fists meeting iron echoed monotonously in the quiet arena.
My knuckles were broken. Blood coated them, making the iron post slippery and red. Every strike sent a shock of stinging pain from the wrist to the neck. It felt like my bones were grinding against each other roughly.
"Again!" shouted Brook from the edge of the arena. "Do not stop! If you stop, your bones will get cold! Keep the heat!"
I gritted my teeth holding back the sting. Sweat flooded my body, soaking my training clothes until transparent.
CLANG!
I hit again. And again.
My mind was empty. No political strategies. No medicine recipes. No machine sketches. There was only pain and the desire to surpass it.
This was the reality check I needed. Money could buy Elena's protection. Money could buy Ghislain's chemicals. But money could not buy bone density.
I had to suffer for this.
"One hundred one... one hundred two..." I counted between ragged breaths.
In the distance, hidden behind the shadow of a pillar in the quiet spectator stands, a pair of eyes watched me intently.
A student with glasses and a very flat, unobtrusive face stood there. He wore a neat uniform buttoned up to the neck, contrasting sharply with the rough and dusty arena environment.
Vesper.
The student whose name was circled on the list on the napkin given by Tom Garius. Karl Benzzi's shadow treasurer. The brain behind the military faction's finances in our class.
He did not look at me with admiration like other Class C students. He also did not look at me with fiery hatred like Gordon. He looked at me like an accountant checking a loss balance sheet.
Vesper adjusted his silver-framed glasses, his eyes catching the moment I winced holding my right shoulder after the hundred and fiftieth punch. He saw the fine tremors in my exhausted muscles.
He took out a small black leather-bound notebook and an ink pen from his coat pocket.
"Very interesting," mumbled Vesper softly, his voice barely audible, flat without emotion. "He has a huge burst of power. His physics techniques and attacks are indeed deadly if they hit the target. But his durability... truly pathetic."
Vesper wrote something in his book with neat, tiny handwriting.
[Target: Arin. Initial Analysis: Low body structural integrity. Prone to Self-Destruct when using maximum output. High regeneration thanks to serum, but has clear stamina limits.]
"Karl wants to kill him with brute force... that is a stupid plan," analyzed Vesper coldly. His eyes flashed behind the glass lenses. "To kill a monster like this, you do not hit him once. You force him to hit a wall until his hands destroy themselves."
Suddenly, another shadow appeared from behind the pillar next to Vesper.
Tom Garius.
Tom's usually friendly and smiling face now looked flat and cold. He stood beside Vesper, staring at me beating the iron post in the middle of the arena with a gaze hard to interpret.
"He is practicing hardening techniques," reported Tom without turning to Vesper. His voice was low, ensuring no echo reached my ears down there. "He realizes his body is not strong enough to withstand high-level techniques. He is trying to patch his weaknesses before the exam begins."
Vesper glanced at Tom briefly, the corner of his lips lifting slightly forming a thin condescending smile. He closed his notebook with a soft snap.
"Good information, Tom. It seems you really want to get out of that boring 'neutral zone'."
"I am a realistic person, Vesper," answered Tom flatly, his eyes remaining fixed on me. "Arin did save me from the plague. I am grateful for that. But... fighting Karl Benzzi? Fighting a Duke's family? That is tantamount to suicide. I have a family to protect. Arin is just... a stepping stone too fragile to lean on."
Tom turned to face Vesper. His face was very serious.
"I have given you the list of Arin's supporters in Class B. I have told you his weaknesses. I even tricked him into believing I am on his side. Is my condition met?" asked Tom demanding.
Vesper tapped his notebook with his index finger. A satisfying soft tap sound.
"Karl appreciates loyalty that is... flexible," said Vesper with a cunning diplomatic tone. "If your prediction is correct and Arin is destroyed in the Dungeon later... Karl will consider a position for your family in the Benzzi trade circle. But you must prove it further inside the Dungeon later. Make sure he falls into the trap."
"Sure," answered Tom briefly. "As long as the guarantee is clear."
Vesper smiled satisfied, then looked back at the arena. He watched Arin hitting iron stupidly, unaware that up here, two people were calmly planning his death.
"Dungeon later..." mumbled Vesper, his eyes gleaming cunningly. "We will not attack him directly. We will tire him out and force him to use self-destructive techniques repeatedly."
Vesper turned to leave, his robe fluttering gently in the morning wind.
"Let him hit that iron. Let him feel strong. The harder he hits, the faster he breaks when we pull the rug from under his feet."
Tom nodded in agreement, then followed Vesper disappearing into the corridor shadows, leaving me still hitting the iron, thinking that my only enemy was my own physical limitations.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The sound of clashing iron continued to echo, becoming introductory music for the conspiracy being woven behind the scenes. The physical war in the forest had passed. Now was the war of strategy. And my enemy this time knew how to count.