...
(Two weeks later)
Socrates stood at the edge of the Sky Earth Well as he watched the water he had fetched decrease right before his eyes, the surface lowering steadily despite the effort he had poured into it.
The evening air carried a faint chill, and the fading sunlight reflected weakly against the stone walls of the massive drum.
"So that is it..." His ocean-blue eyes glowed faintly, reflecting the dimming light from the water surface below.
"A pipe connected to the Earth Pavilion..."
"Another pipe connected to the Sky Pavilion."
"The two pavilions are drawing water from this source, and that's why it's the Sky Earth Drum." Socrates analyzed, his gaze narrowing as he carefully observed the direction of flow, then his eyes turned sharply to the third pipe which was times two of the others, thicker and reinforced with heavier stone casing.
"This pipe draws water from the stream, but the amount of water it draws was not enough for daily operations, and that's why disciples are needed to fetch water down from the stream."
"Since I began this punishment, the number of disciples fetching water had dwindled a lot... We are only three remaining..." Socrates' eyes turned sharply to the two silhouettes behind him, faint shadows standing across the curved stairway under lantern light.
"And amongst them, I'm the only one required to fill up the drum within a year." He turned his gaze back to the drum and into the water as he watched it dwindle continuously, the faint ripples moving like quiet resistance against his efforts.
It was almost nightfall, and he could clearly see the bottom of the drum due to the level of water in it, the stone base visible beneath the shallow remaining pool.
"A task deemed impossible by others..... and even me..." Socrates closed his eyes, admitting his inferiority, his breath leaving his lips slowly as fatigue settled into his shoulders.
"At first I found it plausible... With consistent movement, maybe I could fill the drum within a year..." Socrates raised his chin as he rubbed his temple, faint lines of strain forming along his forehead.
"But this is not a matter of hardwork or dedication... It's a task that can't be done..."
"I'm required to fill the drum within a year... That's it shouldn't be more than a year... 12 months or rather 365 days... That should apply for a dormant drum."
"So here's the trick... This isn't a dormant drum, it's a drum being used by the two pavilions. No matter how hard and how fast I fill this drum, the water will be drained before dawn." Socrates raised his head to look at the setting of the sun, its fading glow stretching long shadows across the stone steps.
"Every blessed day, I've to start again and that same day the water will be drained... My efforts will be wasted and the drum... The drum will never full." Socrates shook his head as he turned around, frustration briefly tightening his jaw before fading into cold resolve.
"Only except if I can fill this drum in a day...." Socrates walked forward, the sound of his footsteps echoing across the hollow stone interior as he crouched down and grabbed the shoulder pole, then placed it on his shoulder with practiced familiarity.
The buckets were far more gigantic in size as they almost rivaled his height, their wooden rims worn smooth from repeated use, yet still heavy enough to strain even trained disciples.
The other disciples around stared at him as he passed them by, their expressions mixed with curiosity, disbelief, and quiet exhaustion.
"And that's where the impossibility comes in."
He sighed as he headed towards the stream with a new resolve, his breathing steady despite the weight pressing into his shoulders.
"But I'm not giving up yet.... If I can't make progress in a day... How about adding the night?"
And that was how Socrates continued filling the drum...
Morning, afternoon, evening, night, and midnight...
Only rest when he wanted to eat, his meals taken quickly and without ceremony before returning immediately to the task.
His gigantic shoulder pole dancing on his shoulders, shifting slightly with each step as his muscles adapted to the burden.
While the Gladiator trained, he's there serving his punishments, his footsteps becoming a constant presence along the long stone pathway.
One month passed and the results were still the same, the water level refusing to show meaningful progress despite the endless repetition.
But there was no sign of giving up in Socrates' eyes, his ocean-blue gaze remaining steady even as fatigue carved deeper lines into his face.
"What if one shoulder pole isn't enough... How about two?"
And that was how another two months passed making it a total of three and half months, the passage of time marked only by aching muscles and hardened resolve.
In that fourteen weeks, Socrates had made significant progress, raising the water level of the drum so high that the Gladiators were now receiving a steady supply of water, the once shallow base now filled high enough to reflect lantern lights across its widening surface.
The Sky Pavilion and even the Earth Pavilion were rejoicing because the water they now had was more than enough, disciples moving with lighter expressions as they carried out their daily routines without the earlier sense of scarcity.
Socrates' name spread among the two pavilions as the disciples appreciated him for making their life easier, murmurs of gratitude replacing the earlier whispers of mockery.
Before now, they barely had enough water... Some might not even bathe in a day, their robes once stiff with sweat and dust from repeated training.
And that was because the water being drawn by the stream pipe was not enough and even with the disciples fetching, it was still not enough, the constant shortage affecting daily life across both pavilions.
The positive discussion about Socrates got into the ears of the Champion of the Sky Pavilion, and his hate for Socrates intensified, jealousy tightening his pride as praise for another echoed louder than recognition for himself.
It accumulated for days till he couldn't take it anymore and decided to pay Socrates a visit, his patience thinning like a thread stretched too tight.
As usual, the Son of Trueblood was standing before the edge of the drum, his hands folded behind his back as he watched the water drain before his eyes, the quiet motion of the flow reflecting against his calm expression.
The way it moved, the flow, the subtle distortion... Socrates was taking notes of everything.... His expression calm and his body unmoving, like a statue carved from stone.
Suddenly, his ears twitched on their own... Something that didn't just happen, a faint reaction triggered by subtle disturbance in the air.
'Sounds of footsteps... Doesn't sound familiar... 1..2..3' Socrates calculated in his mind but he wasn't afraid... He was just high on alert, his awareness sharpening without outward reaction.
Even as his curiosity grew, he didn't glance back... He didn't remove his gaze from the well, maintaining the still posture he had grown accustomed to during long hours of observation.
"The Son of Trueblood." The sound pierced into the air, sharp and crisp. A voice recognized not out of familiarity but something shaped out of battle, heavy with past hostility.
As images and scenes flashed before Socrates' eyes... The scene of where he was trampled on, sent spinning into the air like a kite, the memory vivid as if it had happened only moments ago, dust rising around his fallen body.
The scene of a foot placed on his body and being deprived of what belonged to him, humiliation burning deep within his chest as mocking voices echoed faintly in his memory.
Then it was replaced by the scene of him taking out his revenge and retrieving back what belonged to him, the clash of steel and shattered pride replaying briefly in his mind.
Crisp*
The memories broke like glass as reality returned, the sharp sound snapping his thoughts back into the present moment, and without turning, Socrates opened his mouth.
"What do you want, Merkules?"
"You dare call the Champion of the Sky Pavilion by name." Another of his lackeys said, his voice filled with arrogance, but surprisingly Socrates recognized this voice which caused him to turn his head slowly.
"Mastrile." He muttered as he sized the silhouette up... The disciple which was putting on a sky-blue robe, standing slightly behind Merkules with a stiff posture.
"Oh, your lackey... He's my boy now." Merkules placed his hand on Mastrile's shoulder, his lips curling into a faint smirk of ownership.
Socrates just stared, he was not any surprised... That's the kind of man Mastrile is... He can do anything just to curry a favor, even if it meant abandoning former loyalties.
"You can take him... Not like I need him anyway." Socrates returned his gaze back to the well, his voice calm and lacking interest.
"It seems you're enjoying your punishments... Maybe this is the domain that fits you after all." Merkules chuckled, his laughter low and mocking, but Socrates didn't answer.
"It seems you've gotten the gist about it already... You can't escape from this. You're going to be banished from the Sky Pavilion, and then you won't be a threat anymore..." Merkules added, his tone dripping with confidence.
"Is that all you've to say..." Socrates turned around as if tired of hearing Merkules' voice, his expression growing colder with each passing second.
"The Golden token you stole from my chamber... Give it to me, I want it back." Merkules demanded, his voice firm yet carrying a trace of restrained anger as his fingers curled slightly at his sides.
And then Socrates unzipped the pockets of his mechanical suit, revealing a token which glowed softly, its golden surface emitting a faint steady light that reflected against the dark metallic plates of his suit.
The eyes of Merkules and his lackeys widened as they saw the token. Socrates had just confirmed the fact that he had the token, the object they feared and desired now resting openly in his possession.
He moved... Not with speed but slow deliberate steps as he walked closer towards the trio, each step measured and steady, his boots producing soft but heavy echoes against the stone flooring.
There was no flicker of aura... Nothing, nothing...
Just him moving, but that alone struck fear in the hearts of the trio, an invisible pressure forming despite the complete absence of visible energy.
Merkules recalling his huge defeat in the face of this man, the memory of shattered steel and crushing force resurfacing vividly in his mind.
Mastrile recalling how he had defeated the lackeys of Nicollo, the brutal display of strength replaying behind his eyes like a warning he could not ignore.
Out of instinct, they moved out of the way for him as he walked past them with the golden token in sight for them to take, their bodies reacting before their minds could form resistance.
He didn't say any word... Nothing... He just walked slowly past them, his posture relaxed yet overwhelmingly dominant.
And none of them mustered the courage to block him or stop him or even take the token which was right in front of them, their confidence collapsing under the silent pressure of his presence.
He didn't make any move, he simply walked, and then this... This is ABSOLUTE DOMINATION, the silent authority of someone whose strength no longer needed to be proven through violence.