Chapter 37: Sharpened Steel, Tempered Flesh
One month. Thirty days since the mountain-top roar of a newborn Leonarch nearly split me in half. Thirty days since a goddess's whisper made my eardrums rupture like cheap cloth. And what had I done with that month?
Bled. Breathed. Bled again.
Right now, I was perched on a chunk of broken concrete at the very edge of an abandoned park—a forgotten clearing that sat like a scar on the borders of Firebearer Guild territory. Cracked benches overgrown with vines, streetlights with smashed bulbs, and a children's slide half-buried under dry leaves—this wasteland had become my daily crucible.
I could still feel every swing, every impact vibrating up my bones.
Ashratal stood embedded in the ground a few meters away, its halberd edge scorched black from repeated elemental infusions. Around me lay a shameful battlefield of my fatigue: half a dozen empty potion bottles rolling in the weeds, bandages soaked in sweat, a thin sheen of dust covering my torn shirt.
Every muscle in my body felt like raw meat pounded with a hammer.
The past month had been one lesson hammered home by three different masters.
First: Father. His voice echoing at dawn and dusk, drilling mana theory so deeply into my skull that I sometimes muttered compression equations in my sleep. He made me stand in the backyard for hours, breathing mana into my veins until the raw flow seared along every nerve.
"Mana is lazy," he'd say, tapping my forehead. "Force it to obey. Be cruel to it, or it will be cruel to you."
He didn't stop at theory. He drilled me in weapon basics too—stances, sweeps, deflections with Ashratal. Not once did he praise me. Not once did he let me rest early.
Second: Raj. My brother, my silent torturer. He'd drag me into our basement or a borrowed Firebearer training hall and break me down until my mana skin cracked from repeated strikes.
"Block this. Reinforce here. Feel your mana veins tighten. Breathe through pain or it will kill you."
He knew exactly where to hit so I learned the lesson fastest. My ribs would still ache days later, but my mana control was twice as fluid.
He even stalked me once into a low-tier dungeon near the city edge—a nest of canine-like goblin variants that moved like wolves on two legs. They lunged from shadows, fangs flashing. My brother didn't help. He watched. Observed. He made notes in his phone while I bled. Only when my control slipped and I nearly got my throat torn did he send a flicker of pressure that turned half the pack into mush. Then he barked at me for an hour on my posture.
Third: Anaya Brooks.
I forced my head up now to glance at her. She sat cross-legged on a cheap blue picnic blanket a few meters away—shoulders relaxed, hair braided but messily escaping around her cheeks, sweat-soaked training top clinging to her like a second skin. Her presence was lethal and composed all at once.
Beside her lay her black arsenal box, a monstrous metal vault with rune locks. Its lid lay open, showcasing rows upon rows of weapons:
Paired short swords with blood grooves polished to a mirror shine.
A single katana with a crimson tassel.
Machetes for hacking.
Triple-edged daggers for close grapples.
Throwing knives and shurikens lined up in neat velvet slits.
Two mana pistols tucked into holsters and a collapsible rifle broken down into parts.
Every piece smelled faintly of oil and the sting of potion-laced polish.
She caught me staring and barked a laugh. "Stare harder and I'll start charging rent, Vijay."
I snorted, or tried to. My chest wheezed. "If I stared any harder, you'd put me in another chokehold."
"You'd deserve it. A month in and you still drop your left guard when I switch to knees." She snapped a cloth over a gleaming kukri. "Next time I'll use the flat edge. Or maybe I won't."
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting my pulse slow. The last sparring round still throbbed in my shoulder joint. Anaya fought like a phantom snake—flexible, venomous, coiling at angles I never saw coming. She could slip past Ashratal's shaft and suddenly her elbow would crash under my ribs or her knee would hook my thigh out from under me.
In the academy, she'd been shy—awkward with boys, more focused on memorizing mana theories than sparring. The real world, it seemed, had burned that girl down to steel.
She sighed. "You've changed too, you know."
I cracked an eye open. "Yeah? How so?"
"You actually hit back now. First week, you flailed like a puppy." She flicked her braid behind her shoulder. "Now you move your feet, use feints, even bait me to overextend. I see Father's style in your spearwork—clean lines, heavy follow-throughs. But your follow-up is all you. Messy but unpredictable."
High praise, coming from her.
I dragged my fingers over the grit beside me. Broken twigs, a few of her throwing knives half-buried in the soil—my near-death markers.
"Better than a month ago," I admitted. "Still not enough."
She rose gracefully, wiped her brow with her wrist, then checked the latches on her box. The case folded shut with a hiss of mana seals locking into place.
"You need more fieldwork," she said. "Controlled training ends soon. Real fights shape real instincts."
I grunted. "I know."
I thought of my last solo dungeon run—the goblin pack with canine traits. Their leader bit through my arm guard. I'd panicked, overcompensated, and by sheer dumb luck triggered a pulse of my storm affinity that shredded half the chamber. When I stumbled home, Mother nearly threw her sandal at my head before switching to a half-day lecture on how potions can't fix stupidity.
Even Father, for all his coldness, laid a palm on my head and said, "Control your storm, or it will control you."
She nodded. "Good. And when you hit Rank 2? You'll still lose to me." She grinned, all teeth. "But maybe you'll make me sweat for once."
She hoisted her black arsenal case to her back like it weighed nothing. The runes flickered briefly, responding to her mana. In that moment, she looked every bit the predator she'd trained herself to be.
Sunset spread its last bloodied rays through the broken trees. The Firebearer Guild's distant patrol lights flickered on the horizon.
Slowly, painfully, I stood, pulling Ashratal free from the soil. Its edge hummed faintly with residual storm energy, a reminder of what I had yet to master.
We walked side by side toward the taxi stand at the edge of the cracked park path—hunter and hunter, bloodied and bruised but unwilling to bend.
Tomorrow, more monsters.
Tomorrow, more bruises.
And soon, the trial that would decide if I stayed prey—
—or became predator.