The dawn was just a faint bruise of purple on the horizon when Ian stumbled through the bamboo grove, muscles still sore from the fight. He dropped to one knee, sweat and ash caking his skin. He'd won, but just barely. And he knew he was nowhere near ready.
Time to get serious, he told himself, wrapping his chaos wings tighter around his back like broken chains. He laced up his boots and set off through the mist, determined to become fucking stronger further.
Twenty days later, Ian was drenched in sweat again, this time in the training courtyard of an old, half‑collapsed temple. Every muscle ached, every sinew burned, but he didn't stop. His sword arm moved in endless arcs, each slash cutting the fog into fractals. Every time he thought he'd hit his limit, he dug deeper until his bones screamed.
And then one evening, among the dying embers of torchlight, a new presence stepped onto the cracked stone floor.
