Leo tried everything.
He sat cross-legged on stone outcrops beneath the stars. He tried emptying his thoughts, breathing slowly, letting emotions slide off his mind like rain off glass.
Nothing.
He tried the opposite—inviting in the grief, the guilt, the pain. Letting it surge, trying to ride it like a wave and let it carve something real from the storm.
Still nothing.
He read the words in The Mirror of Will again and again, seeking a clue—some secret phrasing he'd missed.
But no flash of insight came.
Days passed in that haze of effort. Of trying to become something.
But between those frustrating attempts, he trained.
And that was different.
Each morning, spear in hand, Leo stepped into the quiet clearing. The grass brushed his ankles, the wind played softly through the trees, and he began his movements.
At first, they were mechanical. Repetition. Discipline.
But slowly—quietly—something changed.
His grip adjusted, not by conscious thought but by feel. His footwork smoothed out. Transitions between forms flowed without need for memory.
He stopped thinking about paths.
He stopped thinking about progress.
He stopped thinking.
And instead—he moved.
Each thrust was followed by another, not out of need but out of joy. The way the spear cut the air, the way it connected with the rhythm of his breath—it wasn't about training anymore.
It was satisfaction.
Pursuit.
He wasn't trying to escape guilt.
He wasn't clawing for power.
He was walking his path.
And his will—unburdened by desperation—sharpened.
Not suddenly. Not with a crack or a flare.
But with a quiet, steady focus that settled over him like dawn breaking through mist.
During one evening session, he spun into a finishing form and froze—half-kneeling, spear extended.
And then he felt it.
Not paths snapping into place.
But flowing.
Like a river running beneath his skin.
Every motion he could take stretched ahead of him—not rigid, not fixed, but aligned. His intent no longer reached for them.
They reached for him.
He stood slowly, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat.
Not mastery.
Not yet.
But closer
It was late afternoon when Leo spotted it.
A familiar shape in the distance—tall, broad-shouldered, unmoving. A sparring construct.
But this one wasn't hidden in a training dome.
It stood alone in the open field near the eastern slope of the third floor's settlement area, partially shadowed by the arch of a massive tree. Its plating was darker than the one from Verdant Rise, its frame bulkier. Its stance—ready. Waiting.
More curious, though, were the figures standing nearby.
Three of them.
Tower guards.
They didn't speak. Didn't lead trialists or monitor formations. They just watched, hands behind their backs, eyes focused entirely on the construct.
Leo slowed his pace.
Why is it just out here… waiting?
He approached.
The guards didn't stop him.
They barely even glanced his way—except for one, who gave the faintest nod. Not of encouragement.
Of permission.
Leo drew his spear.
The construct's eyes flared to life—twin slits of blue light.
He exhaled and stepped into the ring.
It moved with the same speed as before.
Faster than the elite duelists from the bridge. Precise. Calculating.
But this time—
Leo moved with it.
The first strike came from overhead, a crushing blow. He stepped into the side angle, rotating his torso, letting the momentum of his motion redirect his spear in a flowing arc to deflect the strike just enough.
The second blow came low—he spun his spear behind his back and deflected it, not thinking. Flowing.
A series of jabs came next—three in rapid succession.
Leo bent, weaved, shifted. Each path appeared just before the moment came, not in full—but enough. He was ahead by half a breath, and that half-breath was everything.
He didn't strike wildly. He didn't try to overpower it.
He listened.
To the flow. To the rhythm.
Each deflection set up the next. Each evasion led into a new stance.
But still—
The construct adapted.
Faster. Smarter.
It began layering feints. Adjusting its tempo. Setting traps.
Leo saw them—but not all.
One strike swept past his shoulder. Another nearly took his ankle.
Then, in a single blur of motion, the construct turned its stance and delivered a palm strike straight to his chest.
Boom.
Leo flew backward, hit the ground, and rolled.
Hard.
But not broken.
He lay there for a second, chest heaving—then laughed. Just once.
Because he hadn't been demolished.
He had fought.
The guards hadn't moved.
But now, two of them were watching more closely.
One murmured something to another.
Leo stood slowly, spear still in hand, a bruise forming across his ribs.
He hadn't landed a single blow but he has happy to at least have a goal in the tower that wouldn't kill him.
He then noticed one of the guards approaching him.