Date: April 10, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The second day in Sarim's estate began for Dur not with dawn, but with the sensation of his own weight. Every muscle, every joint protested any movement. Master Koch's press had left behind not only bruises on his body, but a strange feeling of "emptiness" inside. Dur lay on his back, staring at the high ceiling, trying to feel within himself even a spark of that power the mercenaries in the forest or Koch himself wielded so easily. But inside, it was quiet, like a forest before a storm—only the steady beat of his heart and the even flow of his blood.
Maël, strangely enough, looked almost recovered. He sat on the windowsill, his face turned to the morning rays, chewing a green apple with appetite. His Spirit of Adaptability, though it had exhausted him yesterday, had done colossal work overnight, patching up the energy breaches in his body.
"Get up, hero of Black Grove," Maël jumped down, his movements light and fluid again. "Koch doesn't like to wait, and today all the 'Accepted' will gather on the yard. They were whispering all evening about the 'wild tracker' who endured the master's leaden pressure. They'll be checking your teeth, Dur. And believe me, they won't be gentle."
"Let them check," Dur got up with difficulty, his vertebrae cracking. "My teeth are strong. Something else bothers me. Koch talked about Energy. He said without it, I'm just a piece of meat."
Maël stopped smiling for a moment. His gaze became serious, almost expert.
"Energy is fuel, Dur. It's in everyone. We breathe it, eat it, it flows in our veins. But to control it… it's like trying to hold water in a sieve. Most people just let it dissipate. Spirit users use it to fuel their 'inner shadow.' But you…" Maël came closer, studying Dur. "You have a lot of it. I can feel it with my Spirit. Your body is like a huge reservoir, but it's tightly sealed. I don't know why your Spirit sleeps, but when it awakens… Ligra won't be big enough."
Dur only nodded grimly. Ligra already felt too small to him. He felt this city was just a temporary stop, an anteroom before something huge and frightening.
***
On the training yard, it was crowded today. A dozen recruits in gray uniforms stood lined up in two rows. Master Koch stood before them, arms crossed. Today he looked even more monolithic than yesterday.
"Listen carefully," Koch swept the line with his gaze. "Energy is not magic. It's discipline. Anyone who cannot control their flow is not worthy of bearing the name Agrim. Today we move on to sparring. Dur, step forward."
Dur stepped onto the granite slabs. Opposite him came one of the "Accepted"—a tall, broad-shouldered guy named Joran. A self-satisfied smirk played on his face. Dur knew the type: Joran considered himself elite just because his Spirit—"Spirit of the Stone Fist"—had awakened early.
"Wooden swords," Koch commanded. "Rules are simple: touch a vital point—you win. Using your Spirit is allowed."
Joran raised his sword. His forearms instantly darkened, taking on the texture of unhewn boulders. The air around him thickened.
"Well, savage," he whispered. "Show us how you used to scare hares in the forest."
The fight began instantly. Joran lunged forward, delivering a powerful vertical strike. Dur, remembering Maël's lessons, didn't block—the weight of the stone strike would have simply shattered his defense. He slid aside, feeling Joran's sword hum through the air an inch from his shoulder.
Dur struck back. His movements were fast and economical. He delivered a series of short blows to Joran's ribs and thigh, but… the result was zero. Dur's sword bounced off the opponent's body like off a granite cliff. Joran didn't even wince.
"My skin is a shield!" the recruit chuckled, spinning for another blow.
Dur felt cold fury. He was physically stronger than Joran, he was faster, but the magical protection of the Spirit nullified it all. He felt powerless, like a man trying to break a wall with his bare hands.
At one point, Joran did something strange. He didn't just swing. Dur saw a wave of bright pulsating light pass through his arms. It wasn't a summoning of his Spirit—it was something else. Joran's body became unnaturally fast for a fraction of a second, and the strike of his sword gained such power that the granite slab under Dur's feet cracked as he rolled away.
Dur froze, breathing heavily. He saw that Joran had spent an enormous amount of energy on this move—his face was red, his breathing ragged. But the very possibility of such a burst… it was beyond what Dur knew about the body.
"Enough!" Koch's voice stopped the sparring. "Dur, you're dead. Joran, you wasted too much energy on a simple attack. If there had been two enemies, the crows would already be picking at you."
The master approached Dur, who was still gripping the wooden sword hilt until his knuckles were white.
"You're angry," Koch stated. "Angry because you don't understand how he did it. You see a wall, Dur. A wall between you and them. They're riders, you're a pedestrian."
"How did he get so fast?" Dur forced out. "That's not his Spirit. His Spirit makes his skin hard, it doesn't give him that speed."
Koch looked at Dur with a long, studying gaze.
"You're observant. That's good. But it's too early for you to know. You can't fill a jug if it has no bottom. Your 'bottom' is your sleeping Spirit. Until it awakens, your Energy is just warmth that escapes into the air."
Koch turned to the others.
"Continue training! Maël, your turn. Show us how you've learned to 'adapt' to others' stupidity."
For the rest of the day, Dur spent in the shadows, watching the fights. He saw how Maël, using his Spirit, literally flowed around opponents' attacks, forcing them to make mistakes. Maël didn't engage head-on; he was like water—soft on the outside, but capable of wearing down any stone.
In the evening, as they returned to their quarters, Dur was uncharacteristically silent. His dream—that ghostly image of a "Better World" where he, Kaedan, Gil, and Ulvia stood shoulder to shoulder—seemed infinitely distant today.
"Maël," Dur said quietly, when they stopped on the terrace, looking at the lights of Ligra beginning to flicker. "I understand why Sarim said my dream is just a dream."
Maël stopped smiling. He leaned against a column, listening attentively.
"In the forest, I was the best," Dur continued. "I could survive where others died. But here… in this world, where people can turn their skin to stone and move faster than the wind… I'm nobody. Until I become stronger, I can't even protect you, let alone build a new world."
Maël placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. His palm was warm and reassuring.
"You're not nobody, Dur. You're the only one who withstood Koch without the crutch of a Spirit. Your strength is real, it's in your veins and bones. And your Spirit… it will awaken. And when it does, Joran and his ilk will look like children playing in a sandbox. Ligra is just the first stage, Dur. A small town on the edge of a great empire. We're here to forge the foundation."
Dur looked at his palms. They were covered in calluses and scrapes. He didn't yet know that his Energy was accumulating inside him, turning into something colossal that would one day be called the "Bottomless Leviathan." He didn't know that the technique of reinforcing the body with energy, which he had glimpsed today in Joran, would become his main asset hundreds of chapters from now.
Now, he only felt the weight of responsibility and a burning desire to overcome this barrier.
"Tell me," Maël squinted, his natural curiosity getting the better of him. "What is your dream?"
Dur was silent for a long time, peering into the darkness to the east.
"I'll tell you, Maël. But not today. First, I have to prove to this stone," he stamped on the granite slab of the terrace, "that I am stronger than it."
Maël nodded understandingly. He knew what it was like to wait for one's hour. He, the son of Agrim Ma Rat, hiding in the ditches of Ligra, knew how to wait like no one else.
Night descended on the Estate. Dur lay down in bed, and in his ears still echoed the hum of the air being cut. He fell asleep with one thought: "Faster. Stronger." His path was just beginning, and the emptiness inside him was already beginning to fill with the first, still cold and quiet resolve.