The cold, damp air of the secluded training grounds seeped into Jorel's bones as he stood alone, facing the expanse of the darkened field. The other students had retreated to their respective training areas, but Jorel had chosen to isolate himself, needing the solitude to focus on the task ahead. The final trial was rapidly approaching, and he knew that if he was going to survive, he needed to push his abilities further than ever before.
In his hands, he held the small, worn book Serik had given him—Displaced Physical Pain Magic. The pages were yellowed and brittle, the ink faded from years of neglect. But within its pages, Jorel had discovered a way to harness his pain in ways that most physical pain users never could. It was a technique few had ever mastered, but if he could perfect it, it would give him a critical edge in the upcoming tournament.
He flipped through the book, scanning the familiar passages. The concept was simple in theory: displace the pain you feel in one part of your body and channel it outward to affect another location. In practice, however, it was anything but simple. Displacing pain required absolute precision and control, the ability to separate the sensation from its source and direct it with pinpoint accuracy.
Jorel had spent countless hours practicing, inflicting various types of pain on himself—small cuts, burns, and other injuries—trying to master the technique. His progress had been slow, frustratingly so. But he couldn't afford to give up. Not when so much was at stake.
He clenched his fists, feeling the sting of the cuts he had made earlier in the day. The pain was sharp, a constant reminder of the work that lay ahead. He took a deep breath, focusing on the sensation, letting it fill his mind until it was the only thing he could feel.
Concentrate, he told himself. Focus on the pain. Let it flow through you, but don't let it control you.
He raised his hand, imagining the pain coalescing into a single point in his palm. The energy pulsed, a flicker of raw power that he struggled to contain. Slowly, he directed the pain outward, trying to push it away from his body, to displace it. But as he did, the energy wavered, losing focus and dissipating into the air.
Jorel cursed under his breath, frustration boiling inside him. He had been at this for hours, and still, he couldn't get it right. The pain was too chaotic, too difficult to control. But he couldn't stop. He had to keep trying.
He drew a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He knew that anger and frustration would only make things harder. He needed to be patient, to take it one step at a time. He closed his eyes, centering himself, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
This time, he thought, I'll get it right.
He made another cut on his arm, wincing as the blade bit into his flesh. The pain flared, hot and immediate, but Jorel welcomed it. He focused on the sensation, letting it build until it was almost overwhelming. Then, slowly, he began to channel it outward, directing the energy away from his body.
The pain shifted, moving through his arm like a wave. It was difficult, the sensation almost slipping away from him, but Jorel tightened his grip on it, forcing it into the center of his palm. He could feel the energy building, crackling with raw power. But instead of simply pushing it out as a blast, he imagined it as a thread—a string of pain that could be guided, controlled, and directed with precision.
He thrust his hand forward, releasing the string of pain. For a moment, nothing happened, and Jorel felt a pang of disappointment. But then, suddenly, the air in front of him shimmered, and the string of pain shot out from his palm, slicing through the air with incredible speed. It stretched across the distance between him and the training dummy, the thread of energy barely visible in the dim light.
As the string reached the dummy, Jorel focused on the end of it, channeling the pain into a series of sharp, concentrated bursts. The pain exploded into a flurry of slashes, each one cutting into the surface of the dummy with precise, clean lines. The wood splintered under the force of the attack, deep gashes appearing where the pain had struck.
Jorel stared in disbelief at the dummy, his heart pounding in his chest. He had done it—he had finally succeeded in displacing the pain and directing it with deadly accuracy. It wasn't perfect; the slashes were shallow, and the energy weaker than he had hoped. But it was a start, a step in the right direction.
He let out a shaky breath, relief washing over him. This was the breakthrough he had been waiting for, the proof that he could make this technique work. But he knew there was still much to be done. The tournament was just days away, and he needed to refine his skills, to make the technique more powerful, more reliable.
Jorel spent the next several hours practicing, pushing himself to his limits. He made cut after cut, each one deeper than the last, forcing himself to endure the pain, to channel it, to control it. He threw out strings of pain in different directions, each one hitting a different dummy with varying levels of success. Some were barely more than a flicker, while others left deep gashes in the wood.
As the hours passed, Jorel's body grew weaker, the constant strain of the pain taking its toll. His hands trembled, his vision blurred, but he refused to stop. He knew he was close, that with just a little more effort, he could perfect the technique.
Finally, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, Jorel felt the last vestiges of his strength slipping away. His body was battered, his mind exhausted, but he wasn't ready to give up. Not yet. He made one final cut, the deepest one yet, and focused all his remaining energy into his palm.
The pain was intense, almost unbearable, but Jorel welcomed it. He directed the energy outward, forcing it to condense into a single, thin string. The air around him crackled with power, the energy humming with potential. He thrust his hand forward, releasing the string in a concentrated burst.
The string shot out, faster and sharper than before, reaching the training dummy in an instant. As it connected, Jorel focused on the end of the string, channeling the pain into a series of rapid, precise slashes. The dummy shuddered under the force of the attack, the wood splintering as deep cuts appeared across its surface.
Jorel staggered back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He stared at the remains of the dummy, his heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and triumph. He had done it. He had finally mastered the technique. The pain magic was now under his control, and he knew it would be a formidable weapon in the tournament.
But as the adrenaline began to fade, the full weight of his exhaustion hit him. His legs gave out, and he collapsed to the ground, his vision swimming. The pain that he had so carefully controlled now flooded back into his body, overwhelming his senses. He groaned, his body trembling as he struggled to stay conscious.
But even as he lay there, his body wracked with pain, Jorel felt a fierce sense of satisfaction. He had pushed himself to his limits, and it had paid off. He was ready for the tournament, ready to face whatever challenges awaited him.
As darkness closed in around him, Jorel allowed himself a small, tired smile. He had done it. He had conquered the pain, and now, he was stronger than ever.
And with that thought, he finally allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness, his body and mind finally finding rest after a day of relentless training.