The pale dawn light filtered through the dense canopy, casting long shadows across the forest floor.
Erin and Noah trudged through the undergrowth, their footsteps muffled by layers of damp leaves. A heavy silence hung between them—uncharacteristic for Erin, the ever-talkative one, who now kept his mouth shut out of sheer respect. Noah had done the impossible—five hundred pushups—without a single complaint. And that kind of discipline demanded silence.
Noah, the man of few words, was the one who finally shattered the quiet. His voice was low, gruff, cutting through the morning chill like a blade. "We're doing something different today."
Erin's eyes widened, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. His muscles still screamed from yesterday's punishment, but the promise of real combat training sent a jolt of excitement through him. He could already picture it—fists flying, sweat dripping, the thrill of learning how to fight like a warrior.
Then Noah pulled out two inflatable buckets from his sleeping bag.
When inflated, they were massive—bulging, unwieldy things, nearly as tall as Erin himself.
Noah jerked his chin toward the distant river, its rushing waters barely visible uphill through the trees. "This is your training," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Fetch water from that river to the base. One hundred trips. Before sunset."
Erin's jaw dropped. His mind reeled. One hundred trips? The base was miles away. The buckets were monstrous. The path was steep, uneven, brutal. He let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. "Good one. You almost got me there. What's the real training?"
Noah didn't blink. His expression was stone. "Your time starts now."
And with that, he dropped to the ground, folded his arms behind his head, and shut his eyes and starts snoring away.
Erin's stomach twisted. This wasn't a joke.
Gritting his teeth, he snatched the buckets and forced his aching legs up the hill. The river's roar grew louder with each step, mocking him. He filled the buckets to the brim, the weight immediately dragging at his arms, his shoulders screaming in protest.
The hike back was agony. Every muscle burned. Every breath came in ragged gasps. He stumbled, stopped, doubled over to rest—only to hear Noah's voice in his head: "Before sunset."
Somehow, he made it to the base. He dumped the water into the storage tank, his arms trembling, his vision blurring. Then, without pause, he turned and marched back into the woods.
The sun hadn't even reached its peak.
And he still had ninety-nine trips to go.
—later—
The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised shades of violet and gold. Erin stumbled back from the base, his arms trembling under the weight of the empty buckets, his breath ragged, his body screaming in protest. He had only managed two trips. Two. Out of a hundred and this turn will make it three.
Noah was already packed up, dragging his sleeping bag passed him like a man who had expected nothing more. As he passed Erin, he didn't even look at him. Just one word, cold and final—"Failed."—
The word hit Erin like a physical blow. His shoulders sagged. His grip on the buckets tightened until his knuckles turned white. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the ground, the weight of his own inadequacy crushing him harder than the task itself.
—I'm not strong enough. Not fast enough. Not good enough.—
But then—
His jaw clenched. His fingers dug deeper into the bucket handles.
Noah had already written him off. Called it. Declared him a failure.
Screw that.
Without a word, Erin turned on his heel and marched right back into the woods.
The night swallowed him whole.
The forest, once familiar in daylight, now twisted into something eerie, the trees looming like silent sentinels. Shadows slithered across the ground, playing tricks on his exhausted mind. Every rustle of leaves sounded like footsteps. Every shift of branches looked like reaching hands.
Then—
A shape.
A monstrous, coiling shadow—thick as a tree trunk, writhing in the darkness.
Erin's breath caught. His pulse spiked.
–A tentacle.–
The memory slammed into him like a fist—the monster, the battle, the impossible thing that had saved him. That giant tentacle that splits the monster.
What the hell was that?
His hands shook. His legs threatened to buckle. But he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself forward, dragging the sloshing buckets through the undergrowth, his muscles burning, his mind racing.
By the time he made it back to base, the night was deep, the stars cold and distant. He poured the water into the storage tank, his entire body numb.
Later, clean but still aching, Erin found Lila and Garrett in the mess hall.
The air between them was heavy, thick with shared exhaustion. Garrett's fingers twitched absently, a shimmer of energy flickering at his fingertips before solidifying into a dagger—small, but stable. Three minutes. A marked improvement.
Lila nursed a bruised forearm, her knuckles raw. She had landed a hit on Taro today. Not a clean hit. Not a winning hit. But it was something.
And then there was Erin.
No progress. No victory. Just failure after failure.
Garrett sighed, rubbing his temples. "This is insane. I thought my hands were gonna fall off yesterday."
Lila groaned, stretching her sore shoulders. "Taro moves like a damn ghost. I can't even touch him."
They looked at Erin, waiting.
He had nothing to show. No dagger. No combat skill. Just empty hands and a body that felt like it had been run over by a truck.
But as he watched Garrett's dagger flicker again—watched Lila flex her fists with stubborn determination—something inside him burned.
Their progress wasn't a taunt.
It was fuel.
And he would not be left behind.