The clang of metal rang sharp in the practice hall, cutting through the stale air like a warning bell. Azeric stood at the center of the ring, stripped to the waist, sweat lining every ridge of his torso, hair damp and clinging to his brow. Every breath dragged fire through his ribs like a forge hammer striking bone. The pain had returned—worse than before.
Thirty-six hours had passed since the system silenced his nerves. Now, the stillness had lifted. Every ache poured back into him with violent clarity. The bruises from his last fight hadn't faded—they had waited. Each step struck raw nerves. Each movement made his body scream.
But he didn't stop. The new sword rested in his hand—longer than his last, its weight uneven, forged for blunt power. It was not elegant, not built for grace or beauty. It was the kind of weapon meant to end things. That was what he needed.
Around him, other fighters lingered near the walls. Some leaned on spears or shifted on benches, pretending to ignore him, but their eyes didn't lie. They watched him. Listened. Every strike he landed against the training post echoed through the chamber, drawing their attention whether they wanted it or not.
His muscles burned with every swing. The leather grip bit into his skin. Still, he moved—swing, pivot, strike—falling into rhythm, letting momentum override pain.
He blinked, watching the numbers shift quietly in the corner of his vision. They had been climbing since morning with small gains.
The system had been awake the whole time, quietly embedded in the edge of his vision, watching every shift of his muscles and every breath he took, measuring each motion without pause
And he began to notice that whenever he moved—whenever he struck or strained or fought to keep going—the numbers rose steadily, but the moment he paused, they froze, suspended mid-climb as if waiting for his next move.
SYSTEM UPDATE: MONITORING ACTIVE COMBAT DRILLS.
STRENGTH +0.2 | AGILITY +0.1 | ENDURANCE +0.4
He didn't hesitate.
He stepped into the next strike. The blade split wood. Splinters flew. He rotated, lifted the sword again, and brought it down two-handed. Another alert shimmered across his vision.
STAMINA INCREASED. ADAPTIVE FRAMEWORK STABILIZING.
His lungs clawed for air, but his arms didn't slow. The pain felt distant, monitored, and organized.
He pivoted again, back arched, muscles stretching to swing low and upward. Steel carved through bark and stuffed cotton, the weighted target recoiling.
EXERTION LEVEL: 84% – CONTINUE FOR OPTIMAL GAINS.
Azeric gritted his teeth, exhaled through his nose, and struck again.
Every swing brought numbers. Each clash of metal translated to fragments of progress. His stats rose. Not wildly, but steadily—an inch more strength, a sliver more control. The system wasn't rewarding technique. It was feeding on his limits. The more he hurt, the more he gained.
Eighty-four percent.
Eighty-six.
Eighty-nine.
He focused harder, letting pain fuel motion. It wasn't enough to move. He had to grind himself to the edge.
Laughter snapped the focus.
One of the older fighters—Gorg, scarred and heavyset—leaned against the stone post, watching with a twisted grin. "You're gonna be dead before the match even starts. Think you'll last five seconds against Adol like that?"
Another, Alphin, scoffed from a bench. "He's not training. He's trying to kill himself before Adol gets the chance."
A third joined in, voice dry with contempt. "Wonder what he did to earn that match. Adol's gonna rip him apart."
Azeric didn't turn. He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand and gave a thin, crooked smile—sharp and empty. "Then I'll make it a death worth remembering."
They laughed, but softer this time. No one answered him.
He turned back to the dummy.
Ninety-three.
Ninety-six.
Ninety-nine.
His breath wheezed through torn lungs while his legs trembled beneath him. His vision narrowed.
One more hit.
EXERTION LEVEL: 100% — THRESHOLD BREACHED. SYSTEM RESPONSE ENGAGED.
The blade came down.
The world fell sideways.
Azeric hit the dirt, his limbs locking, his back seizing tight. He couldn't move.
SYSTEM UPDATE: PASSIVE SKILLS UNLOCKED.
[PAIN FORGED] — ENDURANCE TRAINING GAINS INCREASED BY 40% WHEN INJURED.
[REPETITION STACK] — PROGRESSIVE DAMAGE BONUS.
He stared numbly at the words.
[PULSE STRIKE] — SKILL UNLOCKED.
SYSTEM NOTICE: HOST HAS REACHED EXTREME LIMIT. BODY IN STASIS. RECOVERY ENFORCED.
He lay there, chest rattling, every inch of him vibrating with exhaustion. The edges of his vision pulsed red. Pain throbbed in waves—his body screaming and settling.
SYSTEM NOTICE: RECOVERY PROGRESS — 12%... 28%... 41%...
His hand twitched. He blinked through the overlay, blinking sweat from his lashes.
At 60%, his fingers flexed.
At 85%, he sat up, knees dragging under him.
A quiet, broken laugh escaped his throat. It came out dry. Bitter.
Whatever this system was—whatever force had embedded itself into his veins—it obeyed something outside nature. He had pushed until his body quit, and instead of dying, it had rebuilt him.
He grinned through cracked lips.
Then he wiped the blood from his mouth and started reading.
Line by line.
He narrowed his eyes, tracing each line.
SYSTEM UPDATE: PASSIVE SKILLS UNLOCKED.
His arms hung limp at his sides, breath shallow. Every part of him ached, not from battle, but from the training. He'd been hammering the wooden dummy for hours, ignoring the sting in his joints, the fatigue gnawing at his spine.
Now this.
Passive... skills?
He stared at the phrase, narrowing his eyes. "Passive," he repeated under his breath, then exhaled slowly, shoulders sinking as he shook his head. "I don't even know what that's supposed to mean."
[PAIN FORGED] — ENDURANCE TRAINING GAINS INCREASED BY 40% WHEN INJURED.
"…But this one… maybe that's why I felt stronger yesterday. Even when I could barely lift my arms." He touched his ribs—still sore. "It wasn't madness. The pain was part of the process. The system must've… counted it."
The name made sense. Forged by pain. He hated how fitting that was.
Then the second line glowed.
[REPETITION STACK] — PROGRESSIVE DAMAGE BONUS.
His eyes shifted to the splintered remains of the dummy.
He'd hit it in the same spot again and again—ten, fifteen times—until the wood cracked in ways it hadn't before.
"Stacked," he said quietly. "So it adds up. Each hit makes the next worse. That's what this is."
[PULSE STRIKE] — SKILL UNLOCKED.
This one he didn't fully understand yet. But his mind reeled back to that final hit—the way his fist moved without him meaning to, like it was in sync with something deeper. The dummy had folded instantly.
Gods, he is tired and this system is making him more tired. If only someone can explain to him what this means.
A bitter laugh slipped past his cracked lips as a strange thought surfaced.
He remembered being forced to learn letters as a child, back when he was still a house slave under the baroness. She used to beat him for every mistake, her voice shrill with disgust when he fumbled his lessons.
He had once thought reading was useless, a noble's vanity but now, here, every floating word mattered. Every line written in the air was a weapon, a map.
And somehow, part of him, felt a grim kind of thanks. That bitterness coated his tongue like rust.