Cyrus's face twitched violently, his muscles crying out in agony as his visage hammered against the unyielding ground. Every inch of his body screamed in protest, and he cursed inwardly, feeling as though he had been struck by a speeding vehicle. The pain was intense, radiating through his entire being, and for a moment, he wondered if he would ever be able to move again.
"Rise," came a stern voice from above, cutting through the fog of his pain.
Gritting his teeth and summoning every ounce of strength he possessed, Cyrus forced out a response. "Oh, come on, those were little bugs. Let's forget about them, will we?" His voice was strained, betraying the immense effort it took to form words. With trembling limbs and a body that felt like lead, he slowly began to push himself up from the ground. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain coursing through him, but he persevered, determined not to show weakness.
As he finally managed to stand, albeit unsteadily, Cyrus instinctively brought his arms up to shield his face. It was a defensive posture born from the brutal beating he had just endured, and he couldn't help but feel a small surge of triumph at his ability to protect himself.
"Haha, good for ya. You can't hit me anymore," he taunted, his voice a mixture of pain and bravado.
But his moment of victory was short-lived. Before he could even register what was happening, a dark shadow moved with lightning speed, colliding forcefully with his stomach. The impact was devastating, driving the air from his lungs and causing him to double over in agony. Cyrus felt his feet leave the ground as he was lifted and then unceremoniously slammed back down onto the unforgiving mat.
He hit the ground with such force that his vision blurred, the world around him becoming a swirling mass of indistinct shapes and colors. Through the haze, he could just make out a familiar figure looming over him, their presence a mixture of authority and disdain.
"No, they were not," the figure stated firmly, their voice brooking no argument
Earlier...,
Cyrus found himself stepping into the training ground, his eyes quickly sweeping across the area. At its center lay a training mat, if it could still be called that. It was so thin and worn that Cyrus silently prayed he would survive the inevitable impacts it would barely cushion.
All around the expansive training area, strange machines and weapons were scattered, their purpose unknown but undoubtedly painful. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat, a testament to the countless grueling sessions that had taken place here.
Early morning sunlight cascaded through the broken ceiling, illuminating the space in an almost ethereal glow. Cyrus couldn't help but shake his head in disbelief. With all their wealth, why were they so stingy with basic maintenance?
His gaze settled on a figure sitting calmly in one corner of the room. It was her, of course, reading a book beneath the shelter of an umbrella. She looked impeccable, every detail of her appearance carefully curated and maintained.
"You're early," Cyrus remarked, his tone cautious. "Where is the prophet?"
Without looking up from her book, she replied, "He requested I oversee your training."
Cyrus felt a mixture of anticipation and dread at her words. "Guess we'll be training together," he said, unable to keep the suspicion from his voice. His eyes swept over her pristine outfit, so at odds with the gritty surroundings. "But with this outfit?"
She tilted her head to the side, considering his words. Then, unexpectedly, a mesmerizing smile bloomed on her face. "We can indeed," she said, waving her hand dismissively.
Cyrus couldn't help but shake his head at her sudden change in demeanor. "What a nice smile," he muttered. "Shame it's wasted on you." As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he had made a mistake. The woman's expression hardened, and she abruptly slammed her book closed, rising to her feet in one fluid motion.
"Change your attire," she commanded, her voice brooking no argument.
An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of Cyrus's stomach. Why had she suddenly smiled like that? Something felt off, but he knew it was too late to back out now. He was here, and there was no escape from whatever lay ahead.
With a resigned sigh, Cyrus approached the training drawers. Inside, he found a series of black attires, all identical and utilitarian. He selected one and began to undress, paying no heed to the woman's presence. If she didn't respect him, why should he extend her the same courtesy?
As he changed, Cyrus couldn't resist the urge to comment. "You're lucky to catch a glimpse of something like this," he said, his tone dripping with false bravado. This was the moment of truth, after all that exercise and hard work, it was time to see the results.
But as he removed his shirt and caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, Cyrus's confidence faltered. His bare torso looked disappointingly dull, with a slightly bulging stomach and thin arms that betrayed his lack of serious training. His body tensed involuntarily as he quickly donned the training attire, a deep urge to find a hole and hide washing over him.
With all the jogging I've been doing? Seriously? he thought, dismayed by his physical state.
"What a privilege indeed," the woman said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
The training dress clung to Cyrus's body, seeming to emphasize every imperfection. He tried to console himself with the thought that at least it felt comfortable, but it was small comfort in the face of his disappointment.
As he stood there, fully dressed in the training attire, Cyrus became acutely aware of his body in a way he never had before. He could feel every inch of his skin, every muscle and tendon. Beyond that, his senses seemed to expand, picking up the faintest sounds of rustling fabric, the miniature particles of dust flowing through the air, and even the steady rhythm of his own breathing and heartbeat. It was as if his consciousness had expanded to encompass the entire world around him.
What an amazing feeling, he marveled, momentarily forgetting his physical shortcomings.
The woman's voice cut through his reverie. "First, let's assess your reflexes," she said, waving her hand.
At her gesture, a nearby mannequin suddenly came to life, its dull eyes blinking with an eerie energy. It stepped forward, revealing itself to be nearly twice Cyrus's size, its hands covered with enormous gauntlets. The mannequin lifted its guard, ready to attack.
Before Cyrus could even process what was happening, a blur of movement caught his eye. Pain exploded across his face, and he instinctively gripped his nose, feeling warm blood spilling between his fingers. "Hey, a little heads up next time would be nice," he complained, his voice nasally and pained.
Realizing the danger he was in, Cyrus attempted to create some distance between himself and the mannequin. But his opponent moved with inhuman speed, closing the gap in an instant. Another powerful blow connected with Cyrus's jaw, sending his head snapping to the side and his body crashing onto the mat. The once-pristine surface was now stained red with his blood.
"Damn!" Cyrus cursed, shaking his head in an attempt to clear the stars from his vision.
The woman's voice rang out, cold and commanding. "Bob, exert maximum power and focus on his head."
"What?" Cyrus lifted his head, confusion and fear evident in his eyes.
Before he could fully comprehend the situation, the mannequin – Bob – underwent a terrifying transformation. Its head turned a deep, bloody red, and its body cracked and condensed, reshaping itself until it was roughly Cyrus's size. Then, in the blink of an eye, it vanished.
Panic surged through Cyrus, and he scrambled backwards, desperate to put some distance between himself and this monstrous opponent. There was no way he could fight such a creature.
Suddenly, Bob reappeared at Cyrus's side, its fist whistling through the air with deadly precision. Cyrus let out an intense scream, diving down in a desperate attempt to avoid the blow. But he wasn't fast enough. The mannequin's fist grazed his jaw, leaving a deep wound that immediately began to bleed.
Cyrus's heart raced, pounding so hard he thought it might burst from his chest. He cleared his throat, trying to find his voice. "Hey, stop now!" he cried out, his pupils flickering wildly as a violent surge of adrenaline coursed through his body. The muscles in his neck cracked audibly as he instinctively brought his arms up to shield his face, bracing for the next impact.
Bob's hand came crashing down with tremendous force. There was a sickening breaking sound, and for a moment, Cyrus thought it was his own bones shattering. But as he found himself once again sprawled on the ground, he realized that Bob was standing motionless, its fist completely shattered from the impact.
"Rise," the woman's voice commanded, devoid of any sympathy.
Cyrus groaned, his entire body a symphony of pain. "Oh, come on, those were little bugs. Let's forget about them, will we?" he pleaded, forcing his trembling body to stand once more. By now, he had a pretty good idea why she was so angry with him.
Such a vengeful girl, he thought bitterly.
As he regained his footing, Cyrus instinctively brought his arms up to shield his face once more. A cunning smile played across his lips as he taunted, "Haha, good for ya. You can't hit me anymore."
But his moment of triumph was short-lived. The black shadow that was Bob moved with lightning speed, this time aiming for Cyrus's unprotected midsection. The impact was devastating, driving the air from his lungs and causing him to double over in agony. Unable to maintain his balance, Cyrus fell forward, his face once again colliding with the unforgiving mat.
As he lay there, his body undulating like ripples in a shield ward, Cyrus struggled to focus his blurry vision. Through the haze of pain, he could make out a familiar figure standing over him, their presence a mixture of authority and disdain.
Just when Cyrus thought he couldn't take anymore, another figure stepped lightly into the training area. "Enough," the newcomer said, his voice carrying a weight of authority that immediately changed the atmosphere in the room.
Relief washed over Cyrus as he recognized the voice. "Finally, prophet, save me!" he cried out, crawling pathetically to hide behind the man's legs. "This crazy woman is out to get me!" He glared at the woman, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and accusation.
The woman's gaze hardened as she looked down at Cyrus. "It appears you can still talk after all," she said coldly. Then, turning to the prophet, she bowed respectfully. "Please excuse me, Prophet."
The prophet nodded in acknowledgment before turning his attention to the battered mannequin. "Bob, rest," he commanded, and immediately, the fearsome opponent returned to its original, lifeless state.
Looking down at Cyrus, who was still cowering behind him, the prophet spoke, his voice tinged with a hint of amusement. "To incur her fury so swiftly, one must tread upon delicate grounds."
"She's just crazy," Cyrus muttered, gingerly massaging his head, which was now covered in an impressive array of bruises.
The prophet moved to the center of the training area, his unseeing eyes somehow seeming to take in every detail of the scene before him. "In her realm, complexity reigns, and judgments are not easily rendered. What did you do?"
Cyrus felt a surge of indignation at the prophet's words. "How can you be so quick to assume it's my fault?" he complained, feeling thoroughly abused by the entire situation.
Feeling the weight of the prophet's stare, even though the man was blind, Cyrus let out a resigned sigh. "I might have accidentally blocked her path," he admitted reluctantly. "And yes, not only that, I did look at her, but listen up, it was all thanks to those witch eyes. You know, you just get caught in them," he added, pointing at his own eyes as if to emphasize his point.
The prophet's expression remained impassive. "That's not enough for her to be this angry."
Cyrus paused, his hand moving to his chin as he thought deeply about what else could have provoked such a violent reaction. After a moment, a memory surfaced, and he spoke hesitantly. "A friend might have jokingly called her hot or something, but come on, isn't that a compliment? Why does she have to be such an evil—"
The prophet cut him off with a raised hand. "Whatever the case, do you know why she asked Bob to focus on your face?"
Intrigued by the question, Cyrus shook his head, watching as the prophet began to circle around him, scrutinizing every inch of his body. Despite the man's blindness, Cyrus felt as though he was being dissected by that unseeing gaze.
What is he looking at? He can't even see, Cyrus thought, bewildered by the prophet's actions.
Finally, the prophet spoke, his voice taking on a tone of reverence. "The wellspring of our strength lies within the primal guardian, our canines. They are not merely companions but the vessels of ancient power, tethered to the very essence of our existence." As he finished speaking, the prophet reached out and gently touched Cyrus's forehead.
The effect was immediate and startling. Cyrus reacted instinctively, throwing his head back and letting out a powerful roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the training area. The sound that emerged from his throat was not human but that of a mighty lion, its force creating a shockwave that swept through the room. As he roared, Cyrus felt something shift within his mouth, and powerful canines flashed into existence, gleaming and sharp.
The prophet wiped a bit of saliva from his face, seemingly unfazed by the display. "Still little, but it should be fine for now," he remarked casually.
As the echoes of his roar faded and the reality of what had just happened began to sink in, Cyrus found himself filled with a mixture of awe and trepidation. His mind raced with questions about this newfound power and what it might mean for his future. But one concern rose above the rest, and he couldn't help but voice it.
"What happens if they accidentally get broken?" he asked hesitantly, his tongue gingerly exploring the new, sharp additions to his dental anatomy.
The prophet's expression grew serious, and Cyrus felt a chill run down his spine as he awaited the answer