A Hellish Training Regimen

The following day, the sun had barely begun to rise when Lance stood waiting, arms crossed, at the edge of the training ground Rusak had carved out for himself beyond the outskirts of the city. A thin morning mist clung to the grass, and the early silence was broken only by the crunch of footsteps approaching through the dew.

Rusak arrived shirtless, his tall frame moving with quiet strength. He almost looked well-rested, at least, until he saw the stack of misshapen boulders piled high behind Lance, each one larger than Lance himself.

Lance didn't say anything at first. He merely gestured toward them.

Rusak frowned. "What exactly am I looking at?"

"Your warm-up," Lance said without a hint of a smile.

Rusak raised a brow. "You're serious?"

"I told you yesterday," Lance replied calmly, stepping aside to reveal a thick rope coiled neatly on the grass, "this isn't training for fun after all."