Torture

Alex stirred awake in his room, his mind clearer after a week of rest following his awakening. A wave of nostalgia washed over him as he recalled the council's words - his case was unprecedented in the clan's history, requiring careful deliberation before they could proceed. Though he could sense the raw power coursing through him, it remained frustratingly out of reach. Each attempt to manifest it had proven futile, despite his experiments with various techniques from the clan's teachings.

The face that greeted him in the mirror was unremarkable - deep black eyes, fair complexion, and dark hair framing average features. His introverted nature had served him well in the clan's underground complex, where most residents subsisted on nutrient bars rather than visiting the public cafeteria. These specialized rations, delivered monthly, were engineered to last between 10 and 100 years depending on their grade.

Following the morning ritual of water and a nutrient bar, Alex devoted himself to the prescribed physical conditioning. The training manual outlined a simple regimen - 1 hour of daily exercise designed to strengthen his body to lay a basic foundation.

The council's decision reflected the gravity of his situation. They assigned him his supervisor who conducted the test Commander Darian, a peak-tier adept who specialised in the ability that could control and manipulate time had earned him an unparalleled record in covert operations. To preserve absolute secrecy, official records listed Alex as deceased, a failed candidate. Only the council elders and the adepts who were in the test knew the truth.

In their subterranean world, artificial cycles replaced natural day and night. This carefully maintained rhythm helped prepare operatives for surface missions, ensuring they could function in either environment. Alex's quarters lay in the eastern outskirts of the base, surrounded by thousands of vacant chambers - to those lost or deployed on distant assignments.

One evening, a knock on the door. Standing there was Commander Darian himself. The man was an imposing figure, clad in a sleek, matte-black suit that seemed to absorb light. A cape draped over his shoulders, bearing the symbol of Cyorix, the progenitor race of the mythic phoenix. The four stars on his badge signified his elite rank. As Darian entered, his helmet retracted seamlessly, revealing a sharp, enigmatic smile.

"Pack your belongings," Darian instructed, his voice calm but commanding.

Alex's "belongings" consisted of a few changes of clothes and the three-layered suit issued by the clan. It didn't take long to gather everything. Once packed, Darian gestured for Alex to follow him closely. "Close your eyes," Darian said. Alex followed the instruction to close his eyes. A peculiar sensation washed over him, like being immersed in cool water while remaining perfectly dry. When Darian gave the word, Alex opened his eyes and found himself speechless.

A covert facility maintained by Veil, a secretive unit within the clan. A modest house served as living quarters, while a vast training ground stretched beyond it, both seamlessly integrated into the underground complex. A massive library housed ancient knowledge, complemented by various specialised facilities. Here, Alex would spend his next several years in intensive training, working toward potential membership in the Veil itself. Specialised instructors would be summoned as needed, each an expert in their respective fields.

The Veil's true nature became clear - an elite shadow organization of unknown size, composed of the clan's most formidable and cunning operatives. Their mission extended far beyond the simple protection of the alphas. They controlled vast global resources, undertaking high-stakes operations ranging from advanced technology acquisition to targeted elimination of threats. Most crucially, they were created to hunt demons and devils. This lethal ballet was orchestrated by the mysterious Third Elder, known only by the codename "Executioner."

His training began with intense physical conditioning. Every day, his existing strength was systematically broken down, using methods designed to maximise strain and push him far beyond what he thought possible. The first task seemed utterly insane a two-hundred-kilometre run within thirty minutes. The consequences of failure were severe – brutal exercises designed to condition both body and mind to endure unimaginable pain and exhaustion.

It was torture, plain and simple. Every step was agony. His muscles burned, his lungs ached, and his legs felt like dead weight. He just kept running, driven by fear and a stubborn refusal to quit. Nothing else mattered. Every day, it got worse. He'd finish each session collapsed on the ground, barely able to move. But after weeks, then months, something shifted. He got tougher. His body changed, got leaner and stronger. The constant punishment was making him harder.

After three months of this punishing routine, they introduced him to the basics of combat. The training dummy wasn't some simple straw-filled sack. It was a cutting-edge machine, programmed to surpass him in both strength and speed. And, cruelly, its capabilities were tripled every 5 days, ensuring it always stayed a step ahead of whatever progress he managed to make. Every session became a brutal, desperate fight for survival.

Alex stepped onto the bloodstained mat, the training area dimly lit. His breath was steady. The dummy stood motionless across from him, a hulking, human-shaped construct of metal and synthetic flesh, programmed to dismantle him in every way imaginable. It was stronger, faster, and smarter than he was.

The buzzer sounded, and the dummy came alive. No hesitation. It launched forward, a metallic blur, and drove its fist into Alex's face. The impact was sickening, a crunch echoing through the room as his nose shattered. Blood gushed down his lips, splattering onto the mat as he fell.

Pain shot through his skull, and his vision blurred. The taste of iron filled his mouth. He forced himself up, muscles screaming in protest, just as the dummy advanced again. A kick snapped into his knee, forcing it to bend at a very bad angle. Alex screamed as the joint twisted under the force, his body collapsing to the ground. He clawed at the mat, trying to crawl away, but the machine grabbed his ankle and dragged him across the mat, lifting him by the ankle and slamming him down again. His head bounced off the mat with a dull thud, his vision swimming in and out of focus. His arms flailed weakly, desperation taking over as he tried to pry himself free. But the machine's grip was unyielding. With mechanical precision, it stomped on his chest, the force cracking ribs and driving the air from his lungs in a violent wheeze.

Alex spat blood onto the mat, his teeth stained crimson. Every breath was a jagged knife cutting through his chest clutching at his battered ribs. He forced himself onto his elbows, blood dripping from his face onto the floor. His vision swam, but he caught the shadow of the dummy raising its fist. He rolled just in time to avoid a blow that left a dent in the mat. Scrambling to his feet, his injured leg buckled beneath him, but he used the momentum to swing a desperate punch at the machine's head.

It caught his fist mid-swing, its grip crushing. The bones in his hand cracked audibly, fingers bending at unnatural angles as he howled in pain. It released him only to deliver a savage uppercut to his jaw, sending him airborne. His body hit the ground with a sickening thud, It followed, stepping over his prone form and driving a knee into his stomach. The impact was devastating, crushing his diaphragm and forcing a torrent of bile and blood to erupt from his mouth. Alex's body convulsed, his insides screaming in agony.

It seized his hair, yanking his head up and slamming it into the mat with brutal force. His forehead split open, blood streaming into his eyes. His world narrowed to pain and the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The dummy's grip shifted to his throat, lifting him off the ground. Alex clawed at the unyielding fingers, his broken nails scraping uselessly against the synthetic flesh. His airway closed, black spots dancing in his vision as his legs kicked feebly.

"Enough!" Darian barked, and the dummy froze, its grip releasing. Alex crumpled to the mat, gasping and wheezing as his battered body convulsed. Blood pooled beneath him, mixing with sweat and tears. His left eye was swollen shut, his jaw hung at an unnatural angle, and his broken ribs screamed with every shallow breath.

Darian crouched beside Alex, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look up. "This is the price of weakness," he hissed. 

Darian poured a healing potion into his mouth and his body visibly started healing.

"Get up," Darian's voice echoed, cold and devoid of sympathy.

Alex rose steadily, Yet while his body returned to pristine condition, his mind remained heavy with the echoes of trauma. Rising on shaking legs, his mind was exhausted, Alex barely managed to raise his guard before the dummy was upon him again. This time, the machine seemed even more ruthless. A devastating combination of strikes shattered his defences - ribs cracking under a precisely aimed elbow, shoulder dislocating from a brutal joint lock, jaw fracturing from an uppercut that lifted him off his feet. 

His muscles, though healed, still carried the memory of previous injuries, making each movement sluggish and hesitant. The dummy lifted and threw him. He sailed through the air, his battered body unable to control his trajectory. The impact against the wall concentrated most of the force along his right side, cracking another rib and sending a fresh wave of agony through his newly dislocated shoulder.

Within moments, Alex found himself once more collapsed on the training room floor, blood pooling beneath him as his consciousness flickered. Through his one working eye, he could see Darian already approaching with another healing potion, the cycle of destruction and restoration prepared to begin anew.