Train, train and train

Sol put DreamCorp in the back of his mind. They would come, eventually. But worrying about them now was a waste of time. He had preparations to make. He needed to train, sharpen his control over his abilities, and refine his strategies.

With that thought, he changed his course, heading towards his secret base—a long-abandoned hotel on the outskirts of Luminara District. It was a forgotten relic of a time when this sector had been booming, before it had become a playground for the desperate and ambitious.

The entrance was hidden behind a wall of overgrown vines, thick and tangled, an extension of his power that obeyed his unspoken command. As he approached, the vines uncoiled and parted, allowing him entry. Inside, the once-grand lobby was a ruin of broken chandeliers, tattered furniture, and a thick layer of dust undisturbed except for his footprints. The only thing that seemed alive was the centerpiece of the room—a massive, otherworldly tree, its deep azure leaves shimmering faintly in the low light.

Sol placed a hand on its bark, feeling the familiar pulse beneath his fingers. This tree was an anomaly, something he had nurtured, something that had responded to him in ways he was still trying to understand. It was connected to him, in the way his powers were connected to him—something natural, yet unnatural all at once.

Taking a deep breath, he moved towards the center of the room and rolled his shoulders. It was time to push himself further.

---

His training began with his plant affinity. With a flick of his wrist, he sent roots snaking through the cracked floor, commanding them to weave and knot into complex patterns. Control was key. Strength was meaningless if he couldn't command precision. He had learned that the hard way.

"Faster," he murmured, pushing the roots to move at speeds unnatural even for plants under his control. They shot forward, curving midair, attempting to strike moving targets—scrap metal and debris he had levitated as obstacles. He needed them to react instantly to his thoughts, not just move sluggishly at his command.

One misstep, one hesitation in his focus, and the entire construct collapsed. The roots fell limp, the floating metal clattered to the ground.

Sol clicked his tongue in irritation. "Not good enough."

His plant affinity was powerful, but it was slow, methodical. If he wanted it to be a weapon, he needed to make it move with the speed of a bullet and the adaptability of a living creature.

---

After hours of repetition, adjusting his control, increasing his stamina, he finally felt some improvement. The vines responded with more fluidity, the roots struck with more precision. The floating debris had been shattered into smaller and smaller pieces as he refined his strikes.

Sweat dripped from his brow as he leaned against the tree, exhaling heavily. But he wasn't done yet.

Now came the harder part.

Before focusing on his time affinity, Sol activated the defense training mode in his system. He stood still at the center of the room as metallic spheres, worn from repeated use, emerged from compartments hidden within the walls. The training program had one rule—he could not move. His vines were his only defense.

The first projectiles launched at moderate speed, and Sol's vines lashed out, slapping them away with ease. More followed, and he deftly caught one, redirecting another. It was simple at first, almost mechanical, but Sol knew better. The system was designed to adapt, and soon, the difficulty escalated.

The speed increased. The angles became unpredictable. The projectiles varied in weight, some heavier, some faster, some designed to change direction midair. His vines twisted and coiled in rapid succession, batting away the relentless onslaught. His focus sharpened, his connection to the vines growing more instinctual with each deflection.

Hours turned into days. The moment he began to anticipate the pattern, the system shifted again, adding new obstacles—sharp discs meant to cut through the vines, sudden bursts of energy pulses to throw off his rhythm. He wasn't just training his control anymore; he was training his reaction time, his adaptability. He was training to fight blind, to let his affinity become second nature.

By the third day, his body screamed for rest, but he didn't allow himself the luxury. The vines no longer moved with hesitation. They struck with the precision of a blade and the force of a hammer. Every projectile was caught, redirected, or shredded midair. He had stopped thinking. He was *acting*.

Only when the system finally registered a full completion of the highest difficulty did Sol exhale, letting the vines retract. He staggered slightly, drenched in sweat, his muscles aching from holding his stance for so long.

"Better," he muttered, breathing hard. "Still not enough."

He exhaled, then straightened, rolling his shoulders. "System, update me on my progress."

**Processing…**

A familiar chime rang in his ears before the system displayed his current performance metrics.

**Plant Affinity:** Control improvement: 35%. Reaction time: Increased by 0.8 seconds. Defensive precision: 92% accuracy.

**Endurance:** Neural strain detected—minor. Physical exhaustion: High. Recommendation: Rest.

**Combat Training (Vine-Based Defense):** Success rate: 99% at current max difficulty. System analysis suggests increased difficulty scaling. New parameters available.

Affinity Rating: Increased by 1%.

Sol wiped the sweat from his brow, smirking despite himself. "Not bad. But I can do better."

But now it was time to work on his time affinity.

Unlike his plant abilities, time was trickier. It wasn't about brute force or control—it was about perception, about bending reality in ways most wouldn't even realize had changed. He had only begun tapping into its depths, and already it felt like he was playing with something far beyond his understanding.

He focused, feeling the familiar pull in the back of his mind. The world around him slowed—not stopped, just *slowed*. Dust particles in the air became suspended in their descent, the flickering light above him elongated as if stretching across seconds. His own breathing sounded deeper, heavier, almost distorted.

But holding this state was exhausting. His vision wavered, his muscles ached as if resisting the shift in time itself.

"Hold it," he muttered to himself, clenching his fists. "Hold—"

The effect snapped back like a rubber band, and everything around him returned to normal speed. Sol stumbled, catching himself against the tree.

"Damn it."

He had lasted only a few seconds. That wasn't enough. If he was going to use this in a fight, he needed more control, more endurance.

He straightened, determination burning in his gaze. Again. He had time before the outside world came knocking. And he would use every second of it.

He wasn't just going to be prepared. He was going to be unstoppable.

"System, initiate advanced time-affinity training," Sol commanded, wiping the sweat from his brow. He needed to push himself further.

**Initiating training sequence… Parameters set: Precision, endurance, and extended time dilation.**

Sol took a deep breath as the training sequence began. This time, the system wouldn't just rely on his ability to slow time. It would introduce unpredictable shifts in speed, moments of acceleration, and intervals of complete normalcy to test his adaptability.

The first challenge was simple—holding the slowed state while dodging moving obstacles. Metallic drones emerged from the ceiling, hovering silently before suddenly lurching forward at rapid speeds. Sol activated his time manipulation, attempting to perceive and react to their movements in slow motion.

At first, it worked. He saw the drones' patterns, their paths predictable, their speed reduced to something manageable. He sidestepped the first few, allowing them to pass harmlessly.

Then the difficulty increased. The drones changed speeds erratically, flickering between frozen moments and sudden bursts of motion. Sol struggled to maintain his control, his slowed perception slipping each time the system adjusted its parameters. His head pounded as he tried to keep up, the strain on his mind growing with every shift.

The next phase introduced a new complication—delayed reaction time. His own body wasn't moving as fast as his brain registered the slowed world, forcing him to adapt to a frustrating lag. He attempted to strike a passing drone, only for his arm to move sluggishly, as if the very air resisted him. The attack missed, and the drone clipped his shoulder, sending him stumbling backward.

"Tch—again!" he growled, steadying himself.

**Training difficulty increasing. Expected failure rate: 82%.**

Sol gritted his teeth. "Then I'll fail as many times as I need to."

Days passed in a blur of struggle and adaptation. His body ached, his mind burned, but he refused to stop. He only allowed himself breaks to eat, sleep, and play with Peach, the small bear often watching him with curiosity as he collapsed from exhaustion. Each session left him drained, yet every time he restarted, he lasted a few seconds longer, moved a fraction faster, adjusted a little better.

Weeks into his training, something finally clicked.

The resistance eased. His reactions synced with his perception. He dodged a drone effortlessly, then another, then another, weaving through the simulation with a newfound grace. His mind no longer fought the slowed state—it embraced it, allowing time to ebb and flow without resistance.

Then, for the first time, he did something new.

He sped up.

For a split second, he forced himself to move at normal speed while keeping the world around him slowed. The sensation was jarring, unnatural, like his body was moving too fast for reality to catch up. But it worked. He struck a drone mid-air, sending it crashing to the ground.

The system chimed.

**Time Affinity Training Progress: Significant Improvement. New adaptive techniques recognized. Training difficulty cap removed.**

Sol exhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling with exertion. His lips curled into a tired but satisfied grin.

"Now we're getting somewhere."