Training

A few weeks later, Wes was still doing his customary routine. He had mostly untangled the core of his mother, leaving only a single strand in place to keep the restriction intact. It was his safeguard—a thread he could snap if his own life was ever in danger.

He continued to siphon slivers of mana, just enough to nourish himself and his twin. His sister. He had only recently discovered her gender, and it stirred conflicting emotions.

A sister.

The thought brought back memories he'd rather not confront—memories of his sister from his past life. Wes didn't like thinking about her; it was too tangled up with regret and guilt. He mentally sighed, the concept of a past life still feeling strange, like something out of a dream he couldn't quite shake off.

His mind drifted, and as always, the familiar mantra rose up: "Fuck it." When life made no sense, when the world turned upside down, that was his go-to. It had gotten him through before, and it would get him through now.

There was no use dwelling on what he couldn't change. He was here, alive—sort of—and he needed to focus on what was ahead. Whatever that might be.

He wondered what awaited him in this new life. Would he have other siblings? Who was his father? What would his mother's voice sound like?

It was strange being in the womb. His mother's heartbeat felt like his own, and the sound of her voice, muffled and distant, was comforting. It was a melody of warmth that resonated through him, even if he couldn't make out the words.

His attention shifted inward. The void seed sat quietly within his soul, doing nothing. It was just there, like a stone at the bottom of a pond, undisturbed and waiting.

Wes examined his own soul. He was no expert, but he was pretty sure he wasn't a Null anymore. The thought made him grin—a sharp, bright feeling amid the darkness.

"I'll be able to use a Void Crystal," he thought.

The day the Orcs discovered he was a Null came rushing back to him. It had been a pivotal moment, the kind that turned a life on its head.

The air had been sharp, the kind that burned the lungs with every breath. High-altitude winds howled against the rocky mountainside, pulling at loose strands of hair and biting through thin training uniforms. Wes's legs burned with every step, the weighted bands around his ankles and wrists dragging him down. His backpack felt like a boulder strapped to his back, every muscle in his body protesting the climb.

He and Xavier were racing up the mountainside, each step a battle against gravity. Their path was no well-trodden trail but a jagged line through loose shale and jagged rocks. The uneven ground threatened to twist ankles or send them tumbling, but neither slowed.

Weights pulled at their limbs—iron chains woven into the fabric of their gear, sand-filled packs strapped to their backs, and metal bracers that clung to their arms and legs. Every step was like dragging stone through mud, and yet they pushed on, relentless.

Wes's lungs burned, each breath a raw scrape against his throat. His vision blurred at the edges, but he refused to blink. He wouldn't lose. Not today.

He was still salty at Xavier. Earlier that week, he had been thrown into a three-on-one match, pitted against Xavier and two other recruits. It hadn't been a fight—it had been a beatdown.

Three broken ribs, a smashed-in face, and enough bruises to paint his skin purple and blue. He had woken up in the medical baths, the cold water shocking him into consciousness. His body had healed, but his pride had not.

The mountain race was his chance at redemption, and he would damn well take it.

Xavier was usually quicker, his movements precise and measured, but Wes had a different strength—a raw power that came from natural genetics and hard-earned muscle, enhanced by mana. While Xavier danced over the rocks, Wes pushed through them, his feet leaving craters in the loose earth.

As they neared the summit, the air thinned, and every breath felt like inhaling glass. The weights pulled harder, the incline steepened, but the finish line was in sight.

Azhok stood at the peak, his massive frame outlined against the grey sky. His orcish bloodline traced back to something akin to a mammoth, his broad shoulders and thick fur cloak making him look more beast than man. His breath rose in frosted clouds, and his eyes were hard, measuring their worth with each staggered step.

Wes dug his fingers into the rock, pulling himself up the last ledge. His arms trembled, his legs burned, but when his foot hit the stone, he saw it—

Xavier, still a few paces behind, his face twisted in determination but losing ground.

Wes forced his legs to move, a sprint that felt like running through tar. His vision narrowed, the world shrinking to the stretch of rock between him and Azhok's shadow.

And then—he was there.

His knees hit the stone, and he collapsed, breath heaving, muscles trembling. The weights dug into his skin, but he felt only the rush of victory, the sweet sting of success.

He had won.

And through the haze of pain and exhaustion, a single thought rose above the chaos—

"Fuck it."

No matter how hard it got, no matter how much it hurt, he would always get back up.

After reaching the summit, Azhok wasted no time. His voice, rough as grinding stones, commanded Wes and Xavier to face off. The air was thick with anticipation, the scent of sweat and earth mingling as the two squared up.

Xavier, with his lean build and slightly older age, had the advantage of reach. His eyes, sharp and calculating, tracked Wes's every movement. He moved like a coiled spring, each step deliberate, his fists darting out with the precision of a striking snake.

Wes, in contrast, was a powerhouse. Muscles honed from relentless training rippled under his skin, his stance grounded and formidable. He knew Xavier's speed was a challenge, but he relished it. The familiar mantra echoed in his mind: "Fuck it." It was his release, his permission to let go and immerse himself fully in the fight.

The first clash was brutal. Xavier's fist connected with Wes's jaw, a sharp crack resonating as pain flared white-hot. Wes tasted blood, metallic and warm, but it only fueled his resolve. He retaliated with a hook to Xavier's ribs, feeling the satisfying give of flesh and bone beneath his knuckles.

They danced this violent rhythm, exchanging blows that left knuckles raw and bodies aching. Each hit was a conversation of grunts and gasps, the world narrowing to the space between them. Wes's muscles screamed with exertion, the sting of sweat in his eyes blurring his vision, but he pressed on, driven by sheer will.

As more trainees reached the peak, Azhok's gravelly voice cut through the haze of combat, commanding all to join—a free-for-all. The controlled chaos of sparring pairs dissolved into a maelstrom of fists, feet, and fury. The air was filled with the sounds of impact: the dull thud of flesh meeting flesh, the sharp cries of pain, and the constant, rhythmic panting of exertion.

Wes found himself grappling with Rachael at one point, her fiery red hair matted with sweat, eyes blazing with determination. She was relentless, her smaller frame belying a ferocity that matched his own. A swift kick from her caught him off guard, pain exploding in his side. He grunted, retaliating with a shove that sent her sprawling, yet she sprang back with a defiant grin.

The battlefield was a blur of motion. Wes's senses were overwhelmed: the coppery taste of blood on his tongue, the acrid smell of sweat and dirt, the constant barrage of sounds—grunts, shouts, the thud of bodies hitting the ground. His body ached, bruises blooming under his skin, but he reveled in the raw, primal energy of the fight.

By the time Azhok called for a halt, the trainees were a battered assembly. Faces were swollen, lips split, eyes blackened. Wes's own body throbbed with pain, a testament to the brutal training. Yet, beneath the exhaustion, there was a sense of grim satisfaction.

Without allowing them a moment's respite, Azhok barked the next order: the descent. Groans filled the air, but the trainees obeyed, legs trembling as they began the treacherous run down the mountainside. Each step sent jolts of pain through their battered bodies, the path down seeming more daunting than the ascent. But they persisted, driven by discipline, determination, and the unspoken bond forged through shared hardship.

Six Months into Training…

Six months into their grueling regimen, Wes and his fellow trainees found themselves deep within the mountain's heart. The fortress concealed an expansive underground lake, its dark waters rippling under the dim glow of bioluminescent fungi that clung to the cave walls. The air was damp and cold, a stark contrast to the heat simmering beneath Wes's skin as his muscles burned with exertion.

The orcs had a unique approach to training. While their natural physiques leaned toward broad, heavy musculature, this clan favored a leaner build—a balance of strength and agility. The water was their answer. By training in the lake's frigid depths, they could forge their bodies into something sharper, more efficient. The constant resistance of water forced their muscles to adapt, promoting endurance over bulk. It slimmed them down, tempered raw power into something refined.

Wes bobbed at the water's surface, his limbs aching as he clung to a massive rock held aloft above his head. The stone's weight pulled at him, a relentless force that demanded both mental and physical strength to resist. His legs pumped beneath the surface, each kick a struggle against the lake's cold grip. His body trembled, but he kept his form steady, his chin just above the waterline.

But this wasn't just a test of physical strength. The orcs, ever pragmatic, turned every grueling session into an opportunity for layered learning. This lake session doubled as a language class. As Wes fought to keep the rock aloft, Azhok's voice rang out over the water, barking out phrases in Orcish and Universal, the two primary languages of the clan and the broader worlds beyond.

Beneath the surface, other trainees engaged in what the orcs called depth training. Weighted by chains and stones, they descended into the inky blackness, their bodies slicing through the frigid water. Their task was to hold their breath as long as possible, performing precise movements that required control and calm under pressure. The weights not only anchored them but also forced them to engage their core, to use every muscle to stabilize themselves against the water's pressure.

Underwater, the silence was absolute. The world became muted, a space where only the thunder of a heartbeat and the rush of blood in the ears remained. Each trainee gripped stones, performing slow, methodical exercises—curling, pushing, twisting—every motion deliberate. The water's resistance turned even the smallest movement into a trial, and the cold gnawed at exposed skin, stealing heat and dulling reflexes.

This training wasn't just about strength—it was about lung capacity and mental resilience. The orcs believed that a warrior should be able to regulate their breath, to hold air in their lungs even when every instinct screamed to gasp. The cold of the water tightened the chest, compressed the lungs, forcing each breath held to stretch further. Over time, their lung capacity expanded, allowing them to remain submerged for minutes where before only seconds were possible.

The water's weight pressed down on them, simulating the crushing force of battle, where the world often felt like it was closing in. The more they trained, the more they adapted. Their bodies learned to function on the edge of oxygen deprivation, their muscles drawing strength from reserves they hadn't known they possessed.

Occasionally, Azhok would signal for them to switch—those above water would dive below, and those submerged would rise, gasping for air, only to face new commands. There was no rest. The moment a rock was released, another weight was thrust into waiting hands. Lungs burned, muscles trembled, but no one complained. Complaints earned lashes, and lashes meant more water time. No one wanted that.

One of the trainees faltered, their grip loosening on the stone as exhaustion claimed them. The rock slipped beneath the surface, and the trainee followed, swallowed by the dark waters. A rush of bubbles rose in their wake, popping softly against the surface—tiny, fleeting reminders of the life struggling below.

Azhok didn't move. His gaze remained steady, impassive. There would be no rescue. Not until they learned to rescue themselves.

Beneath the water, survival was a solitary battle. The trainee's silhouette thrashed below, limbs churning as they fought the pull of the lake's cold embrace. The weight dragged them down, the chains a merciless anchor. Their lungs would burn, the cold gnawing at their senses, turning sharp thoughts dull.

But this was part of the lesson. To fight through the panic, to claw your way to the surface when everything around you was pressing in, suffocating. It wasn't just about strength—it was about resilience, about the stubborn refusal to give up even when the world became a shroud of darkness and pain.

Seconds stretched into an eternity. The bubbles ceased, the water's surface returning to a glassy stillness. Then, with a violent splash, the trainee burst through, gasping and sputtering. Their arms flailed, and they clawed at the water, dragging themselves to the shallows where they collapsed, chest heaving.

No sympathy. No praise. Just another nod from Azhok. They had survived. This time.

Wes's arms trembled, and the rock dipped closer to the water's surface. He gritted his teeth, forced his legs to kick harder, and focused on each breath. His world shrank to the burn in his muscles and the rhythm of his kicks, shutting out the cold, the ache, the fatigue.

The minutes stretched on, each one a test of will. When Azhok finally gave the signal, Wes released the rock. It plunged into the depths, and he floated, his body weightless, muscles screaming in relief. But even as he drifted, his mind remained focused, ready. He knew there would be no true rest. The next trial was already waiting, just beneath the surface.

Azhok's lips pulled back into a rare grin, a sliver of tusk showing through. His voice rolled over the water, a low rumble filled with both approval and anticipation.

"Three hours," he called. "Time to spar… in the lake!"

Without hesitation, the trainees braced themselves.

Wes grinned as he thought back but his favorite part had been learning how to use weapons