Memory Stone

Authors Note: In honor of the first power stone! I hereby post this chapter in Honor of SoWell! Thank you for the support!!

Waylon woke to the faint chirping of birds and the dull ache of a body that hadn't quite forgiven him for the past few days. Sunlight streamed through a narrow slit in the stone wall, cutting a thin golden line across the floor of the small room. He groaned, rolling off the cot, the borrowed tunic sticking slightly to his skin from the night's sweat. His muscles protested as he stood, stiff and sore, but there was a restless energy buzzing in his chest that wouldn't let him linger.

He shuffled barefoot to the doorway, squinting as he stepped outside into the crisp morning air. Gorrin was already there, hunched over a small fire a few yards from the carved-out dwelling, his broad back turned as he poked at the flames with a stick. The mountain loomed behind him, its peak shrouded in a faint haze, and the grassy hill stretched out in all directions, dotted with wildflowers and the faint shimmer of dew.

Waylon rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his voice scratchy as he called out, "Hey, uh… what's the plan today? What's this strength training technique you were talking about?"

Gorrin didn't turn around right away. He jabbed the fire once more, sending a puff of sparks skyward, then flashed a crooked smile over his shoulder. "Dunno," he said, his tone light and teasing.

Waylon, halfway through a step toward him, stumbled, catching himself on the doorframe with a muttered curse. "What do you mean, you don't know?" he asked, frowning as he regained his balance and trudged over, the grass cool under his feet.

Gorrin chuckled, finally turning to face him fully, his grizzled beard catching the morning light. "Got the technique off a fella who tried to kill me a few years back. Met him at a bar—drunk bastard kept calling Cillia a giant chicken, thought he'd take a swing at me. Didn't end well for him."

Waylon's stomach flipped, his eyes widening slightly as the casual mention of murder sank in. He froze mid-step, staring at Gorrin's hulking figure, the easy way he sat there stoking the fire like he hadn't just admitted to ending someone's life. Gorrin caught the look—Waylon's pinched brow, the flicker of unease—and his smile faded, replaced by a hard, unyielding stare.

"What's that face for, kid?" he said, voice dropping low and rough. "If the thought of killing someone disgusts you—or if you're one of those fools who'd say 'never, not me'—then go crawl back into that ant hole and let 'em eat you. I won't waste my time on someone who can't stomach this world."

Waylon's throat tightened, his mind flashing back to his old life—laws about self-defense, blurry news clips of courtroom debates he'd never paid much attention to. Killing wasn't new to him, not in theory; he'd seen enough movies, read enough books. But hearing it laid out so bluntly, so matter-of-fact, hit different. He swallowed, steeling himself as he met Gorrin's gaze. If this place was as brutal as it seemed, he couldn't afford to flinch. Not now. Not after everything.

Gorrin grunted, as if reading his resolve, and turned back to the fire. "If I wasn't so damn bored, I'd kick you off to some Lower Sect and be done with it," he muttered, almost to himself.

Waylon blinked, stepping closer. "What'd you say?"

"Don't worry about it," Gorrin shot back, waving a dismissive hand. He reached into his robe and pulled out a small, black square stone, no bigger than a coin, its surface smooth and faintly glossy. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it to Waylon, who caught it clumsily against his chest.

"What's this?" Waylon asked, turning it over in his palm. It was cool to the touch, heavier than it looked, with faint etchings along the edges he couldn't quite make out.

"Press it to your forehead," Gorrin said, his tone flat but expectant.

Waylon raised an eyebrow but shrugged, lifting the stone and pressing it to his skin. The moment it made contact, a jolt shot through him—not painful, but sharp, like a static shock. Then his vision blurred, and a flood of images and sensations poured into his head: stances, movements, routines—dozens of them, overlapping and twisting together in a chaotic rush. His knees buckled slightly as the information settled, a throbbing ache blooming behind his eyes. He yanked the stone away, gasping, and clutched his head with his free hand.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded, wincing as the headache pulsed. His voice came out louder than he meant, edged with a mix of awe and irritation.

Gorrin burst out laughing, a deep, rolling sound that carried across the hill. "Forgot you've never used a memory stone before," he said, slapping his thigh. "Headache'll pass in a bit. Did you catch any of it, or did your brain turn to mush?"

Waylon grimaced, rubbing his temple as he tried to sort through the jumble now lodged in his skull. "Only the first exercise made sense," he muttered. "Something about walking in a set way for a long time… in a pretty circle?"

Gorrin's laughter sharpened, and he pointed to the ground a few feet away, where a faint ring of stones was embedded in the grass, forming a perfect circle about ten feet across. "It's a formation, you idiot," he said, still grinning. "Not some fancy dance. For the next two weeks, from sunup to sundown, you're gonna stay in that circle, walking in that stance. You fall or pass out, I'll turn it off, and you start again when you're back on your feet."

Waylon's brows shot up, a mix of curiosity and dread swirling in his gut. "Two weeks? Just… walking?"

"Nonstop," Gorrin confirmed, nodding toward the circle. "Every three days, I'll crank up the formation's strength. Goal's to keep going, no matter what. Builds endurance, toughens your bones. Go on, then—get in there."

Waylon hesitated, then nodded, squaring his shoulders as he stepped toward the circle. The grass crunched faintly underfoot, and he positioned himself at the edge, glancing back at Gorrin. "Alright. Let's do it."

Gorrin gave a curt nod, reaching into his robe again to pull out a small, pale crystal—another one like the ant's, glowing faintly in the morning light. He knelt and pressed it into a shallow groove at the circle's edge. The air hummed, a low vibration rippling through the ground, and the formation snapped to life.

The instant Waylon stepped inside, his body buckled. It wasn't pain, exactly—just pressure, like someone had strapped a second version of himself onto his back. His knees trembled, his breath catching as the weight doubled, pressing down on every inch of him. He tried to speak, to ask what the hell was happening, but the words stuck in his throat—even opening his mouth felt like lifting a boulder.

He staggered forward, forcing one foot in front of the other, his mind racing as he pieced it together. Gravity, he thought, teeth gritted. This is a damn gravity formation. His arms hung heavier at his sides, his shoulders hunching instinctively as he adjusted to the strain. It wasn't just walking anymore—it was fighting for every step, every breath.

Gorrin watched from outside the circle, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but for the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes. "First stance," he called out, voice cutting through the hum. "Keep your back straight, knees bent just so—follow what the stone showed you. Don't slack, or you'll feel it worse."

Waylon couldn't reply, couldn't even nod. Sweat beaded on his forehead already, trickling down his temple as he focused on the memory—shaky and half-formed—of that first stance. He shifted his weight, planting his feet wider, bending his knees slightly, and took another step. The circle loomed ahead, endless in its simplicity, and the sun was only just cresting the horizon.

Two weeks. Nonstop. Under this crushing weight.

He gritted his teeth harder, forcing his legs to move, and inwardly cursed the Myriad Paths, the ants, and whatever fate had dumped him here. But beneath the frustration, a flicker of something else burned—stubbornness, maybe, or the faint hope that this was the first real step toward something bigger. Either way, he wasn't stopping. Not yet.

Gorrin settled back by the fire, picking up his stick again to poke at the embers, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Let's see how long you last, kid," he muttered, half to himself, as Waylon's slow, labored march began.