Chapter 40: A Training Session in Blood and Boiling Water

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Elaria Moonfest's second kick struck Eli Walker square in the abdomen.

Even though he had already grown a layer of scales for protection, it only dulled the pain slightly. His stomach churned violently, and his footing slipped.

Bang!

Another strike.

He was kicked off the throne platform like a rag doll. When he hit the floor, nausea surged uncontrollably. He vomited across his previously pristine robes, the stench and humiliation intermingling in the air.

Before he could even conjure water to clean himself, Elaria was already straddling him. She paid no mind to the mess, her expression blank, her fists ruthless. One after another, they crashed into his face, bloodying her knuckles and sending sparks of pain crackling through his nerves.

Eli instinctively raised his arms to shield himself, but Elaria's onslaught was relentless. Her fists were like a torrential storm, each strike carrying the resolve to beat him unconscious.

Then—like it was nothing—she pried his arms apart and, with not even the slightest shift in her brown eyes, slammed her forehead into his.

Bang!

The scales on Eli's forehead cracked under the collision.

Something uncoiled in his mind. A roar built in his chest. His fingertips elongated into claws, leaving bloody gashes on Elaria's arms. His hair lashed out like a furious iron whip, aiming to crush her skull—only to be scattered by a flick of her wrist.

He finally managed to free one arm, which lashed out like a whip, catching her at the waist and hurling her across the palace.

She crashed into the wall. He rose, shaking, from the floor.

His body was covered in dense scales. His hair floated around him like the limbs of some oceanic demon. Two symmetrical bulges were forming along his back. His eyes, bloodshot and feral, locked onto the Elf Queen like a beast preparing to devour its trainer.

He had finally activated a partial mythical creature form—beaten into it by sheer pain and rage.

"You've finally learned how to hit back," Elaria said, brushing off the debris as she emerged from the crater in the wall. "This is more like an elf."

She cracked her neck. "Come. I'll teach you how to fight properly."

She launched herself toward him again.

Roar!!!

Eli roared back. His hair expanded into a thunder-woven net. Silver-white electricity arced between each strand as he unleashed a tempest of strikes toward her position.

Elaria's calm eyes glinted with long-buried battle hunger. A wind burst around her, tearing apart the hair-net. She grabbed a fistful and, with the other end still attached to Eli, began slamming him into the floor repeatedly, like a flail.

Whoosh!

A lightning spear formed from Eli's palm and hurtled toward her face. Elaria shattered it mid-air with a flick. But his hair contracted and rebounded—catapulting him forward like a cannonball.

This time, she caught him mid-flight and drove him straight into the marble floor.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The palace shook with each collision. Outside, Elven attendants noticed the Spirit World fluctuations. They tried to investigate but were all gently teleported away by the Queen's attendants.

Time blurred.

Eli lost count of how many times he'd been beaten.

His vision swam. His ribs screamed. His waist—he wasn't sure it still counted as a waist. He might've passed out somewhere in the middle. The next thing he knew, Elaria's boot was retreating from his chest, and her breathing had finally calmed.

Even she had taken minor damage.

Angel-class regeneration dulled her injuries in moments, but Eli had managed to force her to put effort into a fight.

And she had gone harder in return.

She'd beaten him until his mythical creature form activated.

Then beaten him until he lost control.

Then beaten him until it de-activated.

It was, for her, not difficult.

After all, she was also a Psychiatrist.

"Get up."

"Keep going."

She nudged his ribs with her foot. Eli didn't react.

So she dragged him up by the hair.

Again.

His garments hung in ribbons. Her own pristine robes were disheveled, stained, scorched in places.

Disgusted by their mutual appearance, she waved her hand. Water swirled through the air, cleansing them both.

Then, with a faint frown, she knelt beside him and touched his bruised, half-conscious face.

The injuries began to heal.

With an artisan's touch, she pinched his cheeks—softening the angles ever so slightly, smoothing lines like she was sculpting wet clay.

"This… is more pleasant to look at."

She gave his cheeks another squeeze, nodding to herself. Then her eyes darkened faintly—like someone glimpsing a long-buried memory.

The Elf King, perhaps.

But the moment passed.

Her gaze slid downward. She pinched something, then flicked it. Once. Twice.

A flick of petty vengeance.

Then, satisfied, she dumped Eli into the oversized spirit-bath.

The Elf sank.

She wasn't worried. Sea Kings don't drown.

She released some of the Calamity suppression. The characteristic began to circulate through his body again, healing his injuries, enhancing internal adaptation. Let him absorb it faster. Pain is a powerful fertilizer.

After a while, Elaria joined him.

She entered the water and snapped her fingers. The temperature surged to near-scalding, but she merely sighed contentedly, eyes drifting closed.

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Time passed…

When Eli Walker regained consciousness, he felt like he was being boiled alive.

His eyes opened.

Above him: two pale, bare feet floated across the surface of the steaming bath.

His waist ached. Everywhere ached. He pushed himself up to the surface, dripping with hot water, and leaned wearily against the edge of the tub. Steam curled around his face.

"You woke up rather quickly," came Elaria's voice.

He turned, sluggish.

She was lounging lazily in the opposite corner of the tub, clad only in a damp bathrobe, her brown eyes glinting with amusement.

Eli glanced down.

His pupils constricted.

He sank.

Only his head remained above water, cheeks red with humiliation.

His clothes were gone.

No big deal.

His dignity was gone, too.

He called forth a mental image—illusionary scales bloomed across his body, strategically placed.

Then he glared at her with aggrieved resentment.

"You hit me like a criminal," he muttered silently. "You nearly killed me."

She noticed the stare.

Then, slowly, she loosened the collar of her bathrobe.

Eli flinched. He instinctively raised his hands to cover himself again, body stiffening in alarm.

But Elaria only exposed a teasing hint of skin—nothing more. The movement was symbolic. Calculated.

She smirked when she saw his reflexive defense.

"Good," she said softly.

"Just like that."

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