Pain Is the Path
Rain fell in sheets against the training yard's stone floor, washing away old blood but never the memories. The sky hung low, gray and bloated with thunder that never broke. It pressed on the world like a weight, the kind only warriors and fools learned to carry without flinching.
Zhao Ren stood beneath it, shirtless.
His back was straight. His shoulders square. His arms loose at his sides.
Voidcleaver rested upright beside him, the heavy blade buried tip-first in a crack he'd driven into the stone the day before.
The others were gone. Most avoided the yard now unless ordered. They said it was cursed. That something in the wind tasted like iron and ash. That the boy with the silver hair and golden eyes was a herald of failure.
Zhao didn't care.
He was here for one reason.
To see how far pain would take him.
The Forgeheart System had spoken clearly.
[Pain converted: 87% efficiency. Growth initiated.]
It didn't reward clever words. It didn't care for elegant footwork or proper etiquette. It wasn't a gentle master. It only knew scars.
He would give it more.
He started with endurance drills.
Pushups on bloodied knuckles over a bed of crushed gravel. Each motion drove stone deeper into split skin. He didn't count. Counting was for soldiers. He wasn't a soldier. Not anymore.
He was a forge.
He rolled onto his back and lifted Voidcleaver over his chest. The sword's weight pushed his bones toward the earth, but he held it steady. One rep. Two. Three. When the tremor came, he ignored it.
The rain made the blade slick. He nearly dropped it.
He gritted his teeth and pressed on.
When his arms failed and the sword slammed back into the ground, he didn't let himself rest.
Instead, he crawled to the wall.
And began to punch.
The training yard wall was a relic of a past war, old pitted stone that never truly dried. He slammed his fists against it over and over. Each impact burst white against his vision. Skin tore. Blood mixed with rain. Knuckles cracked. Fingernails split.
He didn't stop.
The Forgeheart began to glow behind his ribs.
A low thrum. Like iron being struck from the inside.
[Pain Conversion: 91%]
[Physical Threshold Reached: +1 Strength | +1 Constitution]
[System XP: +18]
[Body Growth: Bone Density Reinforced – Wrist Microfractures Hardened]
The reward was real.
The pain made it real.
By midday, his body was trembling. Every movement was raw. His breath rasped with every inhale, even blinking stung where sweat and blood had crusted near his brow.
But his mind was sharp.
Sharper than ever.
He walked back to the forge. Not because he needed to. But because it had become ritual.
He knelt beside the ember pit. The fire was out. It had been since his last scar was etched. But the warmth remained, buried in the ash.
He reached into it with bare hands and dug.
Hot cinders bit into his fingers. He didn't flinch.
His fingers brushed metal.
He pulled out a small spike of black iron, jagged and old, likely a broken tong or nail from some forgotten reforging. He gripped it tight and walked to Voidcleaver.
The sword lay quiet where he had dropped it earlier.
He set the spike against the blade and began to hammer it into the groove where his last scar had been carved. Each blow was a press of his fist. Again. And again.
[New Scar Etching Detected: Self-inflicted. Voluntary. Intentional.]
[System Judgment: Acceptable Offering]
The spike stayed in place.
The sword glowed faintly.
Not with qi. With memory.
---
That night, Zhao limped back to his chamber. It was barely more than a stone cell. A bed of straw, a basin of water, and a cloth he used as both towel and pillow.
He sat in the center of the room with his legs crossed, spine straight.
Blood dried in strange patterns across his back.
He could barely feel his hands.
Still, he closed his eyes and began to breathe.
Not to meditate.
To listen.
Inside his chest, the Forgeheart throbbed like a living furnace.
[Internal Temperature Elevated. Heat Retention Improved. Threshold Approaching.]
[New Trait Developing: Heat Forged Resilience (Unstable)]
[Scar Potential: Level II Etching Candidate Imminent]
He smiled through split lips.
The others chased balance. Harmony. Spiritual unity.
He was chasing the edge of what the body could take.
And he wasn't close to it yet.
---
The next morning, he returned to the training field before sunrise.
Clouds still covered the sky, but the rain had stopped. The stones steamed faintly from the cold.
He built a frame from two broken spears and stretched rope between them, forming a crude pull-up bar. Then he tied Voidcleaver to his ankles.
And began to hang.
Every muscle screamed. His arms shook within seconds. His body wanted to drop.
But every second he held earned something.
[System XP: +5]
[Pain Efficiency: 94%]
[Muscle Fiber Regeneration Accelerated]
His arms gave out after thirty-five seconds.
He fell hard, slamming onto his shoulder.
He didn't move for a while.
Just stared at the clouds.
They looked heavier than usual. Almost expectant.
He whispered up to them.
"You watching yet?"
---
Later that day, two disciples approached him.
They didn't come with jeers this time.
No threats. No taunts.
Just silence.
Zhao was sitting against the training wall, bandaging his forearms. His left eye was nearly swollen shut. He didn't stand as they approached.
One of them, a boy named Harun, crouched in front of him.
"You're going to die if you keep this up."
Zhao didn't answer.
Harun looked down at the sword beside him.
"It's not worth it."
Zhao slowly raised his gaze.
The golden eyes were bloodshot now, rimmed with exhaustion.
But they were steady.
"Then why can't you look away?"
Harun flinched.
He stood and left without another word.
The other followed, silent.
That night, the forge fire lit again.
Without wood.
Without spark.
It simply ignited.
Zhao stood before it, bare-chested, the scar on his chest now glowing faintly like cooling steel.
The light reflected off Voidcleaver.
[System Upgrade Initiated: Scar Sigil Fusion]
[New Trait Gained: Pain is the Path]
[Trait Effect: Every 5% of health lost increases strength and speed by 1% during combat. Bonus: Fear resistance increased by 50% while wounded.]
The blade pulsed once.
He lifted it slowly, reverently, and whispered to it.
"I'm ready now."
And for the first time, the blade hummed back.