The next day
[2:45 o'clock, PSS Citadel 2]
Light filters through towering, angular windows cut into stone and steel walls, a fusion of polished metal beams and ancient masonry. Xzaivier's bedroom alone spans an area larger than a training hall, its ceiling high enough to suspend weapons racks, balance rigs, and weighted chains. The floor is seamless obsidian composite, etched faintly with geometric runes that serve no mystical function—only alignment markers for footwork.
Xzaivier rises before the automated lights activate.
The first hour of the day is spent in silence and stillness. He kneels at the center of the room, spine straight, breathing slow and controlled. The Twofold Ascension Mark rests dormant against his skin, unlit, unacknowledged. He does not focus on it. He focuses on posture, on breath, on the sensation of muscle fibers waking from rest.
Once his breathing stabilizes, he stands.
He begins with joint conditioning. Ankles rotate in controlled arcs, knees flex under slow weight shifts, hips roll to loosen connective tissue. His shoulders follow, rotating forward and back, arms extending fully, wrists rolling with deliberate precision. Every movement is measured. No motion is wasted. No speed is introduced.
The Flame Blade rests on a horizontal rack across the room.
He does not touch it yet.
Instead, he begins with bodyweight strain. Deep squats held for extended durations, thighs burning as he maintains balance over the mid-foot. Lunges forward, backward, and laterally, each held long enough to force micro-corrections in balance. Calf raises performed on the edge of a raised platform, slow ascent, slower descent.
Push movements follow. Palms press against the floor, elbows close to the body, lowering and rising in controlled repetition. The surface offers no grip assistance. Sweat beads on his back by the fiftieth repetition, drips by the hundredth.
He transitions into isometric holds. Plank positions maintained beyond comfort. Wall sits held until legs tremble, then held longer. The goal is not exhaustion—it is obedience. The body must respond without resistance.
Only after two hours does he approach the weapon rack.
The Flame Blade is lifted carefully, both hands testing its balance. Its weight is familiar now, but not trusted. Trust must be earned daily. He performs no flourishes. He simply stands, blade lowered, eyes forward, feet aligned along the Citadel's floor markings.
Footwork drills begin.
Step forward. Step back. Slide. Pivot. Retreat. Advance. Each motion repeated hundreds of times, blade held in guard position without deviation. His heels barely lift. The floor receives no unnecessary impact. His center of gravity remains low, controlled.
Angles are introduced next. Diagonal advances. Lateral slips. Half-steps followed by rotational pivots. The blade never swings. It exists only as an extension of posture, testing whether balance collapses under its presence.
Once the lower body is sufficiently taxed, he begins slow cuts.
Each strike is executed at a fraction of combat speed. Vertical cuts descend with measured control, stopping precisely at floor height without contact. Horizontal cuts stop at imaginary targets. Diagonal cuts halt at exact points marked faintly on the walls.
Mistakes are punished immediately.
If his wrist collapses inward, the repetition restarts.
If his shoulder rises too high, the set resets.
If his stance widens improperly, he corrects it before continuing.
Hours pass unnoticed.
By midday, his muscles ache not from force, but from restraint.
He sets the Flame Blade aside and replaces it with a weighted training sword nearly twice its mass. The balance is intentionally poor. The grip is thicker, forcing forearm strain. He resumes the same cuts. Slower now. More deliberate.
Sweat darkens the fabric of his training attire. His breathing deepens but never ragged. He trains through discomfort, not chaos.
After several hundred repetitions, he transitions to greatsword posture drills.
Though the Flame Blade remains unchanged, his body practices the positions required to wield a heavier weapon. Wide stances. Lower hips. Broader shoulder engagement. He lifts the weighted sword overhead and holds it, arms trembling, spine aligned. The hold continues until his shoulders burn, then continues longer.
Lowering the blade slowly, he performs controlled arcs through space, stopping at fixed angles. Each arc requires full-body coordination. Hips rotate. Core tightens. Legs stabilize.
No strikes are completed quickly. Speed is forbidden today.
The afternoon is devoted to endurance movement.
The Citadel contains a private internal track that loops vertically and horizontally through its structure. Xzaivier runs it repeatedly, carrying the Flame Blade across his back. Stairs. Ramps. Inclines. Descents. Each lap demands controlled breathing and efficient stride.
Between laps, he stops only long enough to perform bodyweight pulls on suspended bars, gripping until his forearms scream. He lowers himself slowly, refusing momentum.
He returns to his chamber as evening approaches.
The final phase begins with precision fatigue training.
Hands already trembling, legs heavy, he resumes sword forms. This time, errors are more likely. That is the point. He performs single cuts, stopping them millimeters from contact points marked on training pillars. Any deviation forces repetition.
His grip loosens under fatigue. He tightens it consciously. His shoulders sag. He corrects posture. His stance narrows unintentionally. He widens it again.
Each correction reinforces discipline.
As night falls, artificial lights glow softly, reflecting off stone and steel. Xzaivier kneels once more, blade laid horizontally before him. He stretches deliberately, lengthening strained muscle groups, breathing deep and slow.
No celebration follows. No acknowledgment of progress.
The Flame Blade is returned to its place. The Twofold Ascension Mark remains dormant, untested, ignored.
The day ends not with triumph, but with readiness.
Tomorrow will demand the same obedience.