Chapter 18
I WILL WORK HARDER
IAM walked slowly, each step echoing faintly through the corridor, the metallic floor humming under his boots. The glowing sigils lining the walls shifted and pulsed with quiet energy, ancient in design yet alive in a way that unnerved him. Still, he didn't notice them—not really. They were there, but distant, like everything else around him. Fading into the background.
His eyes were dull. Unfocused. Locked on some invisible point ahead. He wasn't walking toward a destination anymore—just moving because stopping felt worse. Every step was heavier than the last, as if the weight of his own thoughts was dragging him into the ground.
Ryan lied.
That truth hit him again.A sharp needle of realization threading through his brain with each silent repetition.
He knew it. Not just in his head—but in his gut, in the place instincts lived. On the surface, it was flawless. Friendly. Harmless.
But underneath?
There was something else. Something cold. IAM couldn't quite name it, but he felt it. It was like standing next to a person wearing a mask that looked a little too perfect—skin too smooth, smile too even.
Ryan had lied about his time. Of that, IAM was sure.
But the question that gnawed at him like a rat in the walls of his mind was why? What did he gain from hiding the truth? To impress Regina? To keep IAM from feeling bad about his slow progress? To manipulate him? Humiliate him?
He didn't know.
And that not knowing scared him more than the lie.
IAM exhaled slowly, his breath fogging in front of him. The corridor turned sharply to the left, but he barely noticed. The clash of self-doubt and suspicion made his chest tighten. And it hurt. Not in a way he could explain to anyone, but like a slow bruise spreading through his spirit.
Same tent, he thought bitterly. He'd have to sleep under the same roof as Ryan.
"Ah—fuck!!" IAM's head snapped back as his forehead collided with a wall he hadn't seen. Hard. Sharp. The shock knocked the spiral of thoughts right out of him.
He stumbled back, clutching his head with both hands. "Goddamn walls…" he muttered, rubbing his temple furiously. The surface was freezing cold, biting against his skin like ice-covered steel.
It wasn't just the wall. It was him. His fault. He was too in his head. Too distracted. Too slow.
As he turned to continue down the hall, something made him pause. The silence.
He glanced up.
People were staring.
A few soldiers, techs, maybe even a handler or two. All frozen in their tasks. Watching him.
IAM's stomach curled in on itself. His ears burned. "Oh… uh…" He raised a hand awkwardly, voice cracking. "Sorry… Sorry, guys. Didn't mean to… y'know. Disturb the hustle and bustle. Carry on with your… whatever. I'm just on my way out."
He tried to laugh.
It came out wrong. Dry. Too loud. Sharp like broken glass.
Ha ha ha ha ha…
They blinked. Some turned away. Others didn't. Their faces unreadable. Judgmental? Amused? Indifferent?
He couldn't tell. And that made it worse.
IAM spun on his heel and bolted.
The steel doors hissed open and he burst out into the cold. He hadn't realized how suffocating it was in there until the freezing air slammed into his lungs like a hammer. He gasped, doubling over for a moment, hands on his knees. The sky overhead was a dirty smear of grey—thick, roiling clouds twisting like they were watching him. Judging him.
The fog was ever-present, endless, and indifferent.
Just like the truth:
He couldn't even form an avien.
He stared out into the open compound, eyes stinging, throat tight.
What a joke.
What a damn joke.
He kissed his teeth and shoved his hands into his pockets—or tried to.
His hands met nothing but air.
He blinked, looked down in disbelief.
No pockets.
Just smooth, unbroken fabric.
He stared at his pants like they had personally betrayed him. A spark of fury bloomed in his chest. I didn't realise I had women's trousers on. His jaw clenched. Who the hell doesn't put pockets in trousers? That single design flaw sent an irrational spike of rage through him. As if the universe was laughing in his face—again.
IAM grumbled under his breath and kicked at the strange brown sand beneath his feet.
Instant regret.
Pain shot through his foot like lightning as his big toe collided with something unyielding beneath the seemingly soft grains. He stumbled back, hissing, grabbing his foot with both hands like a wounded animal. "Fuuuck," he groaned, hopping on one leg. "Right... I forgot."
The sand wasn't normal. It had that bizarre attribute—soft and shifting to anything slow, but rock-hard against anything fast or forceful. It didn't make sense. Nothing here did.
Everything about this place seemed alive—hostile, even. Like the very land itself conspired against him. The sky, the soil, the sterile halls, the fog that never left—it all felt like it was trying to break him. Whittle him down piece by piece.
He felt like throwing himself face-first into the sand and letting the world swallow him whole. Just lay there, surrender, become one with the terrain. Let the cruel wind bury him, let the dome overhead forget him. Game over.
But instead, he looked up.
Eyes drawn to that unmoving, ever-watching dome.
It loomed like a fortress, massive and still, its full purpose unknown to him. A silhouette of power he hadn't had a chance the to question on its purpose .And now, as he stared, something stirred in him.
The blood-red flag flapping in its windless space caught his eye. The symbol stitched upon it—a satin black H, sharp and jagged like a claw—whipped with eerie silence.
He took a deep breath.
A vow began to form in his chest. Not the weak kind uttered in passing desperation—but something firmer. Something heavier.
I will not give up.
Not just because his willpower was crap. Not just because his roommate might be a snake in the grass.Not because his toe throbbed or his forehead was still sore from the wall that ambushed him.
No.
It was because of all those things.
It was those weights—the failures, the doubts, the pain—that he would carry and forge into fuel.
I must work harder.
I WILL work harder.
I won't stop at forming an avien.
I won't stop at novice.
I'll push past experienced, claw my way into mastery.
And whatever lies beyond that—whatever secret tier exists beyond the knowledge of this place—I'll get there, too.
His hand clenched into a fist. The pain from his toe pulsed in defiance.
This is a decree, he thought. An order issued from the depths of my own pathetic heart.
I will not be the joke in the back row.
I will not be left behind.
I. Will. Work. Harder.
He glared up at the steel sky, daring the clouds to move, to mock him again. They didn't. They just hung there, grey and blank. Unbothered.
Fine.
He turned sharply, puffing out his chest with determination—
—and tripped.
His foot caught on a small rise in the sand and he fell face-first into the unforgiving dirt.
A puff of dust rose as his mouth filled with the gritty texture of iron-flavored sand.
He spat, coughed, tears stinging his eyes from both shame and the sting of granules lodging where they shouldn't. And still, he forced himself up, stumbling to his feet with fists clenched.
"Buth seth I goth upth," he mumbled through a sand-coated tongue, "no mather howth muc I falth, I willth geth upth."( but see, I got up, no matter how much I fall, I will get up.)
His legs were unsteady, his vision blurry, but he walked on.
No looking back.
Not out of confidence.
But because at this rate, he'd probably trip over something else if he wasn't careful.
Wiping the sand from his face, out of his hair and stinging eyes, IAM finally arrived at the tent. His feet dragged across the threshold as he trudged inside, exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin. Without a word, he climbed onto the top bunk and sank down, the mattress barely creaking under his weight.
To forcefully absorb mana, the position of the body mattered little—whether standing, sitting, kneeling, or lying down. All that mattered was the will... and the essence itself.
Mana.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady his fraying nerves. His chest expanded, then collapsed with a long exhale. Another breath. Deeper this time.
And then—he began.
"Ugh..."
A low, guttural sound escaped his throat as every muscle in his body tensed. That familiar, brutal pain returned, searing through his core like molten iron. He clenched his jaw, eyes squeezed shut, the agony immediate and unforgiving.
But—he did not scream.
Not this time.
Already, that was a vast improvement from just one week and five days ago, when he had begun screeching the moment the mana entered his system. Now, there was only grit. Quiet resistance.
…
One minute.
A thin sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. His body trembled, small spasms twitching through his limbs, but he held on.
…
Two minutes.
His breathing quickened—rapid, shallow, desperate—as if trying to lull the pain into forgetting him. He bit down harder, so hard his teeth throbbed from the pressure.
…
Three minutes.
His body shook now, a violent tremor wracking every muscle. The pain intensified. It no longer stabbed—it danced. It leapt across his skin like fire ants on every nerve ending, the devil tap-dancing on each of his countless pores and pore-like openings.
…
Four minutes.
His mouth gaped in a silent scream. His fingernails dug into his thighs. He could hear it—the tearing. As if his very skin, down to the microscopic level, was being peeled apart.
…
Five minutes.
The pain arrived in massive waves now—tidal and relentless. He wished it would go numb. Begged for it, again and again, in the privacy of his cracking mind. But it didn't. Tears surged from his eyes, hot and fat, trailing down his cheeks and into his mouth. They tasted like salt... and anguish .
…
Six minutes.
Now came the snot. Clear and warm, snaking from his nose into his mouth. He couldn't care. His limbs shook uncontrollably, saliva dripped down his chin and over his chest. He was no longer sitting—he had collapsed sideways, now pathetically curled on the bed. His deep brown eyes were glazed, unfocused.
...
Six minutes, ten seconds.
The pain became sharp. No longer a wave, but a blade. One made by a expert blacksmith, with the sole purpose of torture IAM.
And still—he endured.
...
Six minutes, twenty seconds.
He was nearing his personal record.
Six minutes, twenty-four seconds.
And he preserved.
Time slowed. Each second dragged like an hour. But still—he did not yield.
...
Seven minutes.
Every new jolt of agony now felt like a duel. Like being cut again and again by a skilled swordsman holding the sword made by the blacksmith , death by a thousand perfect strikes. Just as his mind reached the edge of surrender—
Ryan's laugh echoed in his ears.
It cut through the haze louder than the pain ever could.
And IAM preserved.
...
Eight minutes.
He felt like he had been thrown into a sea called pain, and he couldn't swim. The mana filled his lungs, his nose, his throat. Not really. But it felt like it. He thrashed in an invisible sea of agony, his senses choking on it.
His brain could not take it.
The lights went out.
IAM fainted.
...
Eight minutes, three seconds.
That was the time on the silent clock.
A massive leap. A shocking improvement.
A victory, hard-won and violently carved into his very flesh.
But everything—everything—comes at a cost.
And this one would be no different.