Neil left the grave behind with quiet steps. He didn't look back. The air was still heavy from the clash of forces that had torn this place apart, and every breath reminded him of the tension laced into the earth. His body ached—ribs stiff, arms bruised—but he kept moving. Not at full sprint. Not anymore. He settled into a long, steady jog. A pace he could hold.
Recovery came slow. Slower than he liked. But it came. The meat, the rest, the Core usage—they were working. His body healed with every mile. And now, with those new boots absorbing his steps and feeding his momentum, he moved smoother, quieter. More alert than ever.
He didn't want to get surprised again.
Every broken tree and scorched crater reminded him how close he had come to dying without even understanding what had happened. So he stayed sharp. He watched for movement. Listened for unusual sound. Scanned for auras.
Two days passed. And with them, something else began to shift.
It started as a pulse—deep in his limbs. A coiling tension in his muscles. He'd felt this before. It was coming again.
A breakthrough.
He slowed. Searched. Not for food or signs of life—but for stillness. He wanted no animals nearby. No signs of aura. He needed quiet.
He found it by accident: a small cave hidden behind a wall of hanging green. A bush cloaked its entrance, and beyond it, a wide, shallow chamber carved into the rock behind a roaring waterfall. It was perfect. Protected. Secluded. Shielded from view.
Neil stepped inside, laid down his pack, and let his body go still.
Then the pain came.
It began like the edge of a cramp. A warning. Then it spread. Writhing heat, pulling through every fiber. His arms locked. His legs spasmed. His abdomen twisted tight. His entire frame seized like overworked wire, stretched to breaking.
He grit his teeth and bore it.
It lasted an hour, maybe more.
Every muscle in his body tore itself down and rebuilt—thicker, tighter, stronger. He felt it. Like cords reweaving. Like fire soaking into sinew.
When it finally ended, he lay on the stone floor, drenched in sweat, breathing heavy.
Rank 4. Muscle Sinew.
He laughed, hoarse and tired.
The strength in his limbs was impossible to ignore. Even resting, they felt spring-loaded. Like compressed steel.
He got to his feet, unsteady at first. His fingers flexed like they belonged to someone else—alien in their power.
He stepped out of the cave and made his way down to the lake below. The waterfall thundered, crashing down into clear, cold water. Neil stripped and walked in. The cold made him hiss, but it was clean.
He scrubbed himself. Then his clothes. He laughed to himself, remembering his mother's nagging about laundry.
"You'll have to do it yourself someday," she used to say.
Now he did.
Once clean and dry, he dressed and walked toward a tree with a thick low branch. It was about the thickness of his arm. He gripped it, braced his stance, and pulled.
It bent.
Didn't break.
Too flexible.
He channeled his Core into his arms, focused on flow, and pulled again.
It snapped.
Easily.
He moved to a tree trunk. Threw a punch. Slow. Measured.
Nothing.
Again. Faster.
Again. Stronger.
The bark cracked.
He kept going. Increasing speed and power until his fist carved a dent into the wood.
No Core.
Then he engaged it.
The energy surged to his fist. He struck.
The tree exploded.
His arm punched clean through the trunk, splitting it in two.
He stood still, staring. Shocked.
He hadn't even used full strength.
He turned to a boulder nearby. Five times his size.
He channeled his Core. Held back. Punched. Nothing.
Again. Stronger. A crack.
He went full force.
The stone shuddered. A spiderweb of fractures burst across its surface. But it held.
His arm tingled.
No pain. Not really. Just feedback. His limit wasn't pain—it was pressure.
As long as his Core protected the strike, he could hit nearly anything.
He tried the broken sword. Focused his Core into it.
Nothing.
Still dead.
He sighed.
No matter. He had fists now.
He tidied his camp, checked his gear, and slipped on his boots. Then, without hesitation, he set out again. Toward the green dome.
His stride was longer now. Smoother. Faster. His endurance was unreal. What used to be an all-out sprint back home was now a cruising pace.
He estimated he could keep this speed all day.
Three hundred kilometers—maybe more—if the terrain stayed kind.
The dome still waited.
He would reach it.