Still on Mount Influir, Bruno, who had barely escaped from the dimensions and the Earth, tried to use his vitae, though without success.
Flávia watched him from a distance, seated, occasionally making ironic remarks:
— Is that all you can do, Bruno? It seems you're not putting in as much effort as your companions. Astrel has already become a second-level beast and trains intensely in the Forest of a Thousand Beasts. And Ignis? He left you to reside under Mount Ignar, trying to grow stronger. Meanwhile, you can barely manipulate vitae in a place with such light resistance.
Each jab wounded Bruno's pride. He seemed frustrated and irritated, not by his inability, but by his lack of understanding. He had been pushing himself for several minutes, yet every time the vitae left his body, it was immediately absorbed by the mountain, broken into invisible fragments, and converted into fuel for Mount Influir itself, which endlessly increased its energy reserves without ever letting any escape.
Still, he did not give up. Flávia's words, even in a mocking tone, gave him a spark of motivation. If his companions were advancing, he could not fall behind. He channeled the vitae through his body again, trying to expel it in attacks, but whether in small or large amounts, it all vanished before the insatiable mountain.
Flávia laughed at the scene. Seeing her proud husband struggling with repeated failures was simultaneously amusing and relieving — at least he wasn't injured.
But there was something different about her. The young woman who had once seemed insecure before her mother now exuded a mature, almost severe aura. Perhaps unconsciously, she was even interfering with Bruno's training, heightening his frustration alongside his sense of helplessness.
In his mind, he cursed:
Damn… how can a mountain block the flow of vitae? Without movement, vitae is like set cement… in no time, it hardens into concrete.
Thus, every moment demanded that he keep it in constant flow — internally, or by trying to expel it outward. If he stopped, if it stagnated, he would be defeated.
While the vitae remained within his body, merely circulating internally, the effort did not consume him — but it exhausted him tremendously. His entire body seemed bathed in energy, forcibly refined, especially the fingertips, natural catalysts of vitae.
Bruno took a deep breath, focusing solely on his inner self, almost ignoring the outside world. Mount Influir remained indifferent to his attempts, absorbing every tiny drop, every trace of vitae that dared leave him.
Focus, Bruno. If not once, then ten times. If not ten, then a hundred. If not a hundred, then a thousand. Aren't you the very embodiment of dedication? The incarnation of will?
Flávia, observing, did not fail to reprimand him:
— Push yourself harder. You're falling behind.
Bruno, however, did not respond in words. His answers came in repetition, in each attempt. He channeled the vitae once, twice, three, four times, without complaint, with pure dedication.
He had already been granted the opportunity to enter the world of power. Now, it was his duty to seize it fully, proving himself worthy. Like an elite soldier, he advanced without question, without hesitation, simply fulfilling his duty. The world was not black and white, and effort colored everything in shades of gray — the hue that dominated between extremes.
Time passed mercilessly, indifferent to failure. Day bowed to night, and Bruno remained there, frustrated, trying to manipulate the vitae within his body or around the mountain. But external vitae was completely inaccessible to him, and the expelled vitae simply slipped out of his control.
Only what remained inside him seemed to respond — yet even that was becoming increasingly unstable.
Flávia remained still, observing each attempt and each failure. Hours passed in silence, and that silence was perhaps the cruelest torture for Bruno: the fear of failure, the absence of words when he needed them most. That emptiness caused him to handle the vitae recklessly, pushing him dangerously close to exhaustion — and to something even more dangerous: the Demon of the Heart.
This demon was not external. It was his own mind, exhausted and lost. It had already claimed Bruno once, in the forest, when the young man had lost his memory, when he could not forgive Flávia. This entity represented his greatest weakness: his human emotions.
Fear. Hatred. Frustration. Laziness. Hunger. Lust. Cowardice. Pride. Anxiety. Panic. Curiosity. Love. Beliefs. Feelings. Any one of them could spark the Demon of the Heart.
And as always, it returned. Not only to Bruno, but to any being. Sooner or later, the demon found a gap.
The worst part was that, in Bruno's case, it was the same demon as before. He had never escaped it; he had only sunk deeper, little by little. Wars, hatred, abandonment, longing, fear… each scar was nourishment for that being. And while Bruno sought strength through determination, the demon grew stronger by manipulating his own choices.
Cleverly, it hid whenever Bruno was about to notice. Now was no different. It tormented him slowly, invisible to Flávia or anyone else. But if it continued to grow, the moment would come when it would strike with violence — and Bruno's gentle mind would have no way to resist.
At that moment, however, it withdrew, satisfied. It had already planted what it wanted in Bruno's mind. It would let the young man continue training, believing he was in control, when in reality, the control was no longer entirely his.