Days quickly turned into weeks; my training regimen didn't let up. I would wake early to hunt, roast and grind the bones of scavengers, then begin the ritual of bone tempering.
As I quickly learned under Ithas' guidance, the ritual was far more effective during training, so I scaled my routine accordingly. Where once I punched the bark of a dead tree to strengthen my hands, now I punched the stone walls of houses.
My knuckles bled, staining the black stone crimson, but I didn't stop. These days I had been... not quite there in presence of mind. I had undergone another ritual of muscle tempering; it had hurt far more than the previous one. The increase in strength wasn't as obvious, but it was still massive.
By my not-very-scientific estimate, I was roughly as strong as three average men. Using stone blocks and Ithas' eerily accurate senses, I measured my lifting strength at about 450 kilos (992 pounds).
'It's still not enough to even draw Owl's bow once, and drawing the string will be much harder. I have a long way to go.' I thought numbly as my fists kept striking the black stone. I could see the bone of my knuckles every time I readied a punch.
I had a better understanding of what caused my numbness now: soul damage. The pain during the ritual was strong enough to affect me deeply—to the point that my very self, my soul, was damaged. That explained a lot: for example, a victim of torture who turns catatonic. That was simply a symptom of an injured soul that could no longer repair itself.
In basic terms, pain strong enough could damage your soul. That raised the question of the sacrifice I'd have to make to use the mask again—if it hadn't already been questioned. It would be a sacrifice of my own soul, my very self. If I wasn't careful, I could become different: my soul might be unable to recover, the numbness could become permanent, and I could even turn into someone completely new.
My fist hit the stone hard, cracking it and dislodging a brick from the wall.
'Maybe I already have.'
ººº
Hunting had become routine when it came to scavengers and husks. Though I had no real reason to hunt the latter, I still did. Fighting enemies that wanted to kill me kept me alert and solidified my training.
There were only so many hours that repeating katas and punching walls could buy me; sometimes the plain threat of death was more effective than a week of training.
I could take on up to six husks now—not directly, of course; a fight was never really direct. Controlling your enemies was as important as confronting them. When I faced that many, never more than two attacked me at once, and never more than four stood at a time.
I danced around them with practiced steps, tossing them over benches and crates. I made them trip on curbs, on each other, even on their own limbs. When agility failed, raw strength took over: if they didn't trip, my fist found their chest, back, or face. It cracked bones and sent them tumbling—sometimes into another assailant.
At first I was scared of combat; I thought myself brave—and I had been—for an average teenager. But the average for teenagers in the heavens was much higher. I imagined as much, since they had to deal with these abominations. Weeks of training and fighting ground away any remaining hesitation. In the back of my mind I knew I could rely on Ithas if my life was truly in danger... but when those situations arose, Ithas was silent.
I knew then what he meant.
'If I can't deal with this myself, am I even worthy to wear the mask?'
That had been the first time I'd fought six husks. I got hurt—my bones were almost cracked and my muscles torn. But I was effectively immune to madness, so I recovered.
Now I dance around six of them, and I'm ready to face seven or eight. The threat of death pushes you forward: you either take the leap and survive or you die.
ººº
[Weeks later...]
I had lost count of days. I had undergone six bone-tempering rituals; my bones were far sturdier. I could crack stones with a few punches without pain rattling them. My skin still split, but that would be resolved when I began tempering my organs; that process would have to wait. I had been exploring the city, but the ingredients Ithas said were needed for the ritual were hard to find. I hadn't found a single one yet.
'Hells, there might not even be any in the city anymore.' That thought sent me down darker paths. If there were none here, I could wait for a group of adventurers to wander in...
I felt disgusted at myself for thinking that way, but I couldn't help it. I was still a long way from actually stealing, but the thought that I might change worried me.
'Let alone stealing from them—if they get inside, they're almost always carried by centurions. And if they aren't, they've fought their way in. Stealing from them is just not possible in either case.'
Letting the thoughts dissolve away, I rechecked the trap. I was ready to hunt another skinless. The trap was just a backup this time, however. I had undergone muscle tempering three times, if I counted the one where I was still with Owl. I was effectively immune to madness, and even though I was much weaker than a skinless... and much slower, I was still smarter and well trained.
Either way, my training had stagnated. Husks—no matter the number, unless we meant a proper horde of dozens—were no threat anymore. Movements that had once been silent now sounded as loud as a marching band to my trained ears. They were slow and predictable. I couldn't train with them anymore.
Long gone were the days of eating young scavengers too, I now ate only the best sewer adult meat. It tasted much better when grilled. Keeping in mind we are comparing small rat with big rat meat, so it still tasted like crap, but it was premium crap now.
I emptied my mind of silly thoughts. Now was not the time for any of them.
I looked toward the end of the street where a skinless held its head high, sniffing the air. Its long black tongue danced like an enthralled snake, tasting the scent of prey.
I was the prey—at least, that's what it thought.
I threw a stone at it. The rock flew with enough force to punch a hole in a car door and struck its head. Strangely, it didn't dodge with its usual supernatural agility. Less funny was the reason: the rock simply wasn't a big enough threat to trigger a reaction.
It bounced off its muscled head, leaving no mark on its red flesh. It shook its head in annoyance and looked my way, hissing.
I assumed a low combat stance and met the creature's milky eyes.
"Come get me, you ugly meat-stick!"
It charged.