From that day on, a figure of relentless motion appeared in the quiet cloisters of the priory and along the stone-paved walkways connecting its buildings.
From the first light of dawn to the fading glow of dusk, the boy in novice robes—stiff and wrinkled from being repeatedly soaked with sweat and dried—could be seen gritting his teeth, every muscle pulled tight, pushing himself to utter exhaustion in sprint after sprint. His steps were sometimes heavy and stumbling, sometimes slightly lighter after a brief recovery, but the cycle never ceased.
Before long, this bizarre routine became a spectacle—then a joke—spreading through the entire priory.
Erika, previously invisible among the many novices, had now become known to all in the most absurd way possible. He no longer attended classes, no longer joined group meditation. Every hour meant for cultivation had been replaced by this seemingly pointless running.
At first, the onlookers cast curious glances. Soon after, those glances turned into open mockery.
"Look, the idiot is at it again!" A cleric apprentice leaning against a pillar nudged his companion, jerking his chin toward Erika's path.
His companion burst into laughter. "Is he seriously just running? Not even the most basic energy channeling? Pure, dry running? Hahaha!"
A passing sister covered her mouth with a soft laugh, her tone dripping with pity and superiority. "His form is quite good, and he's rather fast. Pity he's going in the wrong direction. Hopefully the old man at the gate is wise enough to throw a broom into his hands and save him the trouble. Hahaha!"
"I heard Instructor Wolfgang threw him out of class for being lazy."
"Serves him right! A slacker like that is only suited for gate work!"
Comments like these buzzed around Erika like swarms of gnats. He heard every word. Each one stung like a needle, but he didn't stop. He didn't even turn his head. He lowered it further, funneling all the humiliation, doubt, and confusion into heavier footfalls and harsher breaths, stamping them onto the bluestone path as if he could grind all the voices into dust.
His eyes were hollow, yet burned with a fanatical edge. He didn't know why he was running, nor what result the running would bring. He only knew this was what Wolfgang had "demanded" of him—and the only thing he could do to keep himself from shattering under the weight of confusion and pressure. The physical agony became a form of anesthesia, dulling the torment within.
Several Afternoons Later
The sky above the Holy Sanctum was deceptively clear—a calm cerulean blue with a few thin clouds drifting like gauze. The sun, no longer fierce, cast warm, lazy light across the priory's ancient structures, stretching long shadows over the stone paths. The tranquil afternoon atmosphere sharply contrasted with the lone, tireless figure still running below.
On the second floor of the Indoctrination Hall, Wolfgang and Kaelen stood by an open window.
Wolfgang stood with arms crossed, a deep frown etched into his face. His hawk-like eyes tracked Erika's route below, unwavering. His expression was grim—tinged with something like irritation, something he himself couldn't identify.
Kaelen, in contrast, seemed thoroughly entertained. Leaning halfway out the window, he tapped the sill with idle amusement.
"I say, Old Wolf," Kaelen drawled, "what is wrong with your precious disciple? How many days has it been? Is he at war with his own legs, or does he have a personal feud with the priory's tiles?"
Wolfgang exhaled sharply through his nose, refusing to answer. His gaze stayed fixed on Erika—on the boy's exhausted, hollow expression; his sweat-soaked robes sticking to his skin; his labored breaths.
Only when Erika finished another lap—pausing briefly to lean against the wall, gasping violently, nearly collapsing, only to push himself forward again mere seconds later—did Wolfgang finally speak. His voice was low, heavy with suppressed frustration:
"You saw what state he was in before. He was on the verge of breaking."
He paused, recalling the look in Erika's eyes—that desperate, fragile edge.
"I was… trying to help him," Wolfgang muttered, as if the explanation sounded foreign even to his own ears. "Giving him something simple and mindless to do. Something that would burn through all that excess emotion and darkness. At least… it would keep him from thinking too much. Or from driving himself over the edge."
Kaelen raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And this 'help' of yours includes turning him into the priory's newest spectacle? Running himself to death like a living wheel-spinning toy?"
Wolfgang's face tightened further. He rubbed his temple. "What else was I supposed to do? Sit him down for a heartfelt chat and tell him about the Sanctum's darker truths? That would have killed him faster."
He inhaled deeply, looking down again. A faint thread of anxiety—one he himself likely did not recognize—crept into his voice.
"But like this… what do I do now?"
The question seemed less directed at Kaelen and more at himself.
The two fell into silence, listening to the heavy footsteps and ragged breaths from below. Their eyes followed that stubborn, painful, infuriatingly persistent figure.
Just then, a knock sounded at the lounge door.
Before Wolfgang could answer, the door opened. The first to enter was Lun Qin—the tall, silent priestess. She simply stepped aside.
The pair who followed her into the room, however, shattered the Sanctum's solemnity.
In front was an old man wearing a crumpled, grime-stained grey scholar's robe. His hair was a white, chaotic nest; his spectacles thick and smudged with fingerprints. Despite his shabby appearance, his small eyes glittered with manic curiosity.
He barged in with zero regard for Wolfgang or Kaelen. His gaze locked instantly onto the figure running outside—like a hawk spotting prey.
"Ha! That's him, isn't it?!" the old man cackled, jabbing a thin, green-stained finger toward Erika. "Lun Qin told me everything! That 'lucky one' Balthasar dragged in from some no-name village! Tsk, tsk, tsk…"
Like a squirrel, he scurried to the window, shoving Kaelen aside, pressing his spectacles against the glass. His voice rose with manic delight:
"Look at that form! That force distribution! Completely unoptimized! Pure brute instinct! And that breathing—chaotic, but underneath it, an instinctual attempt to sync with some kind of energy reflux? Fascinating! Wild, untamed specimens always have the most beautiful flaws!"
Behind him stood a youth in immaculate white formalwear embroidered with gold. His noble lineage was unmistakable. He glanced once at Erika, lips curling slightly, then looked away as if too refined to bother.
Wolfgang's expression turned storm-dark. He recognized the old man—Morrison, an eccentric scholar obsessed with "special cases." The noble youth, though unfamiliar, clearly belonged to a top-tier Sanctum family.
Kaelen shot Wolfgang a look that plainly said: Well, here comes trouble.
Wolfgang swallowed his irritation. His voice was ice. "Scholar Morrison. To what do we owe this… unexpected visit?"
Morrison finally turned, his thick lenses enlarging the greedy gleam in his eyes as they flickered between Wolfgang and Erika.
"To what?" Morrison barked a laugh—high, unhinged. "Instructor Wolfgang, you've been hiding a treasure! Someone Balthasar fetched personally. Someone who made you, the incorruptible, break precedent and teach personally… And now, this delightful, utterly unconventional 'training' method…"
His gaze slid back to the window. His voice darkened with interest.
"The more I see of this child… the more fascinating he becomes."
Erika's lungs worked like torn bellows, each breath a searing rip. Legs moved with no sensation left in them—only numb momentum and a will honed into something close to self-flagellation. Sweat stung blurred eyes. The path didn't matter, nor direction. Only the cloister, a corridor linking the quiet cultivation sector with the primary teaching halls. Lap after lap.
Whispers and mockery around the area faded into background noise, a low hum buried beneath ragged gasps and the pounding rhythm in Erika's chest. Exhaustion wrapped around the body like a cocoon, sealing the rest of the world behind a trembling membrane.
Until a figure, purposeful and out of place among idle onlookers, stepped directly into the running path.
Erika nearly collided with the figure, stumbling several steps before stopping, lifting a sweat-soaked and heavy head.
The strange old scholar—Morrison—stood there in the same grey robe stained with unknown marks. Hair hung in a bird's nest tangle, and small eyes behind thick lenses glittered with fanatical intensity, fixed entirely on Erika.
At Morrison's side was a youth utterly incompatible with the austere cloister—and with Erika's disheveled state.
White formalwear immaculate and expertly tailored. Cuffs and collar embroidered with delicate gold-thread vines. Features refined, aristocratically pale. Pale blond hair perfectly combed back. A snow-white handkerchief held lightly over nose and mouth, as though the air itself carried an "unclean" aura of sweat and exertion. Ice-blue eyes appraised Erika with open scrutiny and a thin thread of disdain.
"Ha! It's the one! Yes!" Morrison jabbed a finger toward Erika, voice cracking with exhilaration. "Look at that state! A perfect specimen of exhaustion! The peak struggle of will versus flesh! Savage! Pure savagery!"
Thought slowed from lack of oxygen. Trouble? Obstruction? Another test from Wolfgang? Muscles tensed instinctively, instinct sharpening into wary, beastlike defensiveness.
Morrison ignored the confusion. A heavy slap landed on the noble youth's back—enough to break delicate composure.
"Go on! Loren de Witt!" Morrison shrilled, sounding more like a researcher urging a test subject than a human speaking. "Show it! Show what perfection within the standard looks like!"
Loren de Witt lowered the handkerchief with unhurried grace. Ice-blue eyes swept over Erika—evaluating, measuring.
The heart in Erika's chest tightened. A fight? Muscles prepared. Mind calculated stamina left. A narrow cloister offered little room to dodge or counter.
But what followed defied every expectation.
Loren took no stance, drew no weapon, launched no attack. The aristocratic youth instead dropped into a supremely professional, textbook-perfect, powerfully aesthetic sprint starting position—firmly crouched on the stone tiles beside Erika.
Fingertips touched the ground lightly. Back curved like a drawn bow. Leg muscles coiled with predatory tension. Every movement precise, as if traced from a training manual, absurdly at odds with opulent clothing.
Erika stared in bafflement. A noble preparing for a sacred race, right here?
Morrison's excitement twisted into warped joy. He pointed from Loren's poised form to Erika's stunned stillness and exploded into manic laughter.
"Run! Run, fool! The race is on! Look! Our esteemed young master of House Witt—and our borderland mongrel! What a contrast! Hahahaha!"
The laughter echoed through the cloister, high and painfully sharp.
Realization dawned—this was not a fight or humiliation. This was a race. A race invented by a mad scholar and joined inexplicably by a noble scion, with Erika dragged along as unwilling participant.
A surge of fury and absurdity crashed through Erika's mind. Pressure, injustice, anger—all found their outlet.
Fine. Run, then.
No starting pistol—only Morrison's shrill laughter.
A sharp breath filled Erika's lungs. Eyes fixed forward. Starting posture crude and rough—unrefined force born of survival, in stark contrast to Loren's flawless form.
The moment Erika pushed off, a white blur moved simultaneously.
Loren's start was soundless. Body shot forward like a white arrow loosed with perfect precision. The hem of the formal coat fluttered without breaking motion's fluidity.
Erika forced exhausted limbs to obey. Legs felt like lead. Lungs burned. Endurance beaten in by Wolfgang's "training" carried the body forward, barely.
Within ten steps, the difference became unmistakable.
Loren ran with immaculate technique. Even stride. Controlled breathing rhythm—something refined and patterned. Core stable, arm motion efficient, footsteps calculated for minimal waste and maximum propulsion. A precision machine executing the command: run.
Erika ran on raw survival instinct. Movements wasteful, form collapsing, breathing chaotic—yet the eyes burned with ferocity, a reckless determination Loren lacked.
White and grey—Loren's immaculate form leading, Erika's sweat-stained novice robe trailing.
Loren maintained throughout a half-body lead. No acceleration to widen the gap, no slowing to allow a catch-up. A subtle distance—like a ruler measuring the invisible divide between "effort" and "standard."
Erika's heart threatened to burst. Muscles screamed. The composed white back ahead fueled a surge of resentment. Why? Why struggle to the point of collapse, suffer mockery, face dismissal—when someone like Loren glided effortlessly, born to look down from above?
Thought dissolved. Only one impulse remained: Close the gap. Even a fraction.
Erika pushed harder—savagely, heedless of pain or torn muscle. Form deteriorated, breathing ragged, but speed increased against all limits.
The gap shrank—barely, but it shrank.
A flicker of surprise crossed Loren's previously blank eyes. Breathing stuttered—a microscopic hitch—corrected instantly.
Morrison chased behind, still laughing."The struggle of the savage! A challenge to the standard! Chaotic! Inefficient! But the vitality! The reckless drive! Loren! Maintain the pressure!"
Each word pierced like a poisoned needle.
Pressure. So this was pressure.
Consciousness blurred. Vision trembled. At the next turn, Loren planted a foot sharply, pivoting with extraordinary body control—almost a right angle.
Erika followed—instinct only, no precision left. Exhausted ankle twisted violently.
A sharp collapse.
Stone met skin with a brutal skid. Pain seared elbows and knees.
Erika lay gasping. Vision spotted with dancing lights.
The white figure stopped.
Loren turned back, breath steady, only a sheen of sweat on the temples. Ice-blue eyes showed neither victory nor pity—merely observation, like watching predicted behavior in a test subject.
"Cadence passable. Stride utilization low. Core loose. Breathing application… zero."A pause."Motion driven purely by instinct and willpower. Inefficient. Wasteful."
Without another look, Loren walked toward Morrison.
Morrison slapped Loren's shoulder, delighted. "Perfect data! The standard suppressing the savage! Inefficiency—how fascinating!"
Eyes filled with growing fervor, Morrison peered down at Erika."Interesting! Very interesting!"
Laughter and footsteps faded.
Erika's fists tightened until nails pierced skin.
"Inefficient. Wasteful."
Words that cut deeper than mockery or pain.