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. It spread 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. He 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 Every hour meant for cultivation had been replaced by this seemingly pointless running.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. It was 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.
"I say, Old Wolf," Kaelen drawled, leaning halfway out the window and tapping the sill with idle amusement. "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. His gaze stayed fixed on Erika.
"He was on the verge of breaking," Wolfgang said. His voice was flat, though a muscle in his jaw twitched.
Kaelen raised an eyebrow, tapping the windowsill. "Oh? And your grand solution is to turn him into the priory's newest circus act? Running him to death like a living wheel-spinning toy?"
"Now he's too exhausted to think," Wolfgang retorted coldly. "He doesn't have the energy to snap."
Kaelen smirked. "Ah. The legendary Wolfgang compassion. Torture the boy until he forgets he's falling apart. Beautiful."
Wolfgang's expression turned storm-dark. He refused to answer.
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 and 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, his lips curling slightly, then looked away as if too refined to bother.
Wolfgang 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 enlarged the greedy gleam in his eyes as they flickered between Wolfgang and Erika.
"To what?" Morrison barked a laugh, high and 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 absolute obsession.
"The more I see of this child... the more fascinating he becomes."
Morrison didn't wait for a response. He spun on his heel and bolted out the door. The aristocratic youth followed behind him at a leisurely, detached pace.
—
Minutes later, the spectators descended from their ivory tower and stepped right into the muddy reality of the cloister.
Erika's lungs worked like torn bellows. Each breath was a searing rip. His legs moved with no sensation left in them—only numb momentum and a will honed into something close to self-flagellation. Sweat stung his blurred eyes. The path didn't matter. The direction didn't matter. Only the cloister remained. Lap after lap.
The whispers and mockery around the area faded into background noise, buried beneath his ragged gasps and the pounding rhythm in his chest. Exhaustion wrapped around his body like a cocoon, sealing the rest of the world behind a trembling membrane.
Until a figure stepped directly into his running path.
Erika nearly collided with him. He stumbled several steps before stopping, lifting his sweat-soaked, heavy head.
The strange old scholar stood there. At Morrison's side was the noble youth, utterly incompatible with the austere cloister and with Erika's disheveled state.
His white formalwear was immaculate and expertly tailored. The cuffs and collar were embroidered with delicate gold-thread vines. His pale blond hair was perfectly combed back. A snow-white handkerchief was held lightly over his 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, his voice cracking with exhilaration. "Look at that state! A perfect specimen of exhaustion! The peak struggle of will versus flesh! Savage! Pure savagery!"
Erika's thoughts slowed from the lack of oxygen. Trouble? An obstruction? Another test from Wolfgang? His muscles tensed instinctively, sharpening into wary, beastlike defensiveness.
Morrison ignored the confusion. A heavy slap landed on the noble youth's back.
"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. His ice-blue eyes swept over Erika. Evaluating. Measuring.
Erika's heart tightened. A fight? His oxygen-starved mind frantically calculated his remaining stamina. A narrow cloister offered little room to dodge or counter.
But what followed defied every expectation.
Loren took no combat stance. Instead, he dropped into a starting position that seemed entirely disconnected from pure physical exertion.
His breathing shifted instantly, locking into a rhythmic, cyclical pattern. A faint, almost imperceptible hum of power wrapped around his legs.
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. This was a race. A race invented by a mad scholar and joined inexplicably by a noble scion, with Erika dragged along as an unwilling participant.
A surge of fury and absurdity crashed through Erika's mind. The pressure, the injustice, the anger—all found their outlet.
Fine. Run, then.
There was no starting pistol. Only Morrison's shrill laughter.
A sharp breath filled Erika's lungs. His eyes fixed forward. His starting posture was crude and rough—an unrefined burst of force born purely from the instinct to survive.
The moment Erika pushed off, the white blur moved simultaneously.
Through his sweat-stung eyes, Erika watched it happen. Loren didn't explode off the stone tiles. There was no violent tearing of muscle, no savage kick against the ground. His body simply flowed forward. Like a drop of water slipping down a perfectly smooth blade.
Erika forced his exhausted limbs to obey. His legs felt like solid lead. Every breath tore at his throat, fighting against the heavy, oppressive air of the Sanctum.
But within ten steps, looking at the white back ahead of him, a chilling realization pierced through Erika's oxygen-starved brain.
It wasn't that the noble youth possessed some terrifying, explosive power. He didn't. But he had something else—an absolute, sickening harmony with the world around him.
Loren ran with an immaculate, effortless rhythm. Where Erika's every step was a brutal war against gravity and the Sanctum's heavy atmosphere, Loren seemed to offer zero resistance. He didn't fight the air; he slipped through it. His breathing wasn't a desperate gasp for oxygen, but a precise, cyclical rhythm that seemed to perfectly match the faint, ambient hum of the priory itself.
He was a perfect conductor. No wasted motion. No internal friction. A precision machine built by pure, unblemished bloodlines.
Erika ran on raw survival instinct. His form was collapsing, his movements violently inefficient. Yet his eyes burned with a feral ferocity—a reckless, self-destructive determination that the flawless boy ahead of him entirely lacked.
White and grey. Loren's immaculate form gliding ahead. Erika's sweat-stained novice robe violently trailing behind.
Loren maintained a half-body lead. He didn't accelerate to widen the gap, nor did he slow to allow a catch-up. He simply maintained that subtle distance—like a cold, invisible ruler measuring the insurmountable divide between a struggling savage and the absolute standard.
Erika's heart threatened to burst against his ribs. The composed, effortless white back ahead of him fueled a sudden, blinding surge of resentment.
Why? Why must he struggle to the point of literal collapse, endure the mockery, face the humiliation of being thrown out—when someone like Loren was simply born to glide, born to look down from above?
His thoughts dissolved. Only one feral impulse remained: Close the gap. Even a fraction.
Erika pushed harder. Savagely. Heedless of pain or torn muscle. His form deteriorated, his breathing ragged, but his speed increased against all limits.
The gap shrank. Barely, but it shrank.
A flicker of surprise crossed Loren's previously blank eyes. His breathing stuttered—a microscopic hitch—but he corrected it 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.
Erika's consciousness blurred. His vision trembled. At the next turn, Loren planted a foot sharply, pivoting with extraordinary body control. Almost a right angle.
Erika followed on instinct alone. He had no precision left. His exhausted ankle twisted violently.
A sharp collapse.
Stone met skin with a brutal skid. Pain seared his elbows and knees.
Erika lay gasping. His vision spotted with dancing lights.
The white figure stopped.
Loren turned back. His breath was steady, only a sheen of sweat on his temples. His 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!"
His eyes filled with growing fervor, Morrison peered down at Erika. "Interesting! Very interesting!"
The laughter and footsteps faded.
Erika's fists tightened until his nails pierced his skin.
"Inefficient. Wasteful."
Words that cut deeper than mockery or pain.