I don't know what kind of spatial manipulation it underwent, but this place was perfectly circular, with a single desk and chair at its center. Surrounded entirely by bookshelves, it was a prison of books—a massive vault containing the legacy guarded by the Nachzehrer King.
In that room, Yujin lay flat, staring up at the ceiling.
At first, he had been content just reading, but as the days turned into weeks, his thoughts grew heavier. He was plagued by worries that seemed impossible to resolve just by talking them out.
"You still look as if the world is weighing on your shoulders."
"…I just haven't found the answer yet."
Yujin hadn't shared the nature of his concerns with his Master. Netsalem seemed to know this, patiently waiting for the boy to speak up on his own.
"Well, if the body is pushed to its limits, such idle thoughts tend to vanish. How about a proper training session?"
At the sudden proposal, Yujin pushed himself off the floor and looked at Netsalem.
"You haven't brought this up until now. What changed?"
"I have finally decided how best to break you in."
Originium flows through the bodies of the Infected. A Caster reaches their zenith only when they can control that Originium to the extreme, managing it with absolute efficiency. You must be the one to drive the mineral, not the other way around.
You must command the Arts. An uncontrolled Art is like a wild beast; if you cannot leash it, your end will be a miserable death.
"That is why everyone treats it so lightly."
The Infected often delude themselves into thinking they are 'skilled' with Arts, never realizing they are merely being dragged along by the Originium without ever holding the reins.
Those uninfected handle Arts through external circuits. While they rarely lose control, a single mistake can turn them into the Infected. This is why Arts are treated as a double-edged sword: the most useful tool if wielded, but a blade pointed at one's own throat if not.
"What I will teach you today is the absolute fundamental. I had hoped to avoid such a primitive method, but... it is the fastest path."
Yujin believed he already judged and controlled the flow within him, but the 'fundamental' was everything. Control of the flow.
"…I am prepared, however primitive or dangerous it may be."
"Good."
Netsalem intended to build a foundation. A bedrock that would not crumble even if the usage of Arts exceeded all limits. He had seen countless fragile foundations—ones that collapsed the moment a storm hit, or when pushed to the absolute brink.
"You must possess a foundation that remains unshaken in any circumstance."
In Netsalem's eyes, Yujin's current foundation wasn't poorly built. In fact, it was miraculously solid for someone who had forged it alone. However, it still lacked the stability to withstand a true monster or a catastrophic situation.
He had heard the full report of the duel with Tarkan from Kalaisha. Yujin's Arts flow had tangled, nearly killing him, and he only survived because Kalaisha untangled the knots while providing treatment.
"The preparations are complete. Only your choice remains."
"…I don't see any equipment, though."
"Only you and I are needed."
Yujin opened his mouth to question the method, but seeing his Master's serious gaze, he simply nodded.
"I am ready."
"…Very well. Then."
Suddenly, Netsalem's finger moved in a slow, deliberate strike toward Yujin's heart.
Even though he saw it coming, he couldn't move. It was as if time itself had slowed, the King's finger wreathed in deep shadow as it made contact with Yujin's chest.
"We begin."
Thump!
"Wh-what is… this…!"
Yujin's entire body was crushed. It felt as if a high-voltage current was surging up from the floor through his feet. He couldn't breathe. His eyes turned bloodshot, a map of ruptured capillaries.
He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air as Netsalem watched him coldly.
"Did I not tell you? Your foundation must be unshaken by any storm. No matter how many waves crash against you."
Decay.
The power that defined Netsalem—the Arts of corruption and rot—was now planted deep within Yujin's heart.
He had to stand. But like a newborn animal, he could barely maintain his balance. The moment he tried to take a step, he collapsed face-first into the dirt.
Instinctively, Yujin tried to circulate his Arts. His platinum light flickered to life, but it was being steadily swallowed by the encroaching darkness of the Decay.
"Endure. If you endure, you will gain what you seek."
"D-damn… old man…!"
He didn't want to swear in front of his Master, but the agony was so great he couldn't hold it back. And this was only the beginning.
"Simply enduring is not the goal."
"This is… absolute… horse shit…"
A black undead construct, born of Netsalem's Arts, rose to face Yujin. It held a blunt, heavy blade. It looked ready to beat him senseless.
"When faced with such a trial, will you only grit your teeth and stay down? That achieves nothing. You must be able to move, to swing your sword, even while being crushed."
"Who the hell… can actually… do that?!"
"Buldrokkas'tee."
"That… crazy… son of a…!"
Yujin thought of Buldrokk's monstrous body. The Wendigo was the type of person who would be dropped into a volcano and call the lava "lukewarm."
"He and I… are on… different… levels…!"
Yujin's nose began to bleed. Meanwhile, the undead skeleton was mocking him, performing a bizarre 'bone dance' right in front of him.
"There is another example." Netsalem tapped his staff on the floor. "Me."
"Augh… seriously…"
The Nachzehrer are a race that cannot survive away from war. Netsalem had spent his life in the center of catastrophes, surrounded by those being torn apart by Originium. He had embraced that life. He walked through war, raising the dead to serve him. Even as the Catastrophes fell, he never looked away.
It was agony. Every time he reached his limit, the world seemed to demand his death.
In the middle of blood-soaked battlefields, through fainting spells and madness… eventually, he realized he was standing on a foundation that could never be broken.
"This is the starting point. The destiny you chose, the vow you spoke. This is the price of keeping them."
With those words, Netsalem slammed his staff down.
The dancing undead suddenly stopped and took a combat stance, looking strangely satisfied. It leveled its blunt blade and lunged. Netsalem tossed a sword to Yujin.
The pitch-black blade. The gift from Aorn.
Yujin caught the sword by instinct and tried to take a step, but his usual senses were gone.
The undead launched a simple, forceful strike. It had no technique, just raw weight. Normally, Yujin would have pivoted effortlessly, but his body wouldn't obey. His feet tripped over each other, and he tumbled into the dirt, taking the full weight of the strike on his shoulder.
Yujin gritted his teeth so hard they threatened to shatter, his golden eyes burning as he glared at the skeleton. The skeleton, for its part, started doing a 'victory dance.'
It was humiliating. Yujin tried to crawl toward his fallen blade, but his muscles were unresponsive. He finally lost his battle with the agonizing pain radiating from his heart and his vision faded.
"Again."
"Gah…!"
The moment he passed out, his body was hoisted into the air by a gust of wind, and he was jolted awake. Netsalem stood over him, staff raised.
"If it were Theresis or Theresia, I would never put them through this. Even Kalaisha gave up and fled this training. But you? You can do this!"
He had to endure. But he had to go beyond endurance; he had to stand and fight.
"Yujin, think of what you have that Buldrokkas'tee does not! If he was born with a body gifted by the gods, what is it that you possess?"
A body harder than steel. Buldrokk would have stood up and simply adapted to the Decay through raw physical resilience. But what about him? What did Yujin have?
"From the North, the monsters come—thousand-eyed demons, twisted fiends with countless limbs! From the Sea, the Profundis comes—a singular, undying consciousness of infinite evolution!"
Netsalem's eyes glowed with a terrifying intensity as he spoke of these threats.
"Do not speak of changing the world so foolishly! If you cannot overcome a hurdle as low as this, you will change nothing!"
Sensation.
While his physical senses were fading, his mind and perception began to expand. He could feel the Decay spreading through every individual vein.
"Do you think you can protect anything within that great storm with what you have now?"
Netsalem's voice grew eerily quiet at the end.
Flow. Refusing to be swept away by the tide. Refusing to fall in the middle of the storm. Standing tall as his own person in this world.
In that moment, for the very first time, the platinum light began to exert its own control over the Decay.
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