Ken learned something important that morning.
Standing was not the same as being ready.
The training hall was quiet compared to the battlefield, but it wasn't peaceful. The air felt dense, charged with restrained force. Stone walls were scarred with old impacts, some clean, others violent enough to have required reinforcement runes carved directly into the surface.
Ken stood alone on an empty platform.
No opponents.
No countdown.
No noise.
Just him.
He rolled his shoulders slowly and adjusted his stance. His body still protested, a dull ache lingering in his ribs and arms, but it no longer felt fragile. More like something that had been bent too far and carefully set back into place.
Ken inhaled.
Then exhaled.
Nothing happened.
Good.
He raised his hand slightly and focused inward.
The vibration answered immediately.
Not violently. Not explosively. It stirred like a held breath, subtle pressure building behind his sternum. Ken froze, holding it there, testing the response.
The stone beneath his boots trembled.
Just a little.
Ken frowned and released it.
The tremor stopped.
"So that's the baseline."
His voice echoed faintly across the platform.
A soft sound reached him from the side.
Metal shifting.
Ken turned his head.
Lyra was seated on a low stone railing near the edge of the hall, one leg bent, the other dangling lazily over the side. Her sword rested across her knees, untouched. She wasn't watching him directly.
She was listening.
"You're leaking," she said without looking up.
Ken lowered his hand.
"I barely did anything."
"Exactly," she replied. "That's the problem."
He clenched his jaw and tried again.
This time, he focused on keeping the vibration contained. Not pushing it outward. Not shaping it. Just holding it in place.
His muscles tightened.
His breathing slowed.
The pressure inside him grew heavier.
Sweat formed at his temples.
The stone stayed still.
Lyra finally looked at him.
"Better," she said. "Now move."
Ken hesitated.
"Without using it?"
"Yes."
He stepped forward.
Then another step.
His body remembered the battlefield instinctively. Every movement felt like it wanted reinforcement. Like it expected power to follow.
Ken resisted.
His foot landed.
No vibration.
His leg shook.
He nearly lost his balance but corrected himself at the last second.
Lyra nodded once.
"Again."
They didn't speak for a while after that.
Ken walked.
Stopped.
Adjusted.
Moved again.
Each step felt heavier than the last. Not physically. Mentally. Like fighting an urge that had already proven how effective it could be.
At some point, his hands began to shake.
Not from pain.
From restraint.
Ken stopped moving and let out a sharp breath.
"This is harder than fighting," he muttered.
Lyra smiled faintly.
"That's why most people skip it."
Ken glanced at her.
"And they die?"
"Usually," she replied.
He laughed under his breath, then immediately regretted it as the vibration flared in response. The platform shuddered violently.
Ken dropped to one knee instinctively.
"Enough," Lyra said.
The vibration cut off.
Ken stayed where he was, breathing hard, palms pressed against the stone.
Lyra stood and approached him, stopping a few steps away.
"You feel how fast it reacts," she said. "It doesn't wait for intent. It answers impulse."
Ken nodded slowly.
"It's like it's already halfway out."
"Then your job," she continued, "is to decide when it finishes the motion."
She turned and walked back toward the railing, sitting again.
"Tomorrow," she added, "we'll let it move."
Ken looked up.
"And today?"
Lyra glanced at him.
"Today," she said, "you learn how not to."
Ken pushed himself back to his feet.
His body ached. His head throbbed. The pressure inside him hadn't vanished.
But it was quieter.
For now.
He took his position again at the center of the platform.
And started over.
Ken stayed there longer than he should have.
Centered. Still. Breathing.
The platform beneath his feet was cold stone, etched with old marks left by people who had failed this exact moment. Some were shallow scratches. Others were deep gouges that had never been fully repaired, as if the hall itself remembered.
Ken raised his hand again.
Slow.
Careful.
The vibration stirred immediately, eager, familiar. It pressed against his chest like a wave against a locked door.
Not yet.
He tightened his fingers and forced the sensation inward.
The pressure spiked.
His teeth clenched.
His vision blurred for half a second.
The stone did not move.
Ken smiled despite the strain.
Progress.
A bead of sweat ran down his jaw and dropped onto the platform. The moment it touched the stone, the vibration twitched in response. Not outward. Not violent. Just a reminder that it was always listening.
Ken lowered his hand and stepped back.
Again.
He repeated the process.
Raise. Focus. Contain. Release.
Each cycle took longer. Each one demanded more control than the last. His body wanted shortcuts. His instincts screamed at him to let it flow, to reinforce every motion the way he had on the battlefield.
That way worked.
This way was torture.
By the tenth repetition, his arms felt like lead. His breathing was uneven, controlled only through effort. The pressure inside him pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, matching it beat for beat.
Ken staggered slightly.
He caught himself.
No vibration.
Good.
From the side of the hall, a loud impact echoed as two fighters collided hard enough to rattle the air. A flash of magic lit the walls. Cheers followed.
Ken didn't look.
He kept his eyes on the stone in front of him.
This wasn't about power.
This was about permission.
He moved again.
One step.
Two.
His legs shook openly now. Not from weakness. From denial. Every part of him wanted to let go.
Ken stopped.
Closed his eyes.
Listened.
The vibration wasn't angry.
It wasn't violent.
It was patient.
Waiting for him to give it a reason.
Ken exhaled slowly and took another step.
No tremor.
No hum.
Just stone beneath his boots.
A sharp breath escaped him. Half laugh. Half relief.
Lyra's voice reached him again, quieter this time.
"That's it," she said. "Right there."
Ken didn't turn.
"If I slip," he said, "even a little…"
"You'll feel it immediately," she replied. "And so will everyone else."
Ken nodded.
He held the position for several seconds longer, muscles burning, mind stretched thin. Then, carefully, he released the tension inside his chest.
The vibration retreated.
Not gone.
Just resting.
Ken lowered his arms and let himself sit on the edge of the platform, legs dangling. His entire body trembled now, exhaustion finally catching up.
Lyra approached again, stopping just close enough for him to notice.
"You didn't dominate it," she said. "You didn't suppress it either."
Ken wiped sweat from his brow.
"So what did I do?"
She looked at him for a long moment before answering.
"You taught it patience."
Ken stared at the stone floor below.
"That feels dangerous."
Lyra smiled, but there was no humor in it.
"It is."
She turned away and walked back toward her seat.
"Get used to this feeling," she added. "Most people only feel it right before they die."
Ken leaned back slightly, staring up at the high ceiling of the hall.
His body hurt.
His head throbbed.
The vibration was still there.
Quiet.
Waiting.
Ken closed his eyes and let out a slow breath.
He wasn't stronger than he had been yesterday.
But for the first time, he felt like he was in control of when that strength mattered.
And that scared him more than the battlefield ever had.
Tomorrow, he would let it move.
Today, he had learned how to stop.
And that might be the most dangerous lesson of all.