The jungle thickened the further Edran ventured. The light above had dimmed, filtered through countless layers of emerald canopy. The air grew heavier, saturated with the scent of moss, distant pollen, and something faintly metallic. It was like walking into the breath of something ancient, something that had seen things die and grow for millennia.
But Edran didn't slow. Each movement now carried intention. The tremble in his limbs from earlier had faded, replaced by something quieter—not confidence, but caution honed into focus. Where before he had moved and watched himself move, uncertain, now his body began to respond with a tentative unity. His thoughts and his steps weren't fully aligned—not yet—but the discord between them had begun to soften.
He ducked beneath a curtain of vines, landed silently from a short ledge, and then froze, sensing the shift in elevation. A steep incline loomed ahead, slick with clinging moss and jagged with exposed stone.
He hesitated. Then drew a breath.
Test it.
His knees bent. Muscles coiled.
He leapt.
And slammed into the slope, hard.
The world jolted. The breath was knocked out of him. He hit the incline chest-first, sliding backward with his arms scraping against stone and root. By the time he stopped, he was sprawled in a shallow gulley, coughing up dirt and breath.
Pain flared across his ribs. His arms throbbed. He blinked, trying to slow the spinning of the canopy above.
"Damn," he muttered. "That was stupid."
He rolled over onto his side, heart still pounding, lungs scraping at the thick air. He wasn't gravely injured—this body was far too durable for that—but the ache was a sobering reminder.
You moved without thinking.
The climb had seemed doable. In Ravian's memory, jumps like that were simple. Calculated. Clean. But memories weren't instinct. And instinct wasn't mastery.
He sat up slowly, wiping blood from his palm.
"You can't just trust the echo of someone else," he murmured. "Even if that echo lives in your skin."
The jungle was still. But it wasn't indifferent. It listened.
A breath later, the System's voice stirred, cool and unwavering.
"You possess immense physical strength, Host. But strength without mastery invites self-destruction."
Edran let out a dry, bitter laugh. "Yeah, I figured that part out."
He pushed himself to his feet, wincing slightly. The soreness helped anchor him.
"So, what now? Wait until my instincts catch up? Or start from scratch like a child learning to walk?"
"Both approaches have precedent," the System replied. "However, understanding arises fastest through failure."
"Helpful," Edran muttered. Then paused.
The words weren't wrong. But there was more to them. Failure wasn't just pain. It was feedback. The rock face hadn't punished him for being weak. It had punished him for being careless.
He looked at his hands—steady now, despite the shaking moments ago.
Then I need to earn this strength. One step at a time.
He glanced back at the incline. No, not yet. He wouldn't try it again blindly. He would break the movement down. Study the angles. Train the feel of this new body until he knew how far to leap, how to land.
Not as Ravian.
As Edran.
The forest darkened as evening drew closer, the chorus of insects rising. Edran moved slower now, but not out of fear. His steps were purposeful, his mind quietly working through what his body told him. Tension in the calf meant too much push. A strain in the shoulder meant imbalance. Every movement became a message.
He found a clearing near dusk, the jungle parting like a curtain to reveal a bed of moss between gnarled roots. He sat against the base of a wide tree, resting, but not idle. His breathing slowed. His muscles hummed. And his thoughts were quiet.
This is what training means, he realized. Not to repeat someone else's steps. But to carve your own, until even the echoes begin to fade.
The jungle pulsed around him, indifferent yet watchful. Edran closed his eyes.
Not in retreat.
In reflection.
He would try again tomorrow. He would fail better.
And soon, he would rise in full.