Rowan's heartbeat pounded in his ears as his master stepped back, arms folded across her chest. Her smile hadn't faded, if anything, it sharpened, like a wolf baring fangs before the pounce.
"Now ya know what yer dealin' with, brat," she said, calm as ever, eyes gleaming with fire. "But seein' power ain't the same as wieldin' it."
He swallowed hard, still reeling from the aura she had unleashed just minutes ago. "So… what now?"
Master barked a laugh, rough and guttural. "Now? Now we forge ya. You got mana in ya—no doubt. But right now it's raw. Crude. Useless. Like metal straight outta the earth." She cracked her knuckles, the sound sharp and final. "It's gotta be heated, hammered, shaped, and sharpened."
Rowan didn't like the way she said "sharpened." He eyed her warily.
"And we're doing that... how exactly?"
"I'm glad ya asked." She grinned and turned away. "Follow me."
Without another word, she marched off into the forest. Rowan stumbled after her, feet dragging, muscles still aching from the previous ordeal. The trees grew thicker, swallowing them in green shadow. Sunlight barely pierced the canopy, casting dappled patterns on the forest floor.
They arrived at a wide clearing nestled between thick oaks and weather-worn stones. A few makeshift wooden dummies stood crooked in the dirt.
Master nodded toward them casually. "From now on, every breath, every step, every thought is about mana control," she instructed. "First, ya master the basics; channelin' yer mana into physical strikes. Watch."
She stepped forward and raised a single fist, breathing slow and steady. A soft red glow ignited along her knuckles, pulsing like heated iron. Without touching the dummy, she punched.
A burst of heat followed, a shockwave of pressure and flame. The wooden dummy split in half with a loud crack, its top half toppling over in a cloud of smoke.
Rowan's jaw dropped. "You didn't even hit it."
"That's mana infusion," she said, flexing her fingers. "Magic ain't just about shootin' fireballs. It's a part of ya. Ya gotta breathe with it, bleed with it. Ya want strength?" She nodded to him. "Then show me you've got the guts to reach for it."
He nodded slowly, amazed yet intimidated. "Can I… really do that?"
She gave him an appraising look. "Only if ya stop doubtin' and start doin'. Channel that mana into yer fist. Remember how it felt when ya absorbed that fireball?"
Rowan took a breath and closed his eyes. He visualized the moment the fire hit, the pull of something ancient and alive awakening in his core. The warmth began to rise from his chest, down his arm. His right eye buzzed faintly, guiding him.
"Good," Master encouraged softly, watching closely. "Let it flow evenly. Don't force it."
His knuckles tingled, warmth building into an uncomfortable heat. His breathing quickened. The mana felt chaotic, wild.
"No!" Master snapped sharply. "Slow yer breathing! Control it, don't let it control ya."
Rowan grit his teeth, forcing his breathing into a calmer rhythm. Gradually, the chaotic energy steadied, wrapping around his fist like an invisible glove. A subtle red glow bloomed across his knuckles.
Master grinned. "Now strike!"
Rowan stepped forward, punching the dummy. He felt a rush of power surge forward but the glow flickered out quickly, and the impact barely cracked the wood.
He frowned. "I thought I had it."
"Ya did. For about half a second," she smirked. "Do it again."
He did. Then again. And again. For hours. Until his breath was ragged and his arms burned. And with each strike, it came easier. More natural. The glow steadied. The force surged. Finally, one punch shattered the upper half of the dummy. Master gave him a hard pat on the shoulder.
"That's the start. Control comes first. Power follows. Do it 'til yer knuckles bleed and yer bones ache." He nodded, exhausted but proud. "Good. Keep at it 'til sunset. If yer not dead by then, we move on tomorrow." She dropped onto a nearby log and pulled out a small flask, sipping lazily while he kept practicing.
Hours passed. Sweat poured down Rowan's face, his breath ragged, muscles burning from constant repetition. But with every strike, he felt more connected, more attuned. The sun began sinking, painting the sky deep oranges and purples, casting long shadows over the clearing.
Finally, Rowan collapsed onto the grass, gasping for air. Master stood over him, looking satisfied.
"Yer not bad, brat," she acknowledged grudgingly, tossing him a flask of water. "Ya survived another day. Tomorrow, we start the real trainin'."
Rowan blinked, exhausted but smiling weakly. "You mean… that wasn't real training?"
Master's eyes twinkled dangerously. "Oh, poor brat… ya haven't seen anything yet."
He groaned, collapsing back onto the cool grass. But deep down, a fierce excitement stirred in his chest. For the first time in his life, he had something more than just survival and regret.
The next morning, as the stars gave way to a pale dawn, Master built a small fire and began roasting some meat. Rowan sat up slowly, sore but feeling oddly accomplished. They ate in silence at first, the quiet broken only by crackling flames and distant birds waking.
Eventually, Master broke the quiet. "Ya did good yesterday, kid," she admitted quietly. "But ya gotta know, it's only gonna get tougher from here."
Rowan stared into the fire, thoughtful. "I know. I'm ready."
She eyed him carefully, the firelight reflecting sharply in her eyes. "Why do ya want strength so bad anyway? What drives ya, brat?"
Rowan hesitated, memories of his past flashing briefly before his eyes. "Because I've been weak all my life. Because I'm tired of running away," he said finally, voice low but firm.
Master nodded solemnly. "Then hold onto that, brat. When yer body's broken, when ya wanna quit, that's what'll keep ya goin'."
He nodded again, the resolve in his chest hardening into unshakable certainty. Master rose to her feet, stretching lazily.
"Get ready. Today, we start pushin' yer limits again."
—
Rowan soon discovered that Master's idea of training was something only a demon could invent. She had him run laps around the entire clearing, then backpedal it. Then sideways. Then backwards. After that, she made him do squats.. Hundreds of them.
"More. Lower. Again," she barked, leaning against a tree like she was supervising a relaxing picnic instead of human suffering.
Next came punches. Then kicks. Full-body routines where he had to channel mana with every move. "Feel the energy flow with yer motion, brat! Every strike is a spell if ya do it right."
He could barely keep up. And just when he thought they were done..
"One-armed pushups. Both sides. Hundred each."
Rowan stared. "Are you serious?"
"Dead serious. Clock's ticking."
And so, with arms trembling, Rowan dropped to the ground and began his pushups. Dirt scraped against his palms. Sweat dripped from his nose. His entire body burned.
After twenty, he felt like dying.
After forty, he wished he had.
By sixty, his arm screamed in protest. By eighty, his vision blurred. By ninety, he was cursing everything.
And all the while, Master reclined lazily on a flat rock, sipping from her flask.
"Where's the part where ya help me control my magic?" Rowan managed through gritted teeth.
"Whenever ya get a better grasp on yer mana," she said with a shrug. "The more ya exhaust yerself, the more ya learn to feel yer mana. Control comes from familiarity. Familiarity comes from hardship."
Rowan growled under his breath and pushed himself through the last ten reps.
"Ya want strong magic?" she added. "Then build a body that can hold it. The stronger yer body, the more ya can channel. That magic of yers ain't worth a damn if the rest of ya crumbles under the pressure."
Before long Rowan's arms were shaking, his legs numb from exertion. He had done more in one morning than he'd done in years. But Master wasn't done with him yet.
The red-haired woman stood up, stretching
"Alright, brat," she said, brushing dirt off her cloak. "Ya've run, ya've punched, ya've burned half yer body with effort.. now let's see if any of that stuck."
Rowan's arm throbbed from the last exercise. His breath came in short bursts, chest still heaving. "You've got to be kidding…"
She rolled her shoulders, a few joints popping as she loosened up. "We spar now."
"Spar?" Rowan blinked. Hadn't he already died once to get here? What kind of hell dimension was this?
"Aye," she said, stepping into the center of the clearing. "Best way to learn how to fight is to fight. Don't worry.. I'll hold back. A little."
Her grin twisted, wicked and sharp. Rowan's stomach dropped.
"You're serious?" he asked, dragging himself to his feet. His muscles screamed, every fiber of him aching from the morning's hellish workout.
"Dead serious. Real fights don't wait till you've had a snack and a nap. Get yer stance ready, or I'll drop ya in the first second."
Reluctantly, Rowan took position a few feet away, hands raised like she'd taught him—left foot forward, knees slightly bent, weight light on his heels. It felt sloppy, uneven.
"Alright, brat," she said, rolling her wrist. "First rule: don't die."
She moved before the last word even left her mouth. Rowan's eyes widened as Master shot forward like a blur, her fist coming straight for his chest.
He barely had time to dodge, the punch grazing his side and sending him stumbling back, winded by the force of the shockwave alone.
"That was me goin' easy!" she called out, cracking her knuckles. "Ya better wake up, kid!"
Rowan grunted, correcting his balance. She moved again but this time faster. A kick came from the side. He ducked. Barely. The wind off her heel stung his cheek like a slap.
Instinct took over. He retaliated with a wild punch which was unrefined and desperate.
Master swatted it aside like a twig. "Too slow."
Another jab. He blocked it with both forearms—and pain shot up his bones like lightning.
Rowan reeled, gritting his teeth. "Are you trying to kill me?!"
"If I was, ya'd already be six feet under!" she barked, launching another flurry of strikes.
Rowan ducked, weaved, and blocked just barely keeping up with her. Each strike carried the weight of a storm. Even held back, her attacks landed like hammers, forcing him to think faster, move smarter, or get flattened.
The world became a blur of motion. Dust flew as their feet kicked up the earth. Leaves scattered, branches shook. Rowan dodged another strike, ducking low, then threw a punch of his own, this time channeling mana into his arm like she'd taught him.
His fist collided with her side.
Or rather, it tried to.
She caught it.
With two fingers.
Her grin widened. "Now we're talkin'."
She flung him backward with ease, sending Rowan tumbling across the dirt. He landed hard, groaning, bruises forming across his back.
"Up. Again," she said, not even breathing hard.
Rowan groaned and sat up. Everything hurt. His lungs burned, his shoulders ached, and his ribs felt cracked. His body begged him to quit. Muscles shaking, vision swimming, he wanted to collapse. But then he remembered her words: The more ya exhaust yerself...
And for just a moment, he could feel it. That gentle warmth inside of him. His mana, flickering like a candlelight in a storm. He had to make that flame roar.
He stood, shaky but resolute. "Again."
Master raised a brow, then smirked. "That's the spirit."
They clashed once more. This time, Rowan moved better. Not faster, but cleaner. He used his breath to time his steps, like she'd drilled into him. With each dodge, he learned her rhythm. With each block, he reinforced his instinct. Pain became familiar. Anticipation replaced hesitation.
She swept low—he jumped.
She aimed for his shoulder, he deflected it.
She threw a knee and he winced, taking the hit on his thigh, then lashed out. His fist swung wide, clumsy... but it connected. Just enough to make her step back.
"Atta boy," she growled, wiping a trickle of blood from her lip where his mana-infused jab had landed. "Yer finally hittin' like ya mean it."
Rowan's chest swelled with pride and mixed with adrenaline. "Still think I'm just some quivering brat?"
"I still think yer gonna puke before we're done," she replied, charging again.
This time, the battle became more than just survival. It became a lesson in reading movement, reacting on instinct. He stopped thinking and started feeling.
He began to hear the whisper of mana through his limbs.
He saw the faint shimmer of Master's aura as she gathered energy into her strikes—his right eye highlighting the lines of pressure, the invisible flow around her fists and feet.
She was painting her attacks with mana. Not wildly but strategically. Precision, flow, and rhythm. He was watching a dance of destruction, and for the first time, he was starting to follow the steps.
But his body wasn't there yet. Not even close.
She landed a palm strike to his chest that sent him flying again. This time he hit a tree, slumped, and slid down into the dirt.
Darkness crept at the edge of his vision.
"Call it," she said, her shadow falling over him. "Yer done for today."
Rowan spit out dirt, ribs throbbing like war drums. "Not dead yet." he wheezed out
She paused then let out a short laugh, "Stubborn little bastard. You'll do just fine."
She offered a hand. He hesitated, then took it.
As she pulled him to his feet, Master nodded. "You did better than I expected. But ya still got a long way to go."
Rowan stood, wobbling on tired legs. "I know."
"Go soak in the creek," she said. "Ya can barely stand up straight'. Wash off, eat, then get some sleep. Tomorrow, we go again. More sparring. You need battle instinct, not just reflexes."