Chapter 4: Has He Gone Mad?
After the scolding he received the previous day, the prison warden, Briggs, was nowhere to be seen.
Instead, several other guards came and roused Tyler, forcing him, still half-awake, into the stiff leather armor before marching him to the training grounds.
As always, Silverdale's elite trainees were hard at work. They struck powerful blows at the stone statues lining the wall—each punch echoed with a clap of thunder, sending chips of rock flying through the air.
Across the arena, the training assistants watched with a helpless bitterness, as if they'd just lost everything that mattered. It was a miserable life, being beaten senseless every day—what meaning was there in this? Night after night, when they collapsed onto their beds, their bodies wracked with wounds, sleep never came. But with no hope of freedom, what choice did they have except to endure and survive another day?
Suddenly, the chief instructor shouted in a booming, disciplined voice, "Attention, Training Assistants!"
All the "training assistants" straightened into formation. They knew too well what the head instructor was like—even a small mistake meant the whip. And the head instructor's whip wasn't ordinary: a single lash could rip flesh from bone.
The trainees swiftly chose their "training assistant" partners. Tyler was picked by a powerful, broad-shouldered trainee named Darren. Among the others who saw Darren pick Tyler, there was a trace of pity in their eyes.
Darren wasn't known for his technique—he hadn't managed to awaken even a single Core—but he was born with explosive physical strength. His sheer power rivaled that of warriors who had awakened their Root Core. He was aggressive, hot-tempered, and had crippled several training assistants before.
Warming up with shadow-boxing, Darren's eyes lit up when he saw Tyler: today he would get to unleash on the former prince of Silverdale. Not only would beating up the assistants help train their bodies, the trainees vented their frustrations as well. For Darren, it was pure delight—he could imagine nothing better than seeing the once-proud prince begging him for mercy.
Faced with Darren, Tyler's brow furrowed. He knew well how dangerous Darren's strength was. The last time, one of his blows had left Tyler with an internal injury that took weeks to heal. But after three years of living at death's doorstep, Tyler had learned to remain calm. He steadied himself and checked the position of the leather armor.
Darren lunged. The fighting style he practiced, "The Bull's Fist," was famed for its raw force.
The leather vest could dull the force but not neutralize it entirely—so Tyler braced himself, tightening his chest and relaxing his breathing just so.
Boom!
The armor blunted the worst of it, but still, it felt as though a sledgehammer had just struck Tyler in the chest.
He instantly started gasping sharply—something he'd mastered during years as a training assistant. Rapid breaths would dull internal shock and limit the harm. Even so, Darren's strength was fearsome, and the impact left Tyler with a deep injury. He managed a resigned smile, then collapsed to the ground.
Lying there, his world spinning, Tyler waited for waves of agony—but oddly, he felt nothing. No pain at all. Instead, a warm current was rising in his chest. The sensation spread as a delightful rush, his body greedily absorbing the energy, like a starving wolf swallowing a feast.
As the warmth flowed through his limbs, his whole body felt hot—yet the pain never came. If anything, he felt an exhilarating comfort.
"What's happening?" Tyler was stunned. "Are these warm currents cleansing my body?"
Even though he had fallen to the status of a slave, Tyler was once the prince—he knew enough to realize medical treasures that could purify the body were exceedingly rare. Here in Silverdale, only the legendary Divine Elixirs could do it. Yet, here it was: purification, and no medicine in sight.
Still sprawled on the ground, Tyler's mind scrambled for answers—then last night's events flashed before him.
"Use your body as a weapon…"
He remembered how the most skilled smiths hammered weapons to make them strong and balanced—how last night, he himself had been forged in the Sacred White Flame.
Was using his body as a weapon meant to involve… being beaten?
He realized his body now felt like a low-grade magic weapon—every superior weapon had to be flawlessly balanced and tempered. Maybe this was all by design?
"So the more beatings I take, the more purified my body becomes! Taking hits is as good as swallowing a Divine Elixir!"
Tyler's heart started to pound with wild excitement.
He decided to test his theory. He hauled himself up.
Once again, he was struck—but still felt no pain. He allowed himself to take more blows, but made sure to groan and fall with exaggerated agony each time, keeping up the act.
Darren shot him a puzzled look, surprised to see Tyler getting up again and again. He'd assumed the former prince would be crippled by now, yet Tyler just kept standing. The thought filled Darren with shame.
"You really are good at taking a beating! Now let's see you handle this next shot!"
With that, Darren let loose another thunderous punch.
Just like before, Tyler was sent flying, skidding across the dirt—but he felt wonderful. That same torrent of cleansing warmth coursed through, like a tiny hot serpent plunging from his chest, purifying his Root Core and all his organs.
"Amazing…"
It was like bathing in warm water, a soothing, healing energy running through him. The more the power flowed, the lighter Tyler felt.
"Die!"
Boom!
"Let's see how long you can take this!"
Darren struck like a madman.
Boom!
But with every fist, Tyler's body only grew purer and stronger. Darren was like a blacksmith hammering him into perfection—but instead of resenting it, Tyler was secretly thrilled.
Eventually, Darren stopped, panting for breath, astonished. He'd always heard Tyler had an amazing tolerance for pain, but today, this was something else. The former prince just wouldn't stay down.
Little did Darren know that Tyler's exhausted appearance was all an act—inside, he felt sharper and more powerful, every nerve humming as the warmth cleansed him.
All the other training assistants, watching, shook their heads at the scene. They thought Tyler had gone mad—why keep getting up and taking the beatings? If he just stayed down, they'd send him back to rest. Was he addicted to pain by now?
They thought, "After all this time as an assistant, has he forgotten how to stay down?"
After his last fall, Tyler finally stopped getting up. Not because he wanted to—he could already feel the next round of purification building—but if he kept this up, someone might start to suspect. Better to save the beatings for tomorrow.
When Darren saw Tyler not rise, he finally sighed in relief. Had Tyler kept getting up, Darren would have lost all confidence.
By nightfall, Tyler staggered back to his cell. Once the servants locked him in, he dropped the disguise and stood tall, a smile of triumph brightening his face.
Suddenly, something struck him—a realization that left him stunned.
"How is this even possible?"
What's happening to Tyler? What changes are taking place in his body? Will the strange power within him be a blessing or a curse?