Ming woke to the cavern's silence. The air was cool, damp, and faintly metallic. A drop of water fell from the jagged ceiling and hit the stone near his leg, sharp enough to stir him fully awake.
Every part of his body hurt. His ribs throbbed, his shoulder screamed, and his stitched wound burned beneath the rough bandage. Yet beneath all the pain, he felt… different. His body no longer buckled under its own weight. The tremor in his muscles wasn't collapse, but fatigue.
He sat up slowly, pressing a hand against the cold ground to steady himself.
The system's calm voice cut through the silence:
> [Trial Complete.]
[Synchronization stabilized.]
[Host body durability increased.]
Ming exhaled. No praise, no warmth—but not cruel either. The words settled into him like iron hammered into shape.
He flexed his hands, noticing the faint resistance in his muscles. The ache remained, but beneath it was strength. His body felt like it had been reforged—steel hidden under scarred skin. He rolled his shoulders, testing his range of motion, and though the pain surged, his body didn't collapse the way it once would have.
Alive. Stronger. Not whole, but tempered.
He leaned back against the cavern wall, letting his head rest against the stone. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes and breathed, searching for silence in the still air.
It didn't last.
A thought gnawed at him. Strength was meaningless if he had nothing to wield it through. His hands were scarred and raw from clawing, tearing, and striking barehanded. Against the rogue spirit, every strike had felt desperate, unrefined. He needed more. Something sharp. Something that answered to him.
His fingers tightened into a fist. "Tch… strength is useless if I fight barehanded. I need a weapon. A blade. Something that carries my will."
The system responded instantly:
> [New Quest Generated.]
[Quest: Forge Your Weapon.]
[Objective: Acquire or forge a weapon suited for synchronization.]
[Reward: Weapon Soul-Binding (Permanent).]
Ming blinked, caught off guard. The system hadn't acted cold or detached—it had answered him. It had listened.
"So… you're not here to feed me power," he muttered. "You're here to push me to shape it."
The system's voice followed, steady and precise:
> [Trials strengthen the vessel and advance synchronization.]
[Abilities are forged through combat, victory, and quests.]
[The host creates power through action, not reward.]
Ming let out a faint laugh that cracked into a cough. Blood tasted sharp on his tongue. "So you'll harden me… and I'll carve out the weapons. Fair enough."
He tore away his damp bandage. The wound beneath was ugly—red, swollen, the stitches still holding but weak. He poured a small stream of water from his flask over it, wincing as the sting bit deep. With slow, deliberate motions, he cleaned and re-stitched the torn flesh, his hands trembling but precise. The pain brought sweat to his forehead, yet he finished, binding the wound with fresh strips of cloth cut from his tunic.
His chest rose and fell heavily as he sat back. Stable. He could move. That was enough.
He stood carefully, testing his legs. They held, though unsteady. He drew in a slow breath and shifted into a stance. His bare fists tightened. He jabbed at the air, then twisted into a strike against the cavern wall. The impact rattled his bones but didn't crumple him. His body held firm. The durability boost wasn't a lie—he was bruised, but not breaking.
Still, when he looked at his raw knuckles pressed against the stone, he felt the same emptiness.
"Not enough," he muttered. "I need steel."
His mind flickered back to the rogue spirit. If he'd had a dagger, even a crude one, he could've ended that fight faster. His body had carried him to survival, but a weapon would let him kill.
The quest hung in his thoughts like an echo: Forge Your Weapon.
He imagined it. A blade bound to him, sharpened by his will, carried in his hand through every battle. Not something gifted, but something made, claimed.
That thought lit a spark in him.
He gathered what little strength he had left and searched through the cavern. Scattered stones, jagged and heavy, littered the ground. He picked one up, turning it in his hand. It was rough, useless, but it reminded him of what could be shaped. He tested its weight, then dropped it. "Not this."
What he needed wasn't here. Not yet. But the quest told him enough—he wouldn't just stumble on a blade. He'd have to make it or take it.
The system chimed again, as though to confirm his resolve:
> [Quest Reminder: Weapon required before next synchronization trial.]
[Time remaining: 86 hours.]
Ming froze. Eighty-six hours. Three days, give or take. That was all the time he had before the next trial consumed him.
A bitter laugh slipped out. "So no rest, huh? You won't even give me that."
The system didn't respond. Silence pressed in again.
He lowered himself to sit, his back against the cavern wall. His body was still trembling, stitched wound aching with every breath, but his mind was sharper than it had been since he entered this cursed place.
No abilities had come from the trial. No new weapon waited for him. But that wasn't weakness—it was clarity. The system wouldn't hand him shortcuts. Every step forward, he had to claim himself.
He thought of Soul Rend—the gamble that nearly killed him, but won him survival. He thought of Soul Step and Soul Sense, both already reshaping the way he saw battles. Now, the next piece wasn't some supernatural trick. It was simpler. A blade in his hand. Something real.
His lips curled into a faint smirk, though his chest still rose and fell with shallow, painful breaths.
"You harden me," he whispered, "and I'll carve the rest."
The cavern's silence returned, heavy and unbroken. His friends were gone, departed two days ago, and the echoes of their absence still lingered in the empty space. He wasn't ready to meet them yet—not until he could stand without bleeding, not until he was strong enough to protect them.
The system's earlier words lingered in his mind. The trial wasn't punishment—it was preparation. The time limit wasn't cruelty—it was necessity.
So he closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the stone. For a moment, he allowed himself to breathe. Not peace, not safety—but focus.
Three days. That was all the system had given him.
Three days to forge the weapon that would carry his vengeance.