The grove had started to feel like a sanctuary—but Zyair knew better than to get comfortable. Snow-dusted trees towered overhead, their trunks thick and gnarled, hiding more than just the wind's whispers. He moved cautiously, tails flicking in anticipation, eyes scanning for movement.
Every step he took was a lesson. The uneven snow, hidden ice patches, and dangling branches became his training tools. He jumped over slick surfaces, letting his tails coil around trunks to vault higher, spinning midair to land gracefully. The small bursts of Chaos Oros kept his muscles warm and honed, while delicate shards of Ice Oros formed on his fingertips to stabilize jumps or create makeshift platforms.
Balance, control, flow… I can feel it now.
Hours passed, and Zyair began experimenting. He found he could combine Ice and Chaos Oros in subtle ways: a shard of ice encased in chaotic energy to strike harder without fully expending his mana, or using the Chaos Oros to destabilize an enemy before freezing their footing with Ice Oros. The more he practiced, the more instinctive his tails became—each tail acting independently yet in harmony with the others.
The grove reminded him that danger lurked even in safe havens. A sudden rustle caught his attention. From behind a snow-laden bush, a Silver-ranked wolf emerged, teeth bared, eyes glowing faintly.
Zyair crouched, tails spreading wide. He didn't rush—control was key. A flash of Chaos Oros along one tail distracted the wolf, while an Ice Oros shard froze the snow under its paws. With precise tail strikes, he avoided its lunges and immobilized it without killing. The wolf retreated, leaving Zyair exhilarated.
Good… no flashback. Control maintained.
Further in, the terrain became more treacherous. Slopes of ice that threatened to send him sliding, branches thick with frost ready to snap under weight, and hidden Bronze-ranked Thornback Basilisks lurking under snow mounds. Zyair's tactics evolved naturally: tails became sensors, probing the environment, tripping hazards, or knocking loose icicles as diversions.
A Basilisk lunged. Two tails flung it off balance while his third delivered a controlled Chaos-infused strike. The creature roared, retreating into the forest. Zyair breathed deeply, feeling every muscle, every flow of Oros energy, every heartbeat of his Apex instincts.
By the end of the day, he sat atop a ridge, snow swirling around him, tails coiled in relaxation. His body ached, but he could feel himself changing: stronger, faster, more precise. The grove was more than a sanctuary—it was a proving ground, preparing him for the road ahead.
Yet even as he trained, he felt it—a faint, lingering presence. Someone watching from a distance, careful not to reveal themselves. The shadow wasn't immediate danger, but Zyair understood instinctively: the Void Covenant was patient, always observing, always waiting.
Good. Let them watch. Let them see how far I've come…
Snow swirled over the ridge, and Zyair flexed his tails, already planning tomorrow's drills. Every strike, every dodge, every shard of Oros energy brought him closer to mastery—and closer to the moment when survival would demand more than just skill.