The sun rose like an overbearing alarm clock, and yet, somehow, Dean's voice was even worse.
"Up, brat! The birds aren't waiting for you, and neither is progress!"
Einar groaned, rolling over on his futon. "You know… normal humans don't wake up at this hour. You could at least give me some dignity before death."
Dean's grin was merciless. "Dignity is for amateurs. You're training to be a champion, not a noble. Now move!"
⸻
The Morning Hell
By six in the morning, Einar was dragging himself up the mountain path, lungs burning, legs threatening mutiny.
"Seriously… who designed this torture?!" he wheezed.
Dean jogged beside him, calm as a monk. "Nature did. And I'm just making it worse."
"You're worse," Einar muttered, coughing.
Dean smirked. "Thank you for the compliment. Now sprint."
Einar stumbled forward, muttering curses under his breath in increasingly creative ways.
⸻
Strength and Pain
The afternoons were worse.
Dean had dug out every weight he could find—rocks, logs, rusted chains—and made Einar lift, push, pull, and carry them until sweat poured down his face.
"Seriously, why do I feel like a pack mule?" Einar panted, lifting a stone almost as big as him.
Dean leaned casually against a tree. "Because you are a pack mule. A very whiny one. Now finish it before I start counting your excuses as repetitions."
Einar gritted his teeth. "You know… most people just fight in tournaments. They don't… build a small mountain of their own suffering first."
Dean chuckled. "Most people aren't trying to win Tournament 334. And you're not 'most people,' are you?"
Einar muttered something that might have been profanity or a philosophical statement about life.
⸻
The Midday Sparring
Then came sparring.
Dean was a sadist. He hit, blocked, dodged, and cornered Einar like a cat playing with a mouse. And Einar had to fight back—or at least try.
"You're moving too slow!" Dean barked, swinging his pad at Einar.
"I'm… pacing myself!" Einar gasped.
"Pacing yourself? You're about to get your ribs rearranged by my elbow, and you call that pacing?"
Einar gritted his teeth and lunged, knocking Dean back slightly. "There! That's my pace!"
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Cute. Now repeat it fifty more times while exhausted, dehydrated, and slightly homicidal. Bonus points if you survive."
⸻
The Evening Recovery
By the time evening rolled around, Einar could barely lift his arms. He slumped into the hammock, sweat dripping, muscles trembling.
Dean threw him a bottle of water. "Drink. You'll need it for round two tomorrow."
Einar stared at him. "Round two? You mean there's a round three, four… eternity?"
Dean shrugged. "Possibly. Depends on how stubbornly you refuse to die."
Einar groaned dramatically. "Sensei… I think my legs are going to file a formal complaint tomorrow."
Dean smirked. "And I'll be there to deny it."
⸻
Six Months Later — Slightly Less Broken
Six months passed like a blur of sweat, bruises, and sarcastic banter.
• Einar could lift heavier weights than before, though he still hated it.
• He could run farther without collapsing… sometimes.
• He could even land punches and kicks with more precision, though he constantly complained about form, etiquette, and the injustice of it all.
Dean watched him one evening, leaning against a tree as Einar collapsed after one last sprint.
"You're getting faster," Dean noted. "And slightly less whiny."
Einar sat up, wiping sweat off his face. "Slightly less whiny? That's the best you've got?"
Dean grinned. "It's progress, brat. Take what you can get."
Einar narrowed his eyes. "Fine. But don't think this means I like it. Or you. Or any of this."
Dean chuckled. "Wouldn't dream of it. But you do like that you can keep up now, don't you?"
Einar crossed his arms, looking away. "I hate that I do. Happy now?"
Dean nodded. "Ecstatic. Just remember, six months of whining, sweat, and broken dignity… and you're still not done."
Einar groaned. "You're enjoying this far too much, you know that?"
Dean's grin widened. "Oh, trust me. I've barely scratched the surface."
⸻
Six months of hell. Six months of sarcasm. Six months of pain.
And in all of it, Einar grew—not in supernatural ways, not in mystical auras, but in stubbornness, strength, endurance, and the sharp edge of his own stubborn, screaming determination.
Tomorrow? Dean promised even more fun.
Einar silently cursed himself for being excited.