Two years later.

  Valerius was no longer the weak and frail boy he was.

  He had changed.

  Though he still had the face of a child, he now stood eleven feet tall, his once-lean frame now forged in violence—sculpted muscle wrapping every inch of his body. His chest bore the outline of layered strength, and his abs carved like stone. His jaw was sharp, his hair long, and streaked with power—now twenty-five percent green, infused with the very essence of Bravo.

  He sat at the peak of a mountain, 50 kilometers tall, a god upon a throne of clouds. The wind howled around him, but it could not move him. He was still. Calm. Complete.

  In his fingers, he held a small, broken device—the limiter that had once been buried deep within his flesh. An artifact designed to suppress, restrain.

  One of the elder giants had removed it only three months ago… by force. A process so painful it nearly shattered Valerius again.

  But now, it was over.

  He raised it to eye level.

  Then slowly, without effort, crushed it between two fingers.

  Crack.

  With a flick, he launched the remains into the horizon.

  He rose to his feet.

  And leapt.

  The mountaintop shattered beneath him as he launched into freefall, diving headfirst through the clouds. The planet's gravity—once a tyrant—was now beneath him.

  He descended past flocks of flying beasts, dodging them with precise rolls. Below, titanic monsters prowled the earth—some 30 feet tall, others larger. As the ground approached at supersonic speed—

  He tucked his legs inward—

  And kicked off the air.

  With a sonic boom, Valerius exploded forward, cutting through the chest of a beast as if it were mist. Blood sprayed in an arc behind him, but he didn’t stop.

  He dashed across rivers of lava, vaulted over cliffs of bone, and danced through thunderstorms and tornadoes as if they were training obstacles. Each step triggered controlled explosions of Bravo, his feet tapping the air using his perfected movement technique:

  Thunder Stride.

  Every day, he ran thousands of kilometers.

  Every day, he was tested.

  Failure meant pain.

  Slowness meant punishment.

  He plunged into the crater of a volcano—sat calmly in the lava, eyes closed.

  His task: emerge with not a single scorch mark on his shorts—woven from the hide of flame-resistant beasts.

  If his clothing was damaged, training restarted.

  And that was just the warm-up.

  ---

  Far away, carved into the stone plains, lay a broken range of mountains. Ten kilometers high each—already torn from the crust.

  These were his true task.

  Valerius stood before them, massive chains slung across his shoulders. Chains four kilometers long, wide enough that he could slip his entire body through the holes.

  He walked to the final loop at the chain’s edge and took position inside it.

  Then came the real challenge.

  Fortify.

  Not just himself—every link of the chain.

  Not just the chain—the entire mountain.

  And not just the mountain—the very ground he stood upon.

  Because if the earth wasn’t strong enough to handle the force… it would crumble beneath him.

  Like pulling a skyscraper across liquid.

  And so, Valerius would breathe deep, close his eyes—

  —and begin the impossible:

  Fortis Bravo pushed to its limit.

  The mountain would groan.

  The chain would strain.

  And the air would crackle with green lightning.

  He did this…

  Every. Single. Day. And more

  ---

  And still—it wasn’t enough.

  The chains.

  The lava.

  The thunder runs.

  The mountain-pulls.

  All that came before breakfast.

  Because after that…

  The sword would come.

  Every day, Valerius was made to endure one hundred thousand strikes from Esky’s sword.

  Without Fortis.

  He was forbidden from using any form of reinforcement. No coating. No shielding. Just raw flesh, muscle, and pain.

  For every drop of blood spilled…

  They started over.

  Strike 1.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Strike 2.

  Strike 3.

  Too deep.

  Begin again.

  Sometimes they reached ten thousand. Sometimes fifty. Once—just once—they reached ninety-eight thousand. Then she struck his neck, and blood trickled down.

  “Again,” she said.

  He nodded, and stood up.

  ---

  His meals were guarded by three giants—hulking veterans, each at least a hundred feet tall. He fought for every bite of food. Every morsel.

  No victory. No meal.

  No meal. No strength.

  To eat breakfast, he had to disarm the three.

  To eat lunch, he had to evade a barrage of chained whips while dodging precision strikes.

  To eat dinner, he was tied to a stone, with each arm tethered to a different giant, who pulled in opposite directions—trying to tear him apart.

  His limbs were ripped off so many times, he lost count.

  If he hadn’t been Elvhein—a species known for their regenerative abilities—he would have died before the second week.

  ---

  But regeneration wasn’t immunity.

  It meant he survived.

  It didn’t mean he escaped pain.

  ---

  One morning, Esky blindfolded him.

  Then she conjured dozens of fortified stones—each one heavy enough to break a spine.

  And she hurled them at him.

  At speeds that broke the sound barrier hundreds of times over.

  The air itself trembled. Sonic booms cracked like thunder.

  Valerius’s task?

  Dodge.

  The rocks tore through him, opening holes in his arms, shoulders, chest. Some embedded into his ribs. Others broke his bones outright.

  Still, he remained standing.

  ---

  Next came perception training.

  “Bravo is not just strength,” Esky said. “It is clarity.”

  She raised her hand.

  “How many fingers am I holding?”

  He was blindfolded.

  Valerius closed his eyes. “Ten.”

  She shifted. “Five.”

  He listened to the wind. “Two.”

  Again. “Seven.”

  Each time, his answer struck true.

  ---

  Then came the real test.

  Esky moved at sonic speeds—so fast, she left seventy-eight perfect afterimages, each one moving in sync, each one speaking in unison.

  “Where am I?” they asked together.

  Their voices overlapped, a chorus of illusions.

  Valerius stood still.

  He breathed in.

  Felt the shifts in the ground. The weight of the air. The pull of the wind against skin.

  Then he opened his palm.

  Picked up a stone.

  Fortified it.

  And hurled it.

  CRACK.

  The rock shattered against the cheek of the real Esky.

  She didn’t flinch.

  She touched her face.

  Then smiled.

  “…Not bad.”

  ---

  This was every day.

  His normal.

  Bleeding before breakfast.

  Screaming before lunch.

  Crushed before dinner.

  And rising each morning to do it again.

  Because pain no longer meant stop.

  Pain meant progress.

  ---

  It was evening. The sky burned orange.

  Valerius had just returned from dragging a 12-kilometer-high mountain across half a canyon when he noticed something strange…

  The giants were gathered.

  Dozens of them.

  All facing a single object—massive, glowing, humming softly.

  It stood embedded into the cliffside like a relic from the gods. A rectangular frame of obsidian metal—18 meters wide and nearly as tall—hovering inches above the ground. Its black surface shimmered with deep runes. A silver aura pulsed at its edges.

  Valerius blinked. “What is that?”

  One of the giants, chewing on roasted serpent meat, laughed and said, “Oh right—you’re always too busy bleeding in the mountains to see this.”

  He gestured grandly toward the screen. “That’s a Seer.”

  “A viewing artifact. Captures and transmits signals across continents, realms even. What you're looking at… is peak entertainment, my boy.”

  "Oh, I remember that"

  The screen flickered. The runes brightened. Then—music. Loud, energetic, ridiculous music.

  A beat dropped.

  Lights swirled.

  And suddenly—

  A chubby man in a red velvet suit with golden piercings on his lips, nose, and ears exploded onto the screen. He stood on a radiant concert stage, arms flailing, body wobbling like a storm cloud made of meat.

  He spun left, then right, then left again, belly bouncing with rhythm, pointing at the sky.

  “Ha! Hey! Ho! Ha! Heeeeeey!” he sang.

  Behind him, a dozen Aurellian women danced in flawless sync—robes of flowing silk, golden feathers in their hair, twirling like stars in orbit.

  “Who… the hell is that?” Valerius asked, stunned.

  The giant beside him grinned, pounding his fist to his chest. “That’s Balling the Dragoon—entertainer of the century!”

  More giants began to cheer and mimic the dance—thrusting their chiseled abs forward, twisting their hips side to side with surprising rhythm. Their voices rumbled in thunderous unison:

  “Ha! Hey! Ho! Ha! Heeeeeey!”

  Their muscular forms moved like a battalion of drunken statues, each stomp shaking the ground, each chant echoing across the mountain valley. What they lacked in grace, they made up for in sheer enthusiasm.

  Valerius just stared.

  On the screen, Balling continued. His body twirled like a rolling boulder on fire. He held a crystal mic in his jeweled hand and bellowed between verses:

  > “MY PEOPLE!

  LISTEN CLOSE!

  TONIGHT—SOMETHING GRAND IS COMING!

  SOMETHING… TRULY GRAAAAAAAAAAND!”

  The music didn’t stop.

  The drums only grew louder.

  ---

  And far away…

  In the shadowed corners of the world…

  Others watched too.

  ---

  In a quiet bar on the outskirts of Clanlyor, seated beneath a rusted fan and neon lights, Kaelan sat alone—a drink in his hand, boots kicked up on the table. The Seer in the corner of the bar crackled with energy.

  He sipped slowly. Watching.

  ---

  In a vaulted control chamber lined with humming technology, two Wavers stood among blinking monitors. One of them—a broad-shouldered man with burnished brown skin, black hair, and piercing green eyes, marked by silver tattoos—paused mid-repair, the crystal drive still glowing in his grip.

  His gaze slid toward the Seer mounted on the wall.

  He didn’t speak.

  He just stared.

  The flickering screen cast flashes of gold across his face, dancing in the reflection of his eyes. Balling’s voice boomed through the chamber—but the man remained still, unreadable.

  A presence.

  Heavy. Watching.

  ---

  Elsewhere, in the outer deserts of Yardrad, a figure in a blue cloak and mask stood in a circle of floating cameras. A dozen red eyes glowed around him.

  He said nothing.

  But he too was watching.

  ---

  Back on the stage, Balling lifted his arms dramatically. Behind him, a massive altar began to rise from the stage—shaped of marble and gold, glowing with sigils. The crowd screamed.

  He grinned.

  > “You’re wondering what the prize is, aren’t you?”

  “WELL—ASK… NO… MORE!”

  He pointed skyward, the spotlights flaring behind him.

  > “For FIFTH PLACE... we have…”

  A stone pedestal rose beside him, wrapped in lightning.

  > “...the legendary Heaven’s Eye!”

  Gasps from the crowd. Even the giants murmured.

  > “A high artifact... capable of locating any person or object from mere thought. Whether they’re hiding across a continent—or buried inside a prison of stars.”

  In the gilded kingdom of Zitry, within a marbled chamber that overlooked the capital’s radiant skyline, Eryndor sat alone at a bartender’s table carved from polished obsidian. His appearance still that of a teenager.

  He was impossibly tall—15 feet, with a slender frame cloaked in rich blue fabric lined with silver embroidery. A modest beard adorned his chin, and his hair flowed like waves of black silk. He sat with royal posture, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers wrapped around the neck of an ornate bottle.

  He drank—not in haste, but with the grace of a man who could hear centuries in the silence.

  Before him, the Seer glowed.

  The broadcast from the Dragoon, Balling, echoed in the room. The screen flared with light as the first prize was unveiled.

  > “For FIFTH PLACE… we have...the legendary Heaven’s Eye!”

  Eryndor’s gaze narrowed. His emerald eyes sharpened, reflecting the image of the glowing artifact on screen.

  He said nothing.

  But his grip on the bottle tightened.

  ---

  Where Valerius was, deep in the Giant Village, dozens of titanic warriors still crowded around the Seer.

  The artifact crackled with music as Balling continued:

  > “And in FOURTH PLACE… the legendary sword: Land Breaker!”

  A sudden voice exploded from the back.

  “THAT’S IT!”

  A male giant—broad-shouldered and nearly middle-aged, with wild gray hair and sun-scorched skin—stood up so fast he knocked over three chairs.

  “THAT’S MY HEAVEN’S EYE!”

  He jabbed a thick finger toward the Seer.

  “WHAT THE HELL IS IT DOING THERE?!”

  The other giants turned, stunned.

  Before anyone could speak, Balling’s voice rang again from the broadcast:

  > “Land Breaker—the sword that split the Mourning Mountains!”

  The same giant’s eyes widened in fury. He jumped into the air—arms flailing, voice trembling with rage.

  “YOU IDIOT! IT’S NOT CALLED THAT!”

  He roared, voice thundering.

  “IT’S CALLED JUVIA, YOU FAT, SINGING IMBECILE! HOW DID YOU GET YOUR HANDS ON MY STUFF?”

  Then, in a flash of emotion—he kicked the Seer.

  CRACK.

  The screen shattered into a thousand sparkling shards. Runes fizzled. Smoke hissed from the frame.

  Silence.

  The room froze in horror.

  “NOOOOOOOO!” Everyone screamed.

  The giants stared at the destroyed Seer.

  Then—one by one—they turned to face him.

  Their eyes glowed with unified judgment.

  A moment of silence passed.

  Then—

  “YOU BASTARD!”

  They swarmed him like a pack of wolves.

  Dozens of fists rained down.

  BOOM. THUD. SMASH.

  “MY FAVORITE SHOW!”

  “YOU RUINED IT!”

  "YOU DESTROYED OUR SEER!"

  “WE MISSED THE TOP THREE, YOU IDIOT!”

  The poor giant was pummeled under a mountain of elbows, knees, and curses.

  From a distance, Valerius watched with his arms crossed, shaking his head slightly. “...They take their Seers very seriously.”

  One of the older giants nodded beside him.

  “It’s the only way to cure their bordom in this place, boy.”

  ---

  To Be Continued…