Days passed, and Kallen went through hell and purgatory all at once.
Every dawn began with bruises. Every dusk ended in agony. His body ached beyond death—from pushing his limits, shattering them, and being stitched back together by the cold mercy of his regeneration trait. Then breaking himself again.
And again.
He trained like a man possessed—because he was. If he wanted a way out, he'd forge it with blood, bone, and sheer madness.
Menelaus, who had once avoided him entirely, unwilling to risk killing the boy by accident, began to falter.
That was because Kallen started feeding him.
Not words.
Not actions.
But intent.
It started when Castor had cornered him in the forge, while he was tasked to work and clean like slave. Kallen didn't say a word. He didn't even glare. He simply thought about tearing through the entire room, his will blooming like a field of corpses.
He had to work like a Slave? His entire conviction was to live a free man. Literally, and metaphorically.
