Valak rushed to the Wanderer trembling on the ground.
"Form a flow around him! Quickly!" Valak roared.
The veterans snapped into a tight circle, extending their hands. Valak joined them, and together they projected a steady, grounding field of mana, attempting to create a cage of stability to anchor his wild energy. For a heartbeat, the Wanderer’s breathing steadied.
But the Spiral wanted *more*.
It began to draw their magic in. Valak’s eyes widened as he felt his own reservoir being siphoned away through an invisible force.
"Cut the flow! Now!" Valak screamed.
It was too late. The sudden surge of stolen mana hit the Wanderer’s core and detonated. A wave of force exploded outward, sending the veterans and Valak sprawling across the dirt like ragdolls.
The last thing the Wanderer saw before his consciousness fractured was Valak picking himself up, looking at him."You greedy bastard..."
The Wanderer opened his eyes to the familiar, dim torchlight of Valak’s office. He was lying on a low cot, his body feeling like it had been put through a meat grinder.
Valak was standing by the window, his back to the room. "What is that thing inside you?" he asked, not turning around.
"Not sure yet," the Wanderer rasped.
"Whatever it is, it’s starving," Valak said, finally turning. He looked at the Wanderer’s frame, the muscles swollen and corded from the magical overflow. "Is that what caused your body to change? That swelling?"
The Wanderer sat up slowly, his ribs protesting. "Probably."
"I’ve met some crazy stuff in my days," Valak remarked, crossing his massive arms. "Abyssal cultists, fractured spirits... but that? That’s new."
"You have any idea how to deal with it?"
Valak went silent for a moment, his brow furrowing in thought. "I have a general idea. Basically, if it’s a hungry beast, you have to tame it. You can't just cage it, and you can't let it run wild. You have to be the one holding the leash." He stood up straight, his expression hardening. "You earned your second chance. You won’t have a third."
The Wanderer nodded agreeing.He stood up, his movements stiff and pained, and began to limp toward the door.
Valak watched the uneven stride. "The beasts did that to your leg?"
The Wanderer paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder. "Yes. I don't blame them, though."
Valak let out a short, sharp laugh. "What, caring for your pack now?"
"No," the Wanderer replied flatly. "But I understand them."
Valak laughed again, a deep sound that felt out of place in the messy room. "And they call me the Mad Dog. Listen, don't use your magic. That’s a direct order until I say otherwise. You’re dismissed, by the way, you earned your name back Wanderer."
He gave a grim relaxation of his jaw accepting the small win, then left.
The Wanderer stepped out into the night and made his way toward the recruits' quarters.
, pushing the heavy wooden doors open. The room went silent as the recruits inside stared at him, the one who tamed war beasts.
"I’m tired of sleeping on the sand," he announced, his voice echoing in the rafters. "Is anyone willing to switch places, or do we need a useless fight you’re going to lose?"
The recruits froze, eyes darting between him and their bunks. Suddenly, Kuma pushed through the crowd, shouting, "Move aside, stone-heads! Me and my friend are taking these two bunks!" He pointed aggressively at two of the better beds in the center of the room.
The Wanderer turned his gaze toward Kuma. The smaller man instantly went pale, his expressions vanishing as he realized the Wanderer might retaliate.
The Wanderer sighed, the exhaustion finally winning. "I’m too tired to kick your ass right now."
He ignored the whispers, climbed onto the bed Kuma had "claimed," and fell into deep sleep the moment his head hit the rough pillow.
The following week was a blur of sweat and blood. Valak wanted unbreakable men. Every morning, the Sergeant greeted them with a twisted grin, his "creative masochism" reaching new heights.
One morning, the recruits were marched to a vertical high stone wall, rigged with small pieces of wood. Each man was strapped with a cloth sack filled with rock salt.
"Climb!" Valak roared from below.
As the men scrambled up, the veterans stood on the ramparts above with pressurized water pumps, drenching the recruits. The water soaked the sacks, dissolving the salt. It didn't take long for the burn to begin streaming down the recruits' backs, finding every lash mark, every open wound they got during the training.The yard was filled with the sound of hissing breaths and muffled screams as the liquid fire burned into their skin.
The Wanderer gripped a wooden piece, his teeth bared. Beside him, Kuma was shaking, his eyes watering from the stings.
"Don't... look... down," the Wanderer grunted, his fingers cramping into claws. He reached up, his raw skin screaming as the salt-water turned his back into a map of agony. He reached the top first, his hands bleeding, and waited for the next torment.
Another day, Valak introduced the iron Tether. He paired the recruits up, inevitably, the Wanderer was shackled to Kuma by a long heavy iron chain fastened to their ankles.
"Synchronization or decapitation!" Valak shouted, gesturing to the veterans who stood in a circle around them, wielding blunted heavy-axes.
The recruits had to spar against the veterans while chained together. If Kuma moved left while the Wanderer moved right, the chain snapped, tripping them both into the dirt where the veterans' heavy boots were waiting.
"Step!" the Wanderer commanded.
He moved like a predator, anticipating the veteran’s swing. He had to physically yank Kuma into position, using the chain as a leash to pull the smaller man out of the way of a descending axe-head. By the end of the hour, the Wanderer's ankle was a swollen mess of purple flesh. But they failed anyway.
Perhaps the most visceral was the stone Lung drill. At the center of the yard sat a massive iron vat filled with cold mud. The recruits had to submerge themselves entirely, holding their breath while Valak paced along the rim.
"The mind is a traitor!" Valak barked, his shadow passing over the surface of the mud. "It tells you that you are dying when you are merely uncomfortable!"
He would occasionally use a long pole to push anyone who tried to surface too early back under the sludge. The Wanderer sat at the bottom of the vat, the cold mud pressing into his ears and nose, his lungs burning for air. In the suffocating dark, the Spiral’s hunger began to pulse, tempted to use magic to survive.
He fought it. He forced his heart rate down, slowing his pulse until he was nothing more than a stone in the muck. When he finally surfaced, coughing up mud, Valak was standing there, looking down with a rare, terrifying hint of approval.
"Still alive, Wanderer?" Valak asked, tilting his head.
The Wanderer wiped the mud from his eyes. "Still breathing, Sergeant."
"Good," Valak replied, his grin widening. "Because the sun is still up, and I’ve got a mountain of granite that needs moving by hand. Get to it, meat!"