Leo stood up, the reassuring weight of steel and wood resting against his side. The sword hung from a simple leather loop on his belt, the old iron blade catching the pale white glow of the room's ambient light. The wooden shield, slung across his back, creaked with every movement—more an overgrown dinner plate than a true bulwark, but still something.
He turned his gaze to the timer glowing softly above the door.
[21:45.23]
About two hours had passed.
Leo took a deep breath, steadying himself as he stepped into the open center of the room. The floor here was seamless and unmarked—perfect for what he had in mind.
"I need to get used to the weight. My timing, my grip, everything."
He unsheathed the sword with a metallic rasp and slipped the shield from his back, settling it onto his arm. Immediately, he noted the imbalance. The sword was heavier than it looked, not because of good craftsmanship, but the opposite. It wasn't balanced, the weight clumping toward the tip. The shield, by contrast, was lighter, but the straps bit into his forearm in a way that was going to bruise with extended use.
Still, Leo started moving.
At first, his swings were clumsy and exaggerated—wide arcs meant more for clearing brush than fighting an enemy. He braced the shield and struck again, trying to mimic techniques he had seen in documentaries or fantasy movies: leading with the shield, striking with the sword from behind cover, stepping in and out of range. It was awkward. His footwork stumbled over itself, and the sword dragged him off-balance when he moved too quickly.
But he didn't stop.
For the next hour, he drilled himself. Slashes, blocks, pivots. Sweat dampened his shirt. His forearms burned from holding the shield up, and his shoulders ached with each repeated swing. His lungs pulled in long, measured breaths as he practiced, muscle memory gradually beginning to form where there had only been theory before.
Still—it wasn't enough.
Leo eventually stopped, lowering both sword and shield to his sides as he panted softly. Not from exhaustion, exactly—it was something else. Something that didn't make sense.
"Okay. Something is wrong."
He stood still, blinking.
'I've been exerting myself nonstop. Between the fight with the goblin, the mental stress, and now this training—I should be feeling it.'
But he wasn't. His body ached slightly, sure, but it was manageable. Fatigue hadn't set in the way it should have. His breath was slowing already. His hands trembled only faintly.
Then the bigger realization hit.
'I've been sweating. A lot. But I'm not thirsty. Not even slightly.'
He paused, trying to remember the last time he'd felt hunger. Or the need to use the restroom. He hadn't been provided food or water, and yet… it hadn't crossed his mind until now.
"…Wait."
Leo dropped to the ground and tugged off his shoe, then peeled away the damp sock. His foot, once bruised a sickly yellow and red from the goblin encounter, looked completely normal. The skin was smooth, untouched. Not even tender to the touch.
He stared at it for a long moment, heart thudding not from exertion—but from growing awareness.
"Interesting. Accelerated healing."
'When I first got back to the room, it was still swollen. But now, it's like it never happened.'
He flexed his foot experimentally—no pain, no stiffness. Nothing.
He sat back against the wall, mind racing.
A bruise like that? Normally, two weeks minimum. This healed in—what—two hours? That's over a hundred times faster than natural regeneration. Either time passes differently here… or the room is actively accelerating my recovery.
His eyes flicked to the timer again, then back to his gear. He flexed his grip on the sword hilt.
'This really is a recovery room. Not just for the body… but to remove distractions. No hunger. No thirst. No pain for too long. Just time to think. Time to prepare.'
He exhaled slowly, lips tightening into a line.
"I don't know how long I'll last in this place… but if this is how the Tower plays its game, I have to be ready. Every second counts."
He pushed himself back up, the floor cool beneath his palms, weapons heavy and worn in his grip. His breaths were steady now, more from focus than from fatigue. The dull ache in his arms had become familiar, no longer a distraction but a rhythm to work with.
The earlier revelation about the room still lingered in his mind. Accelerated healing. No hunger. No thirst. No pain that couldn't be quickly mended.
But more than anything—it was time. Time without consequence. No distractions. No obligations.
Just space to improve.
He adjusted his stance, rolling his shoulder beneath the weight of the shield. The wooden grip had begun to feel more natural, though the stiffness in his wrist told him he still had a long way to go. The sword, crude and rusted as it was, no longer dragged his swings wildly out of alignment. He was beginning to learn how to lead it—not fight against it.
For the next several hours, Leo practiced relentlessly. Not mindless repetition, but experimentation. He tested combinations, imagined enemies flanking him from either side, and shifted his movements accordingly. He adapted footwork he half-remembered from old martial arts films, adjusting his balance with the uneven weight of his new gear. With every slash and step, he built something he hadn't had before: instinct.
Only once his body felt like a puppet pulled by fraying strings did he lower his shield and let the sword tip rest against the floor. His shoulders slumped. Not from pain. Not from hunger.
Just... tired.
He lay down on the smooth white floor, resting the shield under his head like a makeshift pillow. The sword stayed at his side, always within reach.
And yet, as his eyes fluttered shut, something nagged at him.
Why am I even tired?
His body was taken care of—he knew that now. No cramps. No dehydration. His muscles had bounced back far faster than they had any right to.
But his mind?
That was a different battlefield altogether.
The fog gathering behind his eyes wasn't physical. It was the weight of constant decision-making, of scrutiny, of adaptation. Every second spent watching his form, adjusting his posture, calculating angles, anticipating strikes—it all took a toll, even if his body could take more.
This wasn't a nap his body needed.
It was reprieve for his consciousness.
"So that's it… The body recovers fast. But the mind still has limits."
He let the thought settle as his breathing slowed, and sleep crept in—not with a crash, but like a dimming light.
Not long after, the room returned to silence. Just a lone figure curled in white light, dreaming behind closed eyes, sword still at hand.
***
A dim glow flickered from a large screen mounted on a stone wall, casting shifting shadows across the lavish but bizarrely mismatched lounge. Thick velvet curtains blocked any natural light, and the only illumination came from the shifting blues and reds of the screen and the soft golden glow of a fireplace that burned without smoke.
Three figures lounged on an enormous, overstuffed couch—half regal throne, half college futon. A coffee table before them sagged under the weight of bowls piled high with exotic snacks: purple popcorn, glowing fruit, something that hissed when touched. It could have been mistaken for a Superbowl party… if not for the eerie stillness and the unmistakable hum of power in the air.
In front of them, a massive screen played silent footage of a Trial. A young man in torn clothes huddled in the corner of a shadowy arena, his body pressed against the wall as a monstrous creature crept toward him. The feed flickered in and out like a surveillance camera with a mind of its own.
From the far side of the couch, a large man with a thick belly and an even thicker laugh tossed another snack into his mouth. His robe was velvet and gluttony-colored, dotted with food stains and stitched sigils of unclear origin.
"This year's challengers seem promising, don't they?" he said, mouth half-full as he spoke. His eyes twinkled with the same energy as a kid watching Saturday morning cartoons.
The woman seated beside him didn't even blink. She lounged with one arm draped over the backrest, her figure draped in folds of dark silk that shimmered subtly with motion. Her face was half-obscured beneath a lace veil that glittered when it caught the light. She raised a cup to her lips with slow precision.
"You say that every year," she replied, voice cool and unbothered. "Right before they get devoured in round two."
"There's nothing wrong with a little optimism," the fat man muttered, reaching for more food. "Keeps the viewing experience fresh."
The woman exhaled, not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff. She slid down into the cushions with practiced grace and murmured, "I still don't see why we have to sit through all of them."
That was when the third figure spoke. He had remained silent until now, standing behind the couch rather than sitting, arms crossed over a bare, bronzed chest. Muscles coiled beneath skin that looked carved from marble and sun. A lion tattoo stretched across one pec, its eyes inked gold. He leaned forward slightly, his voice quiet, but full of weight.
"You know why."
Both the others fell silent.
"Not all anomalies show themselves right away," the muscular man continued. "Some spark takes time to catch. And when it does... weneed to be the first to notice it."
"Yeah, yeah..." the fat man grumbled, brushing crumbs off his chest. "I know the drill. Just saying, I like watching the early ones. More drama. Fewer egos."
"Just keep an eye out for someone with real potential," the bronze-skinned man said, eyes still fixed on the flickering footage.
"Ooh! That one loo—"
"Someone competent," the muscular man interrupted sharply.
The fat one flinched, deflating like a balloon. "Fine," he muttered, stuffing another handful of glowing kernels into his mouth. He leaned closer to the screen and whispered under his breath, "I'll just keep him to myself then…"