The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
Rover entered slowly, closing the door behind him. He stood there for a moment, gazing at the faint sunset pouring through the window, casting long shadows across the floor.
He took a deep breath, then spoke into the silence.
"Can you come out and talk to me… once again?"
No answer.
"Are you the reason I'm not Awakened? What did you do to my body? What are you?"
Only silence responded.
His hands trembled. "...Tch. Fine. Stay quiet. I can't depend on you anyway."
He turned around and grabbed his training bag. The apartment was far too small, too enclosed to handle what he needed now. He stepped back outside into the cool air of dusk, walking past the alley and behind the old building where the overgrown yard stretched into a rugged slope. No one was around.
This place would do.
"I've been taking a long break," he muttered. "Ever since the tower… the court… I've been passive. It's time I start moving again."
He threw off his jacket and picked up a thick log he had dragged there days ago. With it balanced on his shoulders, he began doing push-ups in the dirt.
One. Two. Twenty. Fifty.
Sweat poured down his neck, mixing with the dust. His arms burned, but he didn't stop. Not this time.
He moved on to sit-ups, hugging a jagged boulder to his chest as he forced each repetition.
Then came the tire—an enormous, weathered truck wheel. He heaved it onto his back and sprinted up and down the slope, panting, legs shaking from the effort.
Hours passed. Darkness swallowed the sky.
Finally, under the moonlight, Rover faced a massive chunk of rock. He gripped his training blade, exhaled, and slashed down with all his strength.
CRACK.
A tiny fracture formed.
"That's it?" he muttered. "Damn…"
He dropped to his knees, breathing hard.
"I still have a long way to go."
---
Meanwhile… In France
Inside an ancient cathedral, the scent of incense lingered as candlelight flickered across solemn statues.
Father Estienne knelt before the altar. A once-composed priest, he now trembled beneath the weight of something far beyond faith.
He had seen it.
The boy who fought the dragon.
But what terrified him wasn't the footage—it was the feeling.
"That power…" he whispered, clutching his rosary, "...that wasn't divine."
He looked up to the crucifix, his voice shaking. "I've studied sacred energies my entire life. I've seen miracles… I know when something comes from heaven."
He stood slowly. "That boy's power didn't come from above. It came from something else. Something ancient. Something buried."
He turned toward the great stained glass window, eyes wide with dread.
"If it awakens again… the world may not survive."
He crossed himself.
"The end may come not with war… but with him."
To be continue...