By the time the ninth finger burned, the gym didn’t sound like a training hall anymore.

  It sounded like a battlefield infirmary.

  “Overcharge.”

  Lightning crackled around Rina’s hand, wrapped itself around her ring finger—and then bit down like a hungry animal.

  The smell of scorched skin hit the air.

  Rina’s vision went white.

  She didn’t even manage a full scream this time, just a strangled noise as her knee slammed into the floor.

  Merrin slid in beside her like an arrow, hands already glowing with pale green light.

  “Rina! Rina—hold still—Minor Mend, Flesh Knit—!”

  The healing washed over the blistered flesh, closing it but not erasing the char. It was enough to stop the damage, not enough to make it painless.

  Rina panted, sweat dripping onto the polished floor. Her hair was standing in frizzy spikes from repeated lightning shocks, making her look like a fried sparrow.

  “Why… are you doing this to yourself…?” Merrin’s voice broke, tears streaking down her cheeks. “You’re not… you’re not a training dummy, you’re—”

  “I have to,” Rina wheezed. “If I stop now… I’ll never catch up.”

  To who, she didn’t say.

  She didn’t need to.

  They all knew who she had in mind.

  Across the room, Azhareth stood with his arms folded, watching her the way a storm might watch a single tree.

  Detached.

  Measuring.

  His eyes held no hatred. No glee.

  Just an ancient patience that made the whole scene look… normal.

  This was how demons trained.

  This was how heroes died.

  “Finger nine,” he said.

  Rina swallowed, lifted her trembling hand. The fingers she’d already used were darkened and stiff, wrapped in hastily applied bandages.

  She tried to raise her pinky.

  “A-actually, maybe we should take a break,” Selphy said carefully, spear tip dipping. “There’s a point where training becomes self-harm and—”

  “Overcharge,” Azhareth said.

  The skill responded instantly.

  Sparks exploded from Rina’s smallest finger.

  Her body sagged like a puppet with cut strings as pain lanced through her nerves again. A cry tore out of her chest, raw and hoarse.

  Merrin caught her before she hit the ground.

  She couldn’t stop shaking.

  Her chest heaved.

  Her skin was slick with sweat.

  “Please,” Merrin begged, voice shaking. “Please stop. This isn’t training anymore, Rina. This is—this is torture.”

  Rina’s answer came out as a whisper between ragged breaths.

  “I… won’t… quit…”

  Rai paced near Azhareth’s feet, tail low, ears pinned back. Each time Rina screamed, he flinched and gave Azhareth a reproachful growl. Each time she forced herself back up, he huffed and sat down again, as if grudgingly approving.

  From behind the reinforced glass of the observation room, Rina’s father watched with clenched teeth.

  This isn’t training, he thought.

  This is a baptism by lightning.

  His hands tightened on the railing until his knuckles went white.

  “Sir,” his aide whispered nervously. “Should we intervene? Order a stop—?”

  “No.” His voice came out harsher than intended. “No one interferes. Anyone who tries is fired.”

  The aide paled.

  Inside the gym, Merrin pressed her glowing hands against Rina’s ruined skin.

  But the healing wouldn’t keep up. Her own mana trembled. Her hands shook.

  Every time she tried to cast, her aim wavered. The spells sputtered.

  She wasn’t a real healer. She was an archer who had picked up healing so fewer people died out there.

  Now, under the weight of Azhareth’s gaze and the smell of cooked flesh, she could feel her limits closing in.

  She started to cry.

  “Why… are we even doing this…?” she whispered. “What’s the point of all this pain…?”

  Rina laughed, a broken, breathless sound.

  “Because… I asked for it,” she said. “Because I begged him… to teach me.”

  Her voice was shaking, but her eyes were clear.

  Merrin clung to her like she was watching a friend drown.

  Across the room, Azhareth exhaled slowly.

  He didn’t like the sound of sobbing.

  Not because it tugged at his heart.

  But because it reminded him of previous lives, of losers at the bottom of battlefields who cried when the price of power finally came due.

  “Enough,” he said.

  The sobbing didn’t stop at once. Merrin was too far gone in emotion to hear it.

  “Enough,” he repeated, sharper.

  Merrin flinched, looking up as if waking from a nightmare.

  “Y-yes—?”

  Azhareth walked toward them, steps quiet, presence anything but.

  He looked down at Merrin, eyes travelling over her trembling hands, her unfocused casting, the way her bowskills and healing skills tugged at different muscles in her arms.

  “You misuse your essence,” he said. “Archer and healer concepts fighting each other. You’re trying to be two things at once and failing at both.”

  The words cut.

  Merrin recoiled like he’d slapped her.

  “But,” he added, just as flatly, “you could become an excellent battlefield medic. If you survive long enough.”

  Merrin stared at him, eyes wide, tears still wet on her cheeks.

  She swallowed.

  “…I’ll survive,” she said quietly.

  He nodded once.

  “Then stop crying,” he said. “You’re wasting mana and time.”

  He turned his head.

  “Aldren.”

  The butler jumped slightly. “Y-yes, Sir Azhareth?”

  “Paper. Pen.” He held out a hand. “Now.”

  Aldren bolted.

  He returned in seconds with a leather folder and a slim fountain pen.

  Azhareth knelt on the floor, resting the paper on his knee. His hand moved swiftly, filling the sheet with a list that looked more like ingredients for a cheap soup than anything alchemical:

  – low-grade herbs

  – cheap monster bone

  – distilled mana-water

  – common mineral salts

  – river weed

  – basic dungeon mushrooms

  – one cooking pot

  – wood ladle

  – mana stove

  – carrots

  He handed the paper back.

  “Fetch these,” he said.

  Aldren bowed and sprinted away like the fate of the world depended on it.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The team stared.

  “…Did he just write carrots?” Kira muttered. “Is he making stew?”

  “Monster bone, mana-water, mineral salts…” Selphy murmured, squinting. “It’s almost like a potion base, but the ratios are insane.”

  Gavren frowned. “And a ladle. That’s… not a lab tool.”

  Dael swallowed hard.

  “I… don’t know what he’s doing,” he said quietly. “I’ve read every known alchemy textbook. Nothing looks like that.”

  That, more than anything, scared them.

  If Dael didn’t know, then it wasn’t just unusual.

  It was unprecedented.

  In the observation room, Rina’s father leaned closer to the glass.

  What are you planning now, monster?

  Aldren returned pushing a cart stacked with ingredients and a pot large enough to boil a person in.

  Azhareth rolled up his sleeves.

  He didn’t draw a magic circle.

  He didn’t chant.

  He didn’t measure anything.

  He tossed herbs, bone fragments, mushrooms, carrot slices, river weeds, and crystalline salts into the pot like a bored chef throwing together leftovers.

  He turned a dial on the mana stove.

  Nothing happened.

  So he snapped his fingers and sent a controlled arc of lightning into the metal.

  The liquid trembled.

  The whole pot let out a low hum.

  The smell that rose up was… confusing.

  Sweet. Then bitter. Then metallic. Then oddly refreshing.

  “What… is that?” Selphy whispered.

  “No clue,” Kira muttered. “If it explodes, I’m hiding behind Gavren.”

  “You always hide behind me,” he grumbled.

  Dael’s hands shook as he dug a rectangular device out of his pouch.

  “Appraisal tablet,” he muttered. “If that’s some weird cooking experiment, fine. But if it’s a potion, I— I need to know what rank we’re dealing with.”

  By the time Azhareth finished stirring, the liquid in the pot had turned a softly glowing gold, the light within thick and warm. It looked less like a potion and more like distilled sunlight.

  Azhareth killed the heat with a flick.

  He lifted the pot by one handle with casual ease and set it on a reinforced stand.

  Dael swallowed.

  “O-okay,” he muttered to himself. “Appraisal.”

  He held the tablet near the surface.

  The device hummed.

  A thin screen lit up, scanning the steam.

  Lines of text formed.

  Dael’s eyes nearly fell out of his skull.

  “W–what does it say?” Kira hissed, sidling up.

  Dael’s voice was a strangled whisper.

  “…It says…”

  He turned the screen so they could all see.

  [ ITEM APPRAISAL RESULT ]

  ITEM: Elixir of Regrowth

  RANK: SSS

  TYPE: Restoration Elixir

  DESCRIPTION:

  Rapid regeneration of all cellular structures.

  Increases healing by 1000%.

  Restores damaged mana pathways.

  Can regrow lost tissue.

  NOT PRESENT IN KNOWN DATABASES.

  The room went dead silent.

  Merrin’s mouth hung open.

  “T-that’s… enough elixir to buy a city…” she whispered.

  “And he made a whole pot,” Gavren muttered. “Out of… carrots and trash.”

  Kira shivered.

  “And he just… did it. Like he was boiling tea.”

  In the observation room, Rina’s father stared.

  An SSS elixir.

  A pot of it.

  He ran a hand down his face.

  “…I need a drink,” he muttered.

  Azhareth dipped the ladle into the golden liquid.

  Rina, still sitting on the floor, half-conscious, watched the arc as it rose.

  Her breath hitched.

  H-he’s going to give it to me…

  He walked up to her…

  lifted the ladle…

  …and threw it at her face.

  The splash was spectacular.

  Liquid light drenched her from forehead to chin.

  She yelped in surprise, half choking.

  “KYAA—!”

  Then she realized.

  The pain was gone.

  The raw, flayed sensation in her fingers vanished. Her skin smoothed. The cracks in her mana channels eased. Her muscles stopped trembling with fatigue. Even the ache in her bones melted away.

  Her entire body felt…

  New.

  She touched her fingers, one by one.

  Perfect.

  Whole.

  Unscarred.

  Dael fell to his knees.

  “He… he just threw an SSS-rank elixir… on her face,” he whispered. “D-do you know how much that’s worth…?”

  “Do you want to jump in the pot?” Kira hissed under her breath. “Because if you try, I swear, I’ll slit your throat before he can.”

  Dael shut his mouth.

  Azhareth dropped the empty ladle back into the pot and stepped away.

  “Healing should be efficient, not gentle,” he said. “Gentle healing breeds weakness.”

  Rina stared at him, chest rising and falling.

  “Teacher,” she whispered. “You… healed me.”

  He tilted his head faintly.

  “Of course,” he said. “I’m not training a corpse.”

  He turned, casting a glance at her team.

  “Flercher trained his pupils the same way,” he added casually. “Those who screamed died. Those who stayed silent survived.”

  The entire team went pale.

  Selphy’s lips trembled.

  “…Why did we come again?” she whispered.

  “Because we’re stupid,” Kira replied.

  “And loyal,” Gavren added quietly.

  Azhareth looked back to Rina.

  “Stand.”

  She did.

  Her legs shook, but her body obeyed.

  He pointed at her hand.

  “Overcharge. One finger. One hour.”

  She blinked.

  “Already—?”

  “You asked to be my disciple,” he said. “Your body is whole. Your mana lines are clear. You can scream later.”

  She swallowed hard.

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “One more rule.”

  She stiffened.

  His voice dropped, taking on the weight of an order that had been given on a thousand training fields in a thousand lives.

  “The more you scream,” he said, “the slower I give you the potion.”

  Several hearts stopped for a beat.

  Rina’s included.

  Azhareth added, without a trace of humor:

  “Your screams hurt my ears. You train to become a lightning warrior, not a banshee.”

  Kira choked.

  “That’s the line,” she muttered. “We’ve officially crossed into nightmare.”

  Rina stared at her hand.

  If I scream… he’ll delay the elixir…

  No.

  Then I won’t scream.

  She raised her index finger.

  “Overcharge,” she whispered.

  Lightning arced, wrapping her fingertip in crackling white.

  Pain flared.

  Her throat instinctively tried to release a scream.

  She bit down on it, teeth digging into her own lip. A strangled “nnngh—!” slipped out instead.

  Her eyes flooded with tears.

  Azhareth watched.

  “Better,” he said.

  Her finger burned, crying nerves blazing, until she had to stop the skill.

  Merrin took an involuntary step forward—then stopped herself, fists clenched, remembering his words.

  Battlefield medic. If I survive.

  She would survive.

  Even if she had to watch this.

  “Next finger,” Azhareth said.

  Rina lifted her middle finger.

  Lightning again.

  Pain again.

  She managed only a sharp inhale this time, knees bending—but no scream.

  Rai whined softly, then gave a tiny nod, as if acknowledging her effort.

  Her hair puffed up further, electricity making it look like she’d stuck a fork in an outlet.

  Azhareth eyed it.

  “Your hair is now slightly more aerodynamic,” he remarked. “Good.”

  Rina would’ve laughed if she could breathe properly.

  Gavren stared.

  “How,” he muttered, “is that good?”

  “Less wind resistance,” Dael whispered faintly. “Probably.”

  They cycled through fingers.

  Burn.

  Cut skill.

  Breathlessly endure.

  Each time the pain threatened to tear her apart, the memory of Azhareth’s rule forced it back down.

  The more you scream, the slower I give you the potion.

  She wanted the potion.

  She hated that she wanted it.

  She needed it anyway.

  Behind the glass, her father watched his daughter—his precious heiress, his pride—stand in front of a man who treated SSS elixirs like tap water and pain like currency.

  His chest hurt.

  But he didn’t look away.

  “Hold,” Azhareth said quietly, when she managed nearly ten full seconds of Overcharge on her thumb. “Good.”

  He lifted the ladle again.

  Rina’s shoulders slumped in relief.

  The elixir splashed across her hands this time.

  Warmth surged up her arms.

  The burns vanished.

  She flexed her fingers.

  Perfect.

  No scars to remind her of what she’d just endured.

  Only memory.

  And the knowledge that tomorrow, she would do it again.

  “How many… times are we going to repeat this?” she asked, panting.

  Azhareth met her eyes.

  “Until your body stops burning,” he said, “and lightning finally remembers that you are its master, not its victim.”

  He turned away, heading back toward the pot.

  Rai trotted after him, looking over his shoulder once at Rina with an almost pitying huff.

  Dael stared at the remaining elixir like a starving man watching a feast.

  “If I… jumped into that pot,” he whispered, “do you think I’d become immortal?”

  Kira didn’t look at him.

  “If you try,” she murmured, “Rina will kill you before the teacher gets the chance.”

  Rina flexed her fingers again, feeling the ghost of pain still lingering in her nerves.

  She lifted her hand one more time.

  “Overcharge,” she said.

  And did not scream.

  For the first time.

  In the observation room, her father exhaled slowly, a strange mixture of pride and dread twisting behind his ribs.

  “That man…” he murmured, watching Azhareth’s silhouette, “is going to reshape her into something the world has never seen.”

  He wasn’t sure yet whether to be grateful.

  Or terrified.

  Back on the floor, lightning danced on Rina’s fingertips.

  Azhareth watched without comment.

  But behind his eyes, in the buried layers of 666 lives, a memory stirred—

  of another disciple, long ago, who had stood just as stubbornly amid storms and pain.

  Flercher would have approved.

  So would Ithil.

  This, he thought, is how you make something worthy.

  Not through comfort.

  Through fire.

  And if the world cannot keep up with what I build here…

  He glanced at the pot of golden elixir, at Rina’s burning determination, at her team’s shaken but stubborn faces.

  …then the world will have to learn to survive anyway.

  One finger at a time.