Niko kept walking. The sunlight pouring in through the hallway windows was warm on his skin, but it didn't comfort him. A dull thrum had started in his chest, a mix of frustration and unease that he couldn't quite shake.
He stopped in front of Iri's room.
One last try.
He raised his hand and knocked. Once.
Twice.
…Thrice.
No answer.
His hand hovered in the air a moment longer, unsure whether to knock again or punch straight through the wood. He didn't, though. Instead, he took a small breath, pushing his senses outward. He was no expert—his energy perception was crude, like squinting through fog—but still, he could usually feel her. Iri's presence was distinct. Heavy. Sharp like winter air. If she were even remotely close, he'd feel it licking at the edges of his awareness.
But there was nothing.
Niko's jaw tightened.
"She wouldn't leave," he muttered to himself. "She wouldn't just go."
He stared at the door a few seconds longer, waiting for some part of him to disagree, to find another explanation—but none came. The silence behind the door was a weight. The hallway around him felt colder now, emptier. He stepped back, fingers curling briefly into fists before he turned away.
"Where the hell could you have gone?"
He walked slowly at first, his thoughts twisting. The idea of someone kidnapping Iri was laughable. She was the strongest person he knew—at least, besides Chalice—and maybe even that was debatable depending on the field. Iri didn't get taken. She chose where to go.
But she wouldn't choose to leave him. Not like this. Not now.
Especially not with war a day away.
"Iri…" he whispered under his breath as he returned to his room. The door clicked shut behind him, and suddenly the space felt heavier, more isolated.
He let himself fall onto the edge of the bed, shoulders sagging. His thoughts tangled for a long moment—until one sharp realization cut through the mess.
If Iri was missing tomorrow…
They were in trouble.
She wasn't just powerful—she was crucial. Her ability to manifest laws through runes, her quick combat precision, her calm under fire… She had always been a cornerstone in any dangerous plan, whether she knew it or not. Having her by his side was like holding a loaded weapon no one else understood. She was his silent edge.
And now?
Gone.
"Iri would've been a massive help," he muttered aloud. Then scoffed. "Almost as much as Chalice."
Then he paused, stared at the floor, and amended under his breath—
"No… not quite. No one's as much help as Chalice."
He hated admitting it.
But it was true.
Chalice had gone from a cryptic lunatic in a cult robe to a brutal reminder of what real power looked like. The way he fought—the depth of his attacks, the sheer control over Essence, the ability to shatter someone without even killing them—was terrifying. And now, after everything… after the truth came out, after the sunrise in the forest, after the quiet conversation where Chalice spoke not as a speaker of gods but a man bound by fate…
They weren't enemies anymore. Not exactly.
Chalice had left a mark deeper than Niko wanted to admit. He had pulled Niko's soul to its limits and handed it back intact—just barely. And more than that… he had offered guidance. Purpose. A glimpse at the scale of what was coming.
The war tomorrow wasn't just a rumor now. It was real. Declared. And it had weight behind it.
Niko sat up straighter.
He couldn't afford to be distracted.
Iri was gone? Fine. Then he had to act as if she wasn't coming. He had to be sharp. He had to reach the best his body—and his soul—could possibly be before the sun rose again.
Because whatever was coming… it wouldn't wait.
He stood, slowly, testing his limbs. They didn't ache—not anymore. The soreness was gone. His wounds from the cult, the brutal exchange with Chalice… they'd healed. Not through rest alone, but through something deeper. His energy. His core.
He touched the center of his chest, fingers brushing lightly over skin.
It felt… full. Like his heart wasn't just beating, but humming. His essence was swirling, constantly flowing, mending him from the inside out. It wasn't just healing—it was growth. Expansion. His soul adapting to what it had survived.
But still…
He could feel it.
His body remembered Chalice's strikes.
The pressure of being crushed by ideals heavier than stone. The speed, the elegance, the disdain. His nerves still twitched now and then, like ghosts of pain flickering behind his muscles.
And if tomorrow brought that level of strength—or worse—he needed to be ready.
He looked at his hand, clenched it into a fist, then released.
He could do this. He had to do this.
"Iri… wherever you are," he said under his breath, walking to the window, staring at the still golden light outside. "If you're not back by tomorrow… I'll fight without you."
He didn't say the rest out loud.
He didn't say please come back.
Because he knew, somewhere deep in his soul, if she could be by his side… she would.
And if not?
Then he'd just have to become strong enough to hold the line alone.
Niko sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, bare palms resting on his knees. The room was quiet. Only the faint creak of the tavern's old walls and the distant stirrings of Sanctuary life echoed in the background. The air was cool, but his breath came warm, steady. He let his eyes fall shut, exhaling slowly through his nose. Then again. And again.
He focused inward.
Not just on breath—but deeper. On that quiet river running beneath his skin.
His energy.
It coursed through him now like a second bloodstream, guided with intent. Every time his chest rose, he imagined his core pulsing with a soft, glowing rhythm. Like a heart—but stronger. More deliberate. It didn't just keep him alive.
It remade him.
He willed it to circulate—pushing that quiet light through his arms, into his shoulders, down his spine, into his legs and back up again. The cycle repeated, faster each time, until his whole body felt like it was humming from the inside out.
Then it hit.
That feeling.
As if he were a man tasting water for the first time. Something crisp, sharp, alive. The kind of energy that made you forget what it felt like to be tired or bruised or helpless. His lips parted just slightly in awe.
"Inhale it," he whispered to himself.
And he did.
Letting the sensation of power stretch into every inch of his body.
Then—he opened his eyes.
No time to waste.
Without hesitation, he dropped to the floor and began.
One push-up. Then another. Then another.
The muscles in his arms, chest, and back tensed with every movement, slow and steady at first—form perfect. The kind of push-ups Iri would have smacked him for getting lazy with. Her voice echoed in the back of his mind, calm but strict: "Sloppy effort leads to sloppy survival."
So he made sure not one was sloppy.
Ten… fifty… a hundred.
He didn't pause.
Two hundred. Sweat gathered on his brow. His jaw clenched. His spine straightened with every push. It wasn't just repetition—it was warfare. A declaration. He was pushing his body to its edge—and then past it. Again and again.
Every time he felt the pain creeping in—he let his energy flow again. Healing him. Restoring him. Like waves licking the wounds before they could settle into scars.
Three hundred. Four hundred. Five hundred.
By now his arms trembled faintly—but he didn't stop. He wouldn't.
Not until he hit the thousand.
Because this was his method. This was the training Iri had set for him back in the House, honed when she still stood beside him like a silent sentinel. The method she had given him when he was weaker. When he was unsure.
But he wasn't unsure now.
He had added to it. Sharpened it. Reinvented it. Because unlike before, he didn't rest after the set. He didn't fight someone right away like she had drilled into him.
Instead—he healed.
Reset.
Then did it again.
And again.
It wasn't just physical—it was mathematical. Efficient. Ruthless.
He was stacking time.
One day of this training was worth three, maybe five, maybe more. His energy wasn't just making him stronger—it was making him endless. A body that didn't break. A spirit that didn't yield.
By the time he hit the thousandth push-up, his shirt was drenched. His shoulders screamed. His fingers trembled slightly from the sheer exertion.
But he wasn't done.
He flipped over, pulled in a breath, and began his sit-ups.
One. Two. Ten. Fifty.
His stomach pulled tight, his spine curling up, every movement crisp and clean. He stared at the ceiling with a look of cold fire. The world narrowed into the motion. The heat. The rhythm. His thoughts were gone now. All that remained was the beat of his core, pumping through him like thunder.
A hundred.
He stopped.
Not because he had to.
But because he knew how to listen to his body now. How to pace it. Break it. Heal it. Rebuild it again.
He laid flat on the ground, chest rising and falling. His hair clung to his forehead. Sweat beaded along his neck. But beneath that—
Power thrummed.
Not overwhelming. Not chaotic.
Steady. Patient. Earned.
Niko stared at the ceiling, gritting his teeth.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
But today?
Today, he would become ready for it.