At first, Auren endured the pain.
He bit down hard—sometimes on his own tongue, sometimes on the inside of his cheek—anything to keep the screams buried. The Paladin would pause only long enough to place his glowing palm over the wound, white light radiating in a steady, cruel pulse.
And then it would begin again.
The sword twisted deeper into his shoulder, dislocating bones, grinding into joints with sickening precision. The Paladin didn't stab to kill. He stabbed to make Auren suffer.
At one point, the blade plunged so far it tore through and emerged from beneath Auren's armpit.
That was when he passed out.
His metallic skin resisted the blade at first, shielding him on impact. Usually, when the sword struck, the skin would harden—instinctively forming a steel layer over his flesh. But the Paladin adapted. He always did. With enough force, and enough holy light, the sword bit through—like a chisel through alloy—grinding its way inward with deliberate, agonizing control.
And then he would twist. Again. And again.
When the metal skin became too much of a nuisance, the Paladin changed tactics. He coated the blade in light—trailing his fingers along its edge, enchanting it with a brilliant, burning radiance. It pulsed white-hot, humming with divine heat.
Every time it sank into Auren's shoulder, it wasn't just physical agony—it was a searing pain that lanced through his soul. It burned something deeper than flesh. He cried out. Groaned. Fought to keep his voice steady, but the pain always found a way in.
He wanted to beg.
There were moments—seconds that stretched into eternities—where the pain scraped the edge of reason, where the urge to plead for mercy crawled up his throat.
But instead, he bit down.
Lips split. Blood filled his mouth. He'd rather choke on it than surrender.
He made the pain worse, intensified it with his own resistance, letting it flood him until it became all he knew.
Then the light returned.
The Paladin's hand hovered, bathing him in that accursed glow. Bones snapped back into place. Flesh stitched together. Breath returned—but only just enough for the torment to begin anew.
It became a cycle.
Pain. Healing. Pain again.
And Auren endured it.
Not because he was stronger. But because he refused to break.
But with every wave of pain he endured, Auren adapted.
He wasn't just absorbing suffering like a mindless beast—he was evolving with it. Calculating. Weaponizing it.
Each time the agony flared, his body resisted less, and his mind sharpened more.
Every now and then, just beyond the veil of consciousness, he saw them—those strange runes glowing faintly in his vision, accompanied by that indifferent, detached voice.
[Your Endurance has increased.]
And just like always, the moment the message appeared, the next wave of torment became slightly more bearable.
By the fifty-seventh time he collapsed and was dragged back into the waking world, the pain had dulled into something tolerable—something he could analyze, breathe through, control.
It became so familiar that Auren began to wonder if it was even the same pain anymore.
And he made sure the Paladin knew.
Every time the sword twisted, Auren stared straight into the man's eyes. Not pleading. Not crying. But smiling. A dark, quiet, venomous smile laced with hatred and growing confidence.
There was no forgiveness for the Paladin now.
Auren had hated him before. But this? There was no redemption left.
Finally, the Paladin paused.
His brow twitched. Confusion flickered.
Then—without a word—he stabbed the blade deep into Auren's chest, twisting it viciously, carving a full circle through muscle and tendon.
Auren staggered slightly under the subtle spike of pain, but never broke eye contact.
His crimson gaze gleamed—blood-red and unyielding. Sweat poured down his face, mingling with dried blood, but the hatred burning behind his eyes was pure and untamed. It wasn't just fury—it was promise.
Auren didn't just want vengeance.
He was vengeance.
The Paladin blinked, visibly shaken by the look in his eyes.
"How are you…?"
Auren opened his mouth slowly—and spat blood to the side. Then he locked eyes with him.
"Keep going,"
He rasped, voice like rusted steel.
"So I can keep counting. I'll pay you back for every stab… I swear it… on my mother's dead body."
His words were grave. Slow. Cold.
And they fell like a curse.
The Paladin's heart skipped. A cold thump hammered in his chest. He hesitated—truly hesitated—for the first time.
Auren tilted his head slightly, his face tightening into a twisted grin. His eyes narrowed—demented, unblinking.
"What the hell are you waiting for? Keep stabbing… Paladin."
The man flinched—visibly now.
He stood frozen for a second too long before fury returned to his features. His brows twisted low. He reached forward, grabbed Auren by the hair, and yanked him up roughly.
He barked, shoving him forward.
"Move!"
Auren staggered forward as the Paladin shoved him.
And that was how their journey across the black desert began.
No words. No destination. Just endless footsteps sinking into cold sand beneath a sky that offered neither light nor mercy.
Whenever Auren slowed—whenever his steps faltered—the Paladin drove the sword into him. A quick stab. A rough yank. No healing. Just a fresh wound left to throb and bleed.
He stayed behind Auren the whole time, looming like a shadow that bled cruelty. And still, they walked.
And walked.
And walked.
Time blurred. The desert offered no landmarks. Just the void, stretching in every direction, swallowing sound and reason. It felt like they were walking in circles—endlessly, hopelessly.
Eventually, Auren's body began to fail.
His legs dragged behind him, each step a war. His breath rasped like a dry saw in his throat, his mouth cracked and parched, lungs aflame despite the frigid night air.
He heard the voice again—sharp, repetitive, hollow.
"Move!"
The Paladin, always behind. Always commanding.
But Auren didn't move this time.
He couldn't.
His body buckled, knees hitting the sand, then his shoulder. He lay there, unmoving, his face half-buried in the cold grit.
He didn't care anymore.
Clearing the trial. Failing it. Dying. Surviving. Revenge. Rage. It all blurred into noise—white, dull, distant.
None of it mattered now.
He was just tired.
So—utterly—tired.
And then…
Something strange happened.
A faint shimmer flickered in his vision. Runes. Quiet. Familiar.
[You've grown slight resistance to fatigue.]
'...'
Despite the relief he felt, Auren's consciousness slowly slipped out of his faint grip.