Kezess's voice slithered in, low and rough—a sigh cutting through Raizen's panting. "Let's take it slow," he said, tone flat, almost bored. "How about a hundred for starters?" Red eyes flickered in Raizen's mind—scattered, glinting cold—his faceless thoughtform looming somewhere unseen, tendrils dripping fuel he could almost smell.
"Yah," Raizen gasped, pushing up shaky—then flopped back down, thudding hard, dust puffing around him. "Ow," he muttered, cheek pressed to the floor again, breath still puffing out in short, desperate bursts.
Kezess's voice darkened, a faint frown in it. "Y'know this is a Marquessate, but I haven't seen anyone else on this drill hall most days." The words hung, sharp, probing—Raizen blinked, sweat stinging his eyes, rolling slow to his side, propping up on an elbow.
"You don't know?" he said, voice hoarse, wiping his brow—smearing dirt and sweat across his forehead, leaving a gritty streak.
Kezess growled low—irritation curling in his tone. "It's not like I spend all of my time eavesdropping on you," he snapped. "I have more important things to do." The silence after stretched thin—red eyes glinting harder in Raizen's head, like they dared him to push.
Raizen huffed, sitting up slow, arms wobbling. "Such as?" he asked, head tilting, voice dry—half-curious, half-taunting, waiting for something sharp to snap back.
Kezess didn't answer—just a cold, empty pause, heavy as the rot-stink air of the mindscape. Raizen shrugged, wincing as his shoulders ached, and leaned back on his hands. "For over four decades," he said, voice steadying, "the Helios Marquessate had held a neutral stance, infact we are one of the only four neutral houses in Renum. We don't really have a decent number of men, so the northern drill hall—it mainly goes unused." He glanced around—wood beams sagging, pull-up bar rusted red at the ends, floor scratched and faded—empty, quiet, dust motes drifting lazy in the gray light slanting through cracked windows.
Kezess's voice cut in, slow, cold. "A neutral stance, huh?" A cold tone, "Don't neutral forces need bigger armies—why make themselves vulnerable like that?" The words slithered, sharp with doubt—red eyes narrowing in Raizen's mind, glinting like he'd caught a flaw.
Raizen scratched his neck, dirt under his nails, shrugging loose. "That, I don't know," he muttered, voice trailing off—eyes drifting to the hall's far wall, a faded banner flapping faint in the draft, threads unraveling at the edges.
"Stop slacking off," Kezess barked, sudden and mean—Raizen jolted, hands slipping on the gritty floor. "Start right now!"
"Start what?" Raizen shot back, voice cracking, blinking fast—sweat beaded cold on his brow again, heart thudding.
Kezess didn't answer—just an eerie silence, thick and heavy, red eyes glowing steady in his head. Raizen groaned, rolling his shoulders—aching already—and dropped back to his hands. "Okay," he muttered, voice rough, starting slow. "One, two, three, four…" Arms shook, elbows wobbling, breath puffing out—"…twenty-five!" He paused, chest burning, gasping loud. "Can—huh—I take a five-minute break?"
"Only five," Kezess said, voice flat, cold—red eyes glinting like they'd count every second. Raizen flopped back, sprawled out, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling—dust drifting down, catching the light, his arms limp as wet rags.
Five minutes later—breath still ragged—he pushed up, grimacing. "Twenty-six!" he grunted, arms trembling hard, sweat dripping off his nose, splattering the floor. Doing it for twenty minutes,"Ninety-nine! Hundred!" He collapsed, knees hitting wood, gasping loud—done, finally. "I did it!" he wheezed, voice cracking, a shaky grin tugging his lips.
Kezess's voice cut through, dry and sharp. "A hundred's nothing to be happy about—tch. And don't forget you still have twenty—" He paused, then shifted, cold. "Huh... just... just do two hundred rounds of the hall."
Raizen groaned, hauling himself up—legs wobbly, boots scuffing as he started running. The hall stretched long—dusty air stinging his lungs, footsteps echoing faint off the walls. "One.. two.. three.." he counted under his breath, arms pumping, sweat soaking his shirt darker—round after round, dodging a cracked beam, breath huffing louder. "Two hundred!" He thudded to a stop, collapsing hard—knees buckling, sprawling flat, face-down in the dirt, gasping ragged.
"Now—" Kezess started, voice slithering in.
Raizen cut in, panting, "Hundred sit-ups and pull-ups correct?" He rolled over, chest heaving, staring at the rusted bar overhead—arms already screaming, dust sticking to his sweaty back.
"True that..." Kezess muttered, tone flat—red eyes glinting faint, watching.
Raizen dragged himself up—one and a half months stretched out, that reduced routine grinding into him slow. First week—sit-ups left him curled on the floor, stomach cramping, gasping through fifty before puking bile in a corner, Kezess scoffing loud. Pull-ups—arms gave at ten, dropping him hard, chin scraping the bar, blood flecking his lip as he cursed, Kezess silent but cold. Running—legs wobbled at fifty rounds, tripping over a loose plank, knee bruising purple, huffing as he finished sprawled out again. Days blurred—sweat stung his eyes, hands blistered raw on the bar, peeling skin sticking to the rust, breath burning his throat—but he kept going, slow, stubborn.
One morning—third week—he hit seventy-five push-ups, arms shaking less, collapsing with a grunt, not a crash—Kezess hummed, low, almost surprised. A month in—sit-ups flowed smoother, abs tightening under his shirt, finishing hundred with a groan, not a scream—Kezess silent, red eyes dim. Pull-ups—fingers bled less, grip steadier, hitting sixty before dropping, boots thudding, chest puffing proud—Kezess muttered, "Tch, still too weak." Running—hundred rounds left him panting, not flat, legs aching but holding—Kezess's voice colder, "Faster next time,"
By six weeks—he'd adapted, at least to the reduced target. Push-ups—hundred steady, arms burning but firm, breath huffing even. Sit-ups—crunching fast, sweat pooling under him, finishing with a wheeze. Pull-ups—bar creaking under his weight, hitting hundred, dropping with a thud, hands calloused thick. Running—two hundred rounds, legs pumping, lungs raw but strong, collapsing with a grin, not a fall. His height spiked—shirt tighter now, shoulders broader, legs stretching longer—growth hitting hard, just two days shy of his birthday.
He sprawled on the floor again—breath steadying, dust settling around him—Kezess's voice slithering in, cold but quiet, watching.