Robert lowered the stick just slightly, watching with a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.
Then, slowly turning, he raised the stick and pointed it across the field — straight at the rest of the students who stood frozen, shocked, and so even pale as ghosts beneath the morning sun.
"Rember," Robert's voice thundered, now sharp and cutting like steel drawn across stone, "this was just the example."
"I don't care whether you are in the Aether Class or in the Wyrd — it makes no damn difference for . If I catch even one of you stopping before the end of your twentieth lap…"
He paused, narrowing his eyes, his voice sinking into sothing far more dangerous — calm.
**"…you already know what happens. And let make this extrely clear—Warnings are only for the First Ti, the second ti there will be no warnings."
For a mont, silence. No one breathed. Even the sound of feet pounding the earth seed to hesitate.
Then—
"NOW START RUNNING!" shouted Robert as the students got back to their feet.
'They must be pretty close to pissing in their pants by now,' thought Ashok, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as his gaze swept across the wide training field.
Ashok watched the chaos unfold around him with amusent like a spectator enjoying an unexpected play.
True to his thoughts, the atmosphere on the field had undergone a grim transformation.
Gone was the early vigor — the determination that had once fueled the student's legs and lit a fire in their chests.
What replaced it was a cold, choking pressure that curled into the gut and made each breath feel like inhaling fire.
Even as they ran, so students couldn't help but glance over their shoulders — back at the pitiful figure of the Wyrd Class student who had tasted Robert's stick firsthand.
Though not everyone can see the situation of his calf as he ran from the front, the sight of his fingers alone was more than enough to instill pure dread.
His hands — trembling, as his fingers painted in shades of red and purple as one was even bent at an unnatural angle— the fingers looked more like overripe fruit crushed under a carriage wheel.
Every few seconds, a guttural sob slipped from his lips as he ran.
His tears stread unchecked, carving trails down his dirt-sared cheeks, and each step he took was like watching agony itself drag its feet forward.
For the rest of the students, already suffering from the strain of the laps and the draining effect of the energy shackles, this image was unbearable.
The emotional impact struck harder than any stick.
Every step forward was now taken with the mory of the sound of that bone-jarring WHACK of the stick that echoed in their minds.
Earlier, they had been chasing first place with gusto — eyes gleaming with ambition, hearts alight with pride.
Even Varnok's mighty war cries had carried a strange sort of morale, a booming rhythm to push them forward.
But now?
That enthusiasm had shattered like glass under a hamr.
The mood had flipped entirely — from fiery competition to cold survival.
Now, they ran not with hope or ambition to co first,
But with fear.
They didn't care who was ahead of them or behind.
Nobody wanted to win anymore — they just wanted to not stop.
To not collapse.
To not be the next one with purple fingers and broken pride.
The first example set by Robert had burned itself into every student's mory like a brand pressed against skin.
That single, brutal demonstration was all it took — a vivid reminder that the price of pausing, even for a mont, was not re reprimand, but an agony that bent bone and will alike.
The sickening thud of that stick against flesh still echoed in their minds like a warning bell, and even the slowest or most stubborn among them now knew one thing clearly:
No breath was worth that pain.
And nobody in their right mind wanted pain for free.
By now, even the arrogant, the entitled, the bold — all those who would once scoff at such discipline — were reduced to creatures of instinct.
Thirty minutes later...
Ashok's foot ca down at the line marking the end of his tenth lap.
anwhile, ahead of him, the main characters — Leon, Gideon, Elara, Mira, Varnok — had just ticked off their eleventh.
The race that had once felt like a clash of titans now resembled a slow, grinding war of attrition.
But the grand procession had long since splintered.
The once-unified horde of students had thinned into loose, staggering clusters.
So managed to push into their eleventh lap with teeth grit and eyes glazed; others were still dragging themselves halfway through it, clinging to the fear of stick while their legs solely moved with willpower.
As for Ashok — while he was still running, still steady — his body was now beginning to feel the consequences of his choice.
For all his planning and strategic pacing, five kiloters of continuous jogging in a body that, until a few days ago, had done little more than exist inside a dorm room, was no easy feat.
Each breath now slowly scorched his lungs.
His stomach churned with a dull, bitter ache — that gnawing pain that cos when endurance starts to run low and the body turns against itself.
And worst of all, his legs…
His legs now slowly started to feel like they were wrapped in iron.
No matter how slow or fast one's pace was, five kiloters under the open sun was no minor feat—especially with their energy cut off and the sky pouring heat like a silent, rciless judge overhead.
In truth, Ashok was certain that if this had been his previous life, the one chained to a chair and a screen inside four walls, he would've long collapsed sowhere on the side.
There would have been no ntion of an eleventh lap, he would have long given up on midway during the first lap.
But now he was different.
Every step forward now was proof.
Proof that in the few days he had spent in this unfamiliar world, sothing inside him had shifted and though it hadn't even been a full week since his arrival, the changes were already rooted deep.
The greatest factor behind his endurance, he knew without doubt, was his External Art.
Though he had only just begun its practice, the signs were obvious.
His midday training, held beneath the rciless blaze of the noon sun.
Compared to those noon sessions, the current morning heat felt almost forgiving — like a mild warning instead of a punishnt.
This contrast had strengthened both his physical resistance and ntal clarity, helping him remain composed, keep control over his breathing, and steady his rhythm.
And if his own condition was deteriorating… the state of the main characters running ahead of him could only be described as worse.
Much worse.
Unlike Ashok, they had burst out of the gate like champions — full speed, full pride, full energy — burning through their reserves in the first seven laps as if the run would end in glory after a short sprint.
But now, their earlier enthusiasm was costing them.
One by one, their shoulders hunched, their strides shortened, and their faces flushed red with overexertion.
Their breaths were no longer controlled exhalations but labored gasps, and the weight on their limbs looked to double with every step.
Leon's face was flushed a deep crimson, a hue so intense it seed as though his skin might ignite from the strain.
His jaw was clenched, his breaths were rough and ragged, drawn in quick intervals as though every lungful was a battle.
His arms, bound by the weight of the full-length Tricelium bracers, trembled violently with each stride — the once fluid motion of his body now reduced to a strained and shaky effort to keep moving forward.
Gone was the confident, graceful sprint of the Hero of Light.
Leon was no longer running with speed.
That part had been burned away, left behind sowhere in the first seven laps.
What remained now was sheer willpower — the unyielding refusal to stop.
He had started strong, claid the lead early, and even now, he refused to surrender that position, not because he was still faster than the others… but because he had built enough of a lead in the beginning to survive this slow decline.
And he wasn't the only one caught in that burning crucible of fatigue.
Gideon, Zog, Mira and Elara were no longer graceful their situation were no longer different compared to a normal student.
And then there was Varnok.
The barbarian looked like a walking Tomato.
His entire body had turned a shade of red that no longer seed healthy. His hands, and his face was as flushed as a boiling kettle.
Each step he took thudded like a war drum — loud, heavy, but still moving.
He was clearly the worst among the front runners when it ca to managing stamina.
His reckless roars and prideful shouts in the early laps had drained his energy reserves far too quickly.
Now, he was paying the price.
But in a show of brute force alone, he still kept ahead of the majority of students in both classes — an exhausted juggernaut dragging himself forward through sheer muscle and stubbornness.
'It's about ti I moved from this last position,' Ashok thought to himself, glancing ahead.
The massive gap that had once separated him from the rest had shrunk steadily over the past several laps.
What began as an entire lap of difference between him and the rest of the field had gradually dwindled.
Now, if he looked ahead, the gap had been halved — a re half-lap separated him from the last of the cluster.
From the very last to almost within reach.
Thirty minutes later…
Ashok's pace hadn't changed, but his position had.
His feet crossed the start line once more.
Lap thirteen.
He was no longer the final na on the invisible scoreboard of effort.
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