(Meanwhile, Planet Ixtal, The Old Stone Castle, Soron’s POV)
Soron stood alone in the outer training quarters of the old stone castle as he quietly debated whether he should even attempt to train at all, the question lingering heavily in his mind while the cold air pressed against his decaying skin.
"Hah—"
A long sigh slipped from his throat as he chuckled softly, studying the miserable state his once-mighty body had been reduced to, his breath shaking as he acknowledged what he had tried so long to ignore.
His skin now hung loosely from his bones, sagging weakly with every movement, while streaks of thick black goo seeped slowly from the countless wounds carved long ago by the cursed Origin Dagger, as at this stage there existed not a single joint in his body that did not pulse with relentless aching pain, each throb reminding him just how far he had fallen from the warrior he used to be.
"I really do not wish to move any more than I am absolutely required to.
However... Father always said that for a fighter to remain at his sharpest, he must train every single day."
Soron murmured quietly as he lowered his gaze, bending down with great difficulty to pick up a wooden dagger lying near his feet, its feather-light weight settling surprisingly well into his weak palms as his fingers curled around the hilt with familiarity he thought he had lost, his tired eyes sharpening immediately the moment a weapon found its place within his grasp.
*Inhale*
He inhaled slowly, letting the cold air fill his hollow chest as he raised the dagger beside his ribs, then exhaled while thrusting forward in a simple jab meant to serve as the foundation for every time-piercing technique he had ever mastered.
*Thuk*
The tip of the wooden blade cut forward with a muted sound, yet Soron felt his entire elbow spike with sharp pain as if a nail had been hammered straight into the joint, his knees wobbling slightly as he gritted his teeth while the familiar temporal feedback failed to manifest around him.
’Too slow,’ he thought quietly, lowering the dagger as disappointment pooled in his chest, because despite attempting the most basic motion, he felt the air shift out of rhythm, slipping through the cracks in his weakened aura rather than bending around him with the obedience it once displayed.
"My base state has no strength anymore, it’s only when I tap into divine essence that my pain and fatigue disappears and I can maintain my God level strength. However, without it...."
Soron muttered as he tried again.
*Thuk*
The second jab landed slightly cleaner, yet the moment the strike extended fully, a rush of black ooze spilled from the torn scars across his shoulder as the cursed residue sizzled faintly against his skin, while his vision swayed for a moment under the strain of maintaining the stance.
*Thud*
Soron steadied himself by planting his foot more firmly on the cracked stone, his breath coming heavier now as he forced his muscles to listen, because every fiber of his body felt stiff, unresponsive, as if he were trying to command a corpse rather than a living form.
’No.... Again!’
He thought, as he raised the dagger again.
*Thuk*
*Thuk*
*Thuk*
Each repetition grew weaker as his arms trembled violently, yet Soron refused to stop, for he knew that the true essence of the drill did not lie in speed or force, but in perfect alignment with the thinning points of the temporal membrane, something he could once sense instinctively but now struggled to feel through the haze of pain clouding his senses.
*Pant*
*Pant*
His breath hitched as he paused between jabs, sweat mixing with the black ooze running down his torso, while fatigue pulled heavily at his limbs, dragging him toward the ground like invisible chains.
"Pathetic," Soron muttered under his breath as he shook his head slightly, unable to believe how far he had fallen, since there had been a time when entire armies froze upon witnessing his time-slashing drills, a time when he carved through enemy Demi Gods as though they were made of fragile porcelain, a time when even his father himself stepped lightly around him during sparring.
Yet now, he could barely lift a wooden dagger without his body trembling.
’Should I have had my last stand a long time ago?’
He wondered, as he took another breath, deeper this time, letting it settle into his chest as he repeated the motion with renewed focus, determined not to let the decay of his flesh dictate the state of his will.
*SWOOSH*
A small ripple finally appeared, barely more than a distortion in the corner of his vision, yet it was enough to make his heart tighten with faint hope, for it felt like the temporal membrane had acknowledged him, even if only for a moment.
However, the price of even that minor success was instant.
His knees buckled as pain flared across every wound where the Origin Dagger’s curse had seeped deeply, the blackened veins pulsing violently under his skin as if trying to tear themselves apart, forcing Soron to drop to one knee as the dagger clattered weakly against the floor beside him.
His breathing turned ragged as his fingers dug into the stone for support, while his thoughts tried to remain clear despite the dizzying ache flooding his mind.
’This body... it really is nearing its limit,’ he admitted silently as he lifted his trembling hand toward the fallen dagger, determined to continue despite the agony weighing him down like molten iron.
He managed to pick it up again, though his grip barely held firm, as the wooden handle slipped slightly between his weakened fingers, yet even so, his eyes sharpened once more with the stubborn resolve that had carried him through the bloodiest wars in the universe.
Because despite everything he had lost, despite the rot consuming him from within, despite knowing he was a faint shadow of the warrior he once was, he refused to let his final days pass in helpless decline.
"Again...."
He muttered, as he raised the dagger again.
*SWOOSH*
The jab shook violently, tearing another streak of black fluid from his ribs, yet Soron did not flinch, for he was not training to defeat Kaelith, nor training to stand victorious in some future battle.
He was training so that when the time came for him to confront the truth of what awaited him, he would face it standing rather than crawling, fighting rather than surrendering, unbroken rather than forgotten.
"If I cannot return to my prime," Soron whispered softly, lifting the blade once more, "then at the very least... I will not meet the end as a coward."
He resolved, as although his next strike was weaker, his next breath strained, behind every motion lingered a will powerful enough to shake the universe, a will that refused to die even when the body carrying it had already begun to fade.
As training under that will, Soron felt something quiet settle inside his heart, something almost peaceful.
As for the first time in many millenia, he felt like himself again.