Weaves of Ashes

Chapter 33: Chapter 28: Forged in Pain

Location: Starforge Nexus - Training Facility | Dimensional Fold Space

Time: First Training Session

”Run.”

One word. Simple command.

Jayde ran.

The arena perimeter again—seventy feet per side, roughly three hundred feet around. Her legs already ached from the earlier demonstration, lungs burning from insufficient conditioning, heart hammering against ribs.

Six laps last time before collapse. Push for seven.

She made four before White appeared beside her.

Moving at her pace effortlessly, not even breathing hard, that massive frame covering ground with long, efficient strides. Like a war machine operating at minimum power, capable of infinitely more but choosing to match her pathetic speed.

”Slower than before,” he observed. ”Already fatiguing. Endurance capacity: abysmal.”

Jayde didn’t respond—couldn’t, breath too precious to waste on words.

”This is your baseline,” White continued, still jogging easily beside her. ”Forty-two seconds before the first collapse. Now we establish pain tolerance. Keep running until your legs physically stop working. Not until you want to stop. Not until it hurts. Until your muscles refuse to contract anymore.”

Pushes beyond normal limits. Tests failure points. Standard endurance training protocol, just more brutal.

Five laps.

Six.

Her calves screamed. Thighs burned like she’d dipped them in acid. Each breath was razor blades in her throat.

Seven.

(It hurts it hurts it hurts—)

Push through. Pain is information. Use it. Don’t surrender to it.

Eight laps.

Her vision blurred. Grey creeping in from the edges. Legs moving on automatic, no conscious control anymore, just momentum and stubbornness.

Nine—

Her left leg buckled mid-stride.

She crashed hard, sliding across the smooth floor, hands and knees taking the impact. Stone cool against her palms. Everything else on fire.

”One minute, eight seconds,” White announced. ”Improvement: twenty-six seconds. Good. That’s your new baseline.”

Jayde gasped for air, lungs heaving, heart trip-hammering like it wanted to escape her chest.

”Up,” White commanded. ”Recovery training. Slow jog. Just perimeter. Work the lactic acid out of your muscles before it crystallizes.”

He’s right. Stay still and you’ll cramp worse.

She forced herself upright. Started moving again—barely a shuffle, really, but movement. The slow circulation helped, blood flow carrying away metabolic waste, preventing the worst of the post-exertion cramping.

”Conditioning phase one,” White explained, walking beside her now. ”We establish your limits, then expand them systematically. Every day, you run until you collapse. Every day, you last slightly longer. Small improvements compound. In eight weeks, you’ll run for thirty minutes without stopping.”

From ninety seconds to thirty minutes. That’s... twenty-fold improvement. Possible? Barely. With perfect training methodology and chemical enhancement via the medicinal baths.

”Next: strength assessment.”

White led her to a section of the arena where various weights were arranged—stone blocks, metal bars, resistance apparatus. All clearly ancient Luminari design, but functional. Self-adjusting, probably, calibrated to contractor strength levels.

”Deadlift,” White said, gesturing to a bar loaded with weights. ”Standard form. Grip here and here. Straight back. Lift with legs. See how much you can move.”

Jayde approached the bar. It looked... heavy. Very heavy.

She gripped it properly—Federation training included strength protocols. Squared her stance. Straight back. Core tight.

Pull.

The bar shifted. Rose maybe three inches before her grip failed, and it crashed back down with a metallic clang.

”Thirty pounds,” White said, checking the weight display—which apparently showed numbers in modern Doha standard despite being a hundred thousand years old. ”You can barely lift thirty pounds. Average adult male in the Lower Realm can lift sixty. The female average is forty-five. You’re below child level.”

Thanks for the confidence boost.

”Bench press. Same assessment.”

She lay on the apparatus—which adjusted itself to her size, proving the self-adapting nature of Luminari technology. The bar lowered to her chest level.

”Press.”

She pushed.

The bar rose maybe six inches. Wobbled. Her arms shook violently, muscles screaming in protest. She managed three repetitions before her strength gave out completely.

”Twenty pounds. Three reps.” White shook his head. ”Pull-ups?”

There was a bar mounted at height. Jayde jumped—barely reached it. Hung there, trying to pull herself up.

Her body didn’t move. Arms strained, shoulders burning, but she couldn’t generate enough force to lift her own weight.

Zero pull-ups.

”Core strength: abysmal. Upper body: pathetic. Lower body: slightly less pathetic but still terrible.” White catalogued each failure clinically. ”Flexibility test. Touch your toes.”

Jayde bent forward.

Her fingertips reached mid-shin before hamstrings locked up completely. Nowhere near her toes.

”Flexibility: poor. Range of motion: restricted. Now balance.”

He had her stand on one leg. She lasted maybe five seconds before toppling over.

”Proprioception: underdeveloped. Coordination: substandard.” White crossed his arms. ”In summary: you are the weakest contractor I’ve trained in three thousand years. Your body is a disaster. Your physical capabilities are below baseline for untrained civilians. If I put you in actual combat right now, you’d die within seconds.”

Stop. We get it. We’re weak.

”However,” White continued, and something in his tone shifted slightly, ”you have advantages. Your mind is trained. Your will is iron—sixty years of Federation experience plus fifteen years of surviving as a slave. You understand discipline, sacrifice, and persistence. And you’re still standing despite every assessment showing catastrophic inadequacy.”

He stepped closer.

”That tells me something important: you’re a survivor. You don’t quit. You don’t break easy. Which means you can endure what I’m about to do to you.”

Oh hell.

”Combat drills,” White announced. ”We establish muscle memory. Your Federation mind knows techniques this body can’t execute. We’ll fix that. Slowly. Painfully. By forcing your body to repeat movements until neural pathways form, until muscles adapt, until technique becomes instinct.”

He moved to the center of the arena. Gestured for her to follow.

”Basic combat stance. The one you showed me before.”

Jayde shifted into position—Federation close-quarters stance.

”Hold it. Don’t move.”

She held the stance.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.

Her legs began shaking. Muscles burning from static load. Balance wavering.

”Your body is fighting you,” White observed. ”The stance requires strength you don’t have. Stability your core can’t provide. But if you hold it long enough—if you push through the pain—your muscles will adapt. Forty seconds. Fifty.”

Jayde’s vision swam. Everything below her waist was pure fire.

”One minute. Good. Release.”

She collapsed gratefully.

”Again. Same stance. One minute.”

You’ve got to be kidding—

”Now.”

She forced herself back into a stance.

The burn came faster this time. Thirty seconds in, and she was shaking. Forty-five seconds and tears—not from emotion, just physical stress—leaked from her eyes.

Don’t cry. Never cry. Tears are weakness. Tears get you killed.

Sixty seconds.

”Release. Again.”

They did it ten times.

By the tenth repetition, Jayde couldn’t even get into a proper stance anymore. Her legs simply refused, muscles in full rebellion, body shutting down self-preservation protocols.

”Good,” White said. ”That’s how we build a foundation. Repetition past failure. Forcing adaptation through systematic destruction. Your legs will hate you tomorrow. But they’ll be slightly stronger. And the day after, stronger still.”

If I survive tomorrow.

”Now: strikes. Fifty jabs. Left hand. Maximum speed. Go.”

Jayde threw punches.

Her form deteriorated rapidly—started decent, ended terribly. By punch thirty, she was just flailing. By punch forty, her arm barely lifted. Punch fifty was a pathetic tap against the training dummy.

”Right hand. Fifty.”

Same result. Worse, even, because she was already exhausted.

”Alternating. One hundred total.”

Jayde wanted to cry. Wanted to quit. Wanted to collapse and never move again.

But she threw the punches.

Because what’s the alternative? Stay weak? Let the clan catch me? Die hunted like an animal?

No.

She’d survived worse. Federation training that broke other candidates. Slave pits that killed weaker children. The library explosion that should’ve ended her. The merger of two souls that could’ve shattered her mind.

She’d survived all of it.

She could survive this.

One hundred punches.

Her arms hung limp by the end, completely unresponsive. Dead weight. Meat that used to be muscle, now just useless mass attached to her shoulders.

”Good,” White said. And surprisingly, he sounded like he meant it. ”You didn’t quit. Most contractors quit by punch seventy. You finished.”

(Did he just... compliment us?)

Don’t get used to it.

”Kicks. Fifty. Right leg. Go.”

They drilled kicks. Then knees. Then elbows. Then blocks, parries, evasions. Every basic technique in the Federation combat manual, executed until failure, then executed fifty more times past failure.

Hours passed.

Jayde lost track of time. Everything blurred together: pain, exhaustion, White’s commands, her body’s failures. Move. Hit. Fall. Get up. Move again. Hit again. Fall again.

At some point, she realized she was operating on pure autopilot. Her conscious mind had shut down—too exhausted to function—and something else had taken over. Some deeper part of her that knew only survival. Only persistence. Only the refusal to quit.

This is what Federation training was supposed to create, some distant part of her observed. Soldiers who function past breaking point. Who operate when mind and body both scream stop.

Finally—after what felt like days but was probably only three hours—White called a halt.

”Enough. Bath time.”

Jayde stood swaying. Or tried to stand. Her legs buckled immediately, and she crashed to the floor.

Everything hurt.

No. Worse than that. Everything was agony. Every muscle fiber screaming. Every joint grinding. Every breath like inhaling glass shards. Her vision was grey around the edges, heart hammering irregularly, body in full distress mode.

This is what dying feels like. Has to be. Nothing could hurt this much and not be fatal.

White picked her up effortlessly—one hand under her shoulders, treating her weight like she was made of air. Carried her across the arena to that large stone basin filled with dark, steaming liquid.

”The medicinal bath,” he said. ”Hundreds of herbs. Dozens of spirit beast blood essences. More valuable than most cultivators see in their entire lives. You get one every day.”

He lowered her toward the liquid.

”Fair warning: this will hurt worse than everything we just did.”

Impossible. Nothing could—

Her foot touched the surface.

FIRE.

Not metaphorical warmth. Actual fire. Liquid flame pouring into her skin, flooding through damaged tissue, racing along traumatized nerves like accelerant on dry kindling.

Jayde screamed.

White submerged her completely.

The world became pain.

Pure, absolute, all-consuming agony that erased thought, erased identity, erased everything except the desperate animal need to escape, to get out, to stop the burning—

Hold. Hold. This is healing. This is necessary. Hold—

(IT HURTS IT HURTS PLEASE MAKE IT STOP—)

But there was no stopping. No escape. White held her in the bath with casual strength, ignoring her struggles, keeping her submerged in liquid torment.

”The herbs are working,” his voice came from very far away. ”Entering damaged tissue. Beginning repair protocols. Your body is fighting—a natural response. But if you stop fighting, if you accept the treatment, it’ll hurt less.”

Accept? ACCEPT THIS?

”Breathe. Slow. Deep. Stop resisting.”

Jayde tried. Gods, she tried.

Forced her mind to calm. Forced her body to stop thrashing. Let the liquid fire do its work without fighting every second.

And slowly—so slowly—the pain shifted.

Not gone. Not even close. But changing. From sharp agony to dull burn. From unbearable to merely excruciating. From something that destroyed thought to something she could think through.

The healing began in earnest.

She felt it—actually felt it—as torn muscle fibers reknit. As microfractures in bone sealed. As strained tendons relaxed and repaired. The medicinal properties in the bath sought out damage like heat-seeking missiles, concentrated there, and worked their alchemy.

Her body drank the essence greedily. Absorbed the herbs’ power. Used the spirit beast blood to fuel regeneration beyond what normal healing could achieve.

Minutes passed. Maybe ten. Maybe thirty. Time meant nothing in the bath.

The pain gradually faded to background noise. Replaced by warmth. Not comfortable, exactly, but tolerable. Bearable.

Almost pleasant.

The more damaged you are, the more effectively it works, she remembered White saying. Maximum damage equals maximum healing.

She’d been as damaged as possible. Which meant—

”Your physical stats just increased,” White said. ”Minimal, but measurable. Strength improved zero-point-one. Endurance improved zero-point-two. Constitution improved zero-point-one. Check your interface.”

Jayde pulled up her character screen with a thought.

╔═══════════════════════════════════════

║ STARFORGE NEXUS - CONTRACTOR ID

╠═══════════════════════════════════════

║ Name: Jayde (Jade Freehold)

║ Contractor Level: 0

║ Nexus Merits: 0.5

╠═══════════════════════════════════════

║ PHYSICAL STATUS:

║ - Strength: 2.1/100

║ - Agility: 3.0/100

║ - Endurance: 1.3/100

║ - Constitution: 2.1/100

╠═══════════════════════════════════════

║ CULTIVATION STATUS:

║ - Core: SEALED (Divine Eightfold Lock)

║ - Tier: Voidforge

║ - Essence Access: 0/8

╠═══════════════════════════════════════

║ SKILLS: None Acquired

║ ABILITIES: None Unlocked

║ MISSIONS COMPLETED: 0

╠═══════════════════════════════════════

║ ACCESS LEVEL: Training Facility Only

║ LOCKED AREAS: 52

╚═══════════════════════════════════════

Tiny improvements. Microscopic, really.

But improvements.

”Half a merit for completing your first session,” White said. ”At this rate, you’ll have fifty merits after foundation training completes. Enough to buy two basic skills. Or save for something better.”

Forty-two days minimum. Eighty-four sessions. If each gives half a merit... forty-two merits total from training. Plus the fifty-merit bonus for completion. Ninety-two total.

Not much. But something.

”Tomorrow,” White continued, ”we do it again. And the day after. And every day for six to eight weeks. Each session, you’ll improve slightly. Each bath will heal and strengthen. Small gains compounding into significant growth.”

He pulled her from the bath. Her skin steamed in the cooler air, herbs and blood essence still working their magic in her tissue.

”Get dressed. Eat. Sleep. Your body needs eight hours minimum to consolidate the improvements. Time dilation means we have extra hours built into each day cycle—train six hours, bath one hour, eat and recover eight hours, sleep eight hours. Twenty-three-hour days inside, versus four hours passing in Doha.”

Wait. So one day, here is less than four hours outside?

”Time dilation applies to the entire training facility,” White confirmed. ”Not just during active exercise. The whole space runs at a six-to-one ratio. Which means you get more recovery time than would normally be possible.”

Jayde dressed slowly in the simple training clothes White provided—lightweight, flexible, designed for movement. Her body felt strange. Less painful than before the bath, but not normal. Like she was inhabiting someone else’s meat.

That’s the healing working. Tissue repairing faster than natural. Enhanced regeneration via chemistry and magic combined.

Food appeared on a small table near the arena’s edge—apparently conjured by Nexus systems or delivered by Isha while she was in the bath. Simple but nutritious: grilled meat, steamed vegetables, bread, fruit, water.

Jayde ate mechanically. Chewing, swallowing, fueling the machine. No taste, no enjoyment, just calories and nutrients being processed into continued existence.

”Good,” White said, watching her eat. ”You’re learning. Food is fuel. Sleep is recovery. Training is the forge. Bath is the quench. Everything serves the purpose: making you stronger.”

He turned to leave, then paused.

”You survived day one. Most don’t. Most quit after the first session, claim it’s impossible, refuse to continue.” His grey eyes met hers. ”But you didn’t quit. Which means you might actually make it through all forty-two days. You might actually be worth the effort I’m investing.”

Was that... respect? From the sadistic trainer who just spent three hours breaking me?

”Sleep now,” White commanded. ”Tomorrow, we double the intensity.”

DOUBLE?

He vanished—literally disappeared, probably teleporting to wherever trainers went when not actively torturing contractors.

Jayde finished eating. Found the sleeping area—a simple platform with blankets in an alcove off the main arena. Lay down.

Her body was simultaneously exhausted and energized. The medicinal bath had healed the worst damage, but muscle fatigue remained. That deep, bone-level tiredness that came from pushing past all reasonable limits.

But beneath the fatigue—

Strength. Tiny, yes. But there. Real improvement. Measurable gains.

(We did it,) Jade whispered. (We survived.)

Day one of forty-two minimum. Don’t celebrate yet.

(Still. We survived. That’s something.)

Yes. That’s something.

Jayde closed her eyes.

Sleep came fast. Dreamless. The kind of unconsciousness that happened when a body shut down to prioritize healing over all other functions.

And somewhere in the darkness, the Starforge Nexus hummed its silent song. Ancient systems maintaining dimensional stability. Quantum Flux Cores pulsing with sky-blue light. Time flowing at six-to-one ratio, granting her the impossible gift of extra hours to become what she needed to be.

Strong enough to unlock the Divine Eightfold Lock.

Strong enough to survive Doha.

Strong enough to forge herself into something unprecedented—neither Federation nor cultivation, but both. Something new.

Something dangerous.

Something that could maybe, possibly, survive what was coming.

If she didn’t die in training first.

Tomorrow, she thought as consciousness faded. We do it again. And again. And again. Until we’re strong enough. Or until it kills us.

Outside the Nexus, in the Dark Forest cave, less than four hours had passed.

Inside, Jayde had just completed her first day of brutal transformation.

Forty-one days remained.

The forge had barely begun heating.