Erika practically crawled back into his cultivation chamber.

  The heavy black-iron door boomed shut behind him, sealing him off from the outside world. His back slid down the cold metal until he collapsed in a heap on the floor, utterly devoid of the strength to lift even a single finger.

  His lungs were tattered bellows, each breath a searing rip through his chest. His heart hammered against his eardrums, a frantic drum threatening to shatter his ribs and break free. The muscles in his legs trembled violently—a deep, aching weakness shot through with uncontrollable spasms. His thin novice robes were soaked through with sweat, and now, in the still air of the chamber, the dampness brought waves of bitter chill.

  He closed his eyes, but his mind relentlessly replayed the frantic sprint.

  The dark corridor flying past. The cold air whipping his face. The fire in his lungs. The deafening pulse in his ears. The sensory memories washed over his exhausted nerves like a tidal wave.

  And amidst this chaos of sensation, one cold, clear number echoed in his mind. It was carved into his marrow as if by a chisel, refusing to leave:

  That was the number of steps he had counted in his mind, from the door of Wolfgang's contemplation cell to the exact moment his legs gave out before his own chamber door. Twenty-seven steps.

  A distance that normally meant nothing. But in that state of draining every last drop of his potential, relying purely on failing physical strength in a desperate flight, each step had felt agonizingly long and distinct.

  The number felt like a cold mockery. An unsolvable riddle.

  Sprawled on the floor, his thoughts were a tangled mess, yet he was too exhausted to think deeply. An absurd, almost self-destructive notion began to take root in his mind.

  If this was about physical training… why form? This seemingly pointless, brutal method, as if training some tireless superhuman?

  A grim, near-hysterical twist pulled at his lips in a soundless sneer.

  The thought itself was a bad joke. Pitting his own weak, barely-trained body against Wolfgang's scarred, inhuman frame that housed such terrifying power? This wasn't training. It was a predetermined, meaningless humiliation.

  "I get it… I get it now…" he rasped, his voice hoarse and dry with self-mockery. "He wants me… to run faster and faster, farther and farther… until I can catch his shadow? Hahahaha…"

  The hollow, bitter laughter echoed strangely in the silent chamber. He was mocking his own naivety, mocking the possible deeper manipulation hidden behind this seeming "opportunity." He felt like a mouse thrown into a wheel, running desperately without knowing the destination, or even if the running itself had any meaning.

  Wolfgang had only given the instruction: He hadn't set a time limit. He hadn't set a standard to meet. He hadn't even said when the next session would be. He'd only said:

  It sounded more like an offhand, insincere dismissal. Erika even doubted if Wolfgang truly expected him to ever "outrun" him. Perhaps it was just an excuse to send him away, a trap to make him doubt himself and struggle pointlessly.

  He didn't understand.

  And he had no energy left to understand.

  What consumed him now was the wreckage left behind by the receding tidal wave of exhaustion. Not just physical, but mental. That desperate sprint had detonated the accumulated fear, anxiety, and futureless dread of the past days. As his strength vanished, it all settled into a heavy, crushing void.

  Thinking? Analyzing? Understanding the true meaning of the training?

  Staying conscious was a struggle enough.

  His eyelids were leaden weights, every blink a monumental effort. The chaotic thoughts about his Mark, Anna, Cecilia, and the Sanctum's conspiracies—all grew distant and blurred, overridden by a primal craving for rest.

  He remained slumped against the door, consciousness wavering on the edge of stupor. The chamber's eternal, low hum of energy now sounded like a lullaby.

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  It was the last thought circling in his mind, laden with boundless confusion and a thread of defiance, before exhaustion finally claimed him, dragging him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The exhaustion from last night's soul-wrenching run had not yet fully receded; a dull ache still lingered in his muscles. Yet, Erika forced himself awake early.

  His mind was still clouded with confusion over Wolfgang's training method and that haunting number. Despite his bewilderment, a sliver of hope remained buried deep within. Perhaps in today's class, Wolfgang would offer further guidance, or at the very least, he might catch a glimpse of the deeper mysteries behind the 'Mind-Blade' from his lecture.

  Carrying this mix of anticipation and bewilderment, he headed for the Indoctrination Hall. The morning Sanctum precinct was still shrouded in an eerie quiet, a stark contrast to the turmoil within him.

  However, as he moved to step into the familiar classroom, a tall, cold figure stood like an iron tower, blocking the doorway.

  It was Wolfgang.

  His face was utterly expressionless, as if carved from metal. His eyes were sharp as blades, piercing directly into Erika. There was none of the complex scrutiny from the contemplation cell yesterday. Not a trace of the fragile "master-disciple" bond that might have begun to form.

  Only pure, impersonal ice.

  "Halt."

  Wolfgang's voice wasn't loud, but it carried the chill of an icicle, instantly freezing the air at the entrance and silencing the faint murmurs within. All student eyes turned towards them.

  Erika's steps faltered. He looked up, stunned, meeting Wolfgang's frigid gaze. "Instructor…?"

  "You," Wolfgang cut him off, his voice clear enough to reach every corner of the room, laced with undisguised reproach, "will not enter today."

  Erika froze, his mind struggling to catch up. "...What?"

  "I said, you will not attend this class." Wolfgang repeated, his tone final and brooking no argument. "A student who is lazy and deceitful on the path of cultivation, who cannot even persevere in fulfilling the most basic requirements, has no right to sit in my classroom."

  The words hit Erika like physical blows. His desperate sprint last night, his collapse from utter exhaustion, the twenty-seven steps etched into his very bones… all of it, in Wolfgang's mouth, had become ?!

  A hot wave of absurdity, injustice, and anger rushed to his head. He instinctively opened his mouth to refute, to demand, to shout out how he had run back last night!

  "I…" he managed a single word.

  "What? Still want to make excuses?" A faint, utterly scornful twist touched Wolfgang's lips. He looked at Erika as if he were hopeless garbage. "No courage even to face your own indolence? It seems you didn't hear a single word I said yesterday."

  His voice suddenly rose, cracking like a whip in the silent air, striking Erika across the face:

  "A student as habitually lazy and hopeless as you is utterly unworthy of the qualification to become a cleric! I advise you to abandon this unrealistic notion now! Rather than wasting the Sanctum's resources here, why don't you go to the gates right now and pick up a broom—sweeping alongside that old failure might suit you better!"

  With that, before Erika could muster a single syllable, Wolfgang swung his arm—

  BANG!!

  The heavy oak door slammed shut. The concussive force of it washed over Erika's face like a physical blow. The deafening report echoed down the cold stone corridor, a final, merciless verdict severing him from the room, the students, and the fleeting sliver of hope he had just dared to grasp.

  Erika stood utterly paralyzed.

  For a long moment, there was nothing but a high-pitched ringing in his ears. His brain simply flatlined. There were no complex thoughts of the Tribunal, no intricate worries about Anna or his secret Mark. Just a suffocating, blinding whiteout of absolute humiliation.

  Slowly, the muffled sounds from behind the thick wood bled back into reality.

  The shifting of a chair.

  A low, muffled scoff.

  The crushing weight of three dozen invisible pairs of eyes staring at the back of the door, laughing at the trash left outside.

  Erika's breath hitched. The taste of copper flooded his mouth. Without realizing it, his fingernails had bitten so deeply into his palms that they threatened to break the skin.

  The image of that crippled, hollowed-out old man sweeping the Sanctum steps flashed in his mind. A wave of profound nausea twisted his stomach.

  What was he supposed to do now?

  Charge in and argue? That would only invite harsher punishment.

  Give up in despair? Actually go to the gates and admit Wolfgang was right? That he was worthless?

  He didn't know how long he stood frozen in that empty corridor. Minutes? An eternity? But in the chaotic, stifling darkness of his mind, one stubbornly persistent thought flickered to life. A flame swaying in a hurricane, refusing to die.

  He remembered the wind whipping past his ears last night. The drumbeat of his heart. The agonizing tearing of his muscles.

  And the final count.

  It was the only thing he was certain of. The only thing he had truly .

  The thing Wolfgang had he do.

  Even if it was an absurd, cruel joke. Even if he was now ruthlessly shut out and humiliated. It was the only tangible thing he could grasp.

  Erika jerked his head up.

  The confusion and hurt were still there, swimming in his eyes, but they were being rapidly devoured by something else—a stubborn, almost feral defiance born from being backed into a corner.

  He stopped looking at the closed door. He stopped trying to decipher Wolfgang's mercurial cruelty.

  He turned his back to the classroom, facing the long, cold corridor leading back to his cultivation chamber.

  Then, he took a step.

  At first, it was heavy, weighed down by the crushing exhaustion of his body and mind. But quickly, his pace quickened.

  Firmer.

  Faster.

  He stopped thinking about the . He stopped agonizing over right and wrong. He tuned out the phantom gazes burning into his back.

  He channeled every ounce of his confusion, his anger, the suffocating injustice, and the bitter resentment into a single, pure force, driving it down into his legs.

  He began to run.

  Along the exact same route as yesterday. Mustering every last drop of strength he could wring from his battered body, he sprinted with all his might toward that cold, singular "goal."

  The wind whistled in his ears again. His heart hammered violently against his ribs. The familiar, searing ache shot through his muscles.

  But this time, his mind held no frantic questions. No desperate logic. Only one thought burned with crystal clarity, searing through the chaos like a brand: