The boulder didn't move.
Owen's palms slipped against cold stone, skin scraping raw as he pushed again, teeth clenched, breath ragged. His legs trembled, muscles screaming in protest as if offended by the demand.
Nothing.
He staggered back, hands shaking.
"Again," he whispered.
He braced himself and drove forward with everything he had.
The boulder didn't even acknowledge him.
Owen collapsed to one knee, chest heaving. His arms felt like they'd been filled with molten iron. Every breath burned.
He laughed again short, sharp, almost bitter.
"So this is strength," he muttered. "Or the lack of it."
Rain-soaked soil clung to his clothes as he forced himself upright. He didn't look at the sword. Didn't touch it. This wasn't about steel.
This was about weight.
If he couldn't move something real, something that didn't care about talent, mana, or titles then nothing else mattered.
He pushed again.
The night stretched on.
By the time the moon dipped low, Owen could barely stand. His fingers were numb. His vision blurred. Still, he forced himself to press against the stone one last time.
The boulder didn't move.
But Owen did.
He dragged himself away and collapsed against a tree, breathing shallow, eyes half-lidded. His body hurt in ways the training corps never reached, deep, honest pain. The kind that didn't humiliate. The kind that taught.
In morning at the corps, Owen moved slower.
Not weaker but heavier.
Every step carried weight. Every motion demanded payment. Squats made his legs scream. Drills burned his shoulders. Sparring bruised him deeper than usual.
But he didn't stop.
Someone whispered, "He's forcing it."
Someone else said, "He's gonna break."
Cedric noticed.
He always did.
Owen faced another squire in the ring. The boy hesitated. Hesitation that hadn't existed before.
Owen advanced.
Not reckless. Not wild.
Intent sharpened his movements, but fatigue dulled the edges. His sword rang against his opponent's, sparks of motion clashing unevenly.
The squire struck.
Owen blocked, barely.
Pain shot up his arm.
Cedric smiled from the sidelines.
"There it is," he murmured. "That crack."
The bout ended quickly. Owen won but it wasn't clean. He staggered afterward, breath uneven.
Instructor Halbrecht frowned.
Sir Reinhardt didn't.
He watched Owen the way a veteran watched a battlefield counting costs.
That evening, Reinhardt summoned him.
No witnesses. No ceremony.
They stood in the empty yard as the sun dipped low, shadows stretching long.
"You stole a sword," Reinhardt said calmly.
Owen stiffened. "…Yes, sir."
"You returned it before dawn."
"Yes, sir."
Reinhardt nodded once. "Good."
Owen blinked.
"You're not disciplined," Reinhardt continued. "Because you didn't steal power. You borrowed truth."
He stepped closer. "But you're doing it wrong."
Owen swallowed. "I'm trying to get stronger."
"I know." Reinhardt's gaze hardened. "And that's why you'll destroy yourself if you continue alone."
Owen clenched his fists. "Then teach me."
The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
Reinhardt studied him for a long moment. Then he turned and walked toward the weapons rack.
"Tomorrow," he said. "Before sunrise. Woods."
Owen's heart stuttered.
"Yes, sir."
That night, Owen returned to the boulder.
He didn't push it.
He sat beside it, breathing slow, muscles still aching.
"When weight doesn't move," he murmured. "You move around it."
He stood and began again, not pushing, but lifting stones. Dragging logs. Running uphill until his legs gave out.
Pain layered over pain.
And for the first time...
Progress followed.