So, I'm twelve now. Or at least, that's my best guess.
That's how long I've been rotting on this god-forsaken island. Twelve years of salt stinging my eyes, dirt permanently under my nails, and more bruises than I could ever hope to count. If Hell ran a boot camp for the elite, this place would be the final exam.
And my instructor? A total lunatic.
Now, when I say "mad," I'm not talking about some quirky, eccentric old man. I mean the kind of psycho who genuinely believes that agony is a teaching tool and starvation is a great way to build character. Life here was simple—and brutal. Wake up, train until your muscles scream for mercy, survive, fail, get punished. Rinse and repeat.
There were no lullabies. No "good job, kid." Just one cold truth that followed me from my old life: the jungle has its laws, and being weak is a death sentence.
Physical training wasn't just push-ups and laps; it was straight-up torture. Every morning, before the sun even hit the horizon, I was forced to scale Raven's Peak. It's this massive cliff of black granite that looks like it was polished by the gods just to make it harder to climb.
At first, it was just me and the rock, my fingers raw and bleeding. But the old man decided gravity was being too nice to me. He started weighing me down—first with sandbags, then with rusted iron blocks chained to my waist. Those chains dug into my hips like a plow through a field.
The climbing sucked, sure, but he made it worse.
While I was hanging fifty meters up over a literal abyss, he'd just be sitting on a ledge above me, snacking on wild berries and watching me struggle. Then, out of nowhere, he'd start chucking rocks at me. Not pebbles—fist-sized cobbles.
"The world isn't going to wait for you to get your breath back before it hits you, Raymond!" he'd howl, laughing his head off.
I had to dodge and pivot while clinging to the rock face for dear life. Every hit left a nasty purple welt or a jagged cut. God, I wanted to hit him. Seeing him up there, mocking me while I was inches from death, lit a fire in me that was hotter than the midday sun. It was pure rage—the desperate need to wipe that smirk off his face—that kept me moving.
When I wasn't nearly falling to my death, he had me shackled to an anvil. Learning to work the forge wasn't a choice; it was survival. If I ever wanted to recreate the tools from my old life—or maybe something a bit more... ballistic—I had to understand how metal actually works.
The heat was suffocating. I spent months just learning the rhythm of the hammer. The old man was a perfectionist about the "purity" of the grain. "If your steel is weak, it'll betray you," he'd growl. I'd make a blade I thought was perfect, only for him to shatter it with one blow of his staff because it "lacked character."
But the laboratory? That was my playground.
Medicine here is a trip—equal parts horror and magic. He'd bring me creatures that looked like they walked out of a nightmare: six-legged wolves with mercury for blood, birds with razor-sharp feathers, things that shouldn't exist.
Sometimes I'd stop and think, Does any of this actually make sense?
"Dissect," he'd command.
So, I'd spend all night by candlelight, peeling back the layers of these monsters. I studied their mana flow and compared their organs to the human anatomy I knew by heart. Thanks to him, alchemy became my thing. I figured out that chemistry in this world isn't just about the periodic table; it's about intent. I started mixing venom with root extracts to make salves that could heal a wound in seconds—or powders that could drop a man instantly.
He never said it out loud, but I could tell he was impressed by how good I got at making poisons. It felt like a very "Reddington" skill to have.
By the twelfth winter, the old man decided I was finally "ready." He stood at the edge of the cliff, clutching his iron staff like a statue of bad omens.
"On your knees, boy," he grunted. "Let's see if you've learned to accept the inevitable. And don't think I don't know you've been playing with spells behind my back!"
I brushed the dirt off my clothes, ignoring the sharp pain in my ribs. I gave him a smile—the kind that used to keep FBI directors up at night.
"You know," I said, my voice dropping into a slow drawl, "I once knew an armorer in Belgrade. Terrifyingly disciplined guy. He used to say that to make the perfect blade, you had to beat it until it forgot what it was. He ended up getting stabbed by his own creation. The moral? You don't break steel; you just give it a new job."
He narrowed his eyes. "Your silver tongue won't save you from a beating."
"The rod?" I tilted my head. "That's a bit... rustic, don't you think? You've spent twelve years trying to beat me into submission, but you made one massive mistake."
He sighed. "And I'm the one who raised you. Come on then, show me what you've got."
I took a step forward, feeling the mana flow. It wasn't a wild mess anymore; it was precise. Disciplined.
"You taught me how to survive pain," I told him. "Which means I'm not afraid of yours anymore. And without fear, my friend, you're just an old man with a stick."
He swung, fast as lightning. But I wasn't there. I slipped into his blind spot, my fingers grazing his shoulder. A surgical pulse of magic—something I'd mastered during those midnight dissections—hit his motor nerves. He crumpled.
Too easy, I thought.
Then, my gut screamed. I lunged forward just as a shockwave leveled the ground behind me. He was right on me, reading every move. He feinted a strike, then slammed his staff toward my jaw. I tried to sweep his legs, but he didn't budge. He grabbed me and sent me flying into a tree.
I used the trunk to spring back at him, but being in the air made me an easy target. He smirked. "Defenseless!"
That was his mistake. I shifted my weight mid-air, dodged his strike, and tackled him toward the edge of the cliff. We went over together... until he shifted his weight.
"Nice try, kid. But you left your back open."
I spun, punching the ground to create a tremor instead of hitting him. The vibration sent us both over the edge for real. As we fell, he pelted me with stones. I blocked most of them, but one caught me right in the chest. I coughed up blood.
I hit the river below. My plan was to use a floating log as a decoy and disappear into the woods.I managed to make my heartbeat so imperceptible as a dead person's that a bird could land on me. But a warm sensation told me I was leaking—the blood gave me away.
He appeared out of nowhere. "Lesson's over," he laughed, that raspy sound filling the air. "Good use of the environment, though. "Almost professional."
Then, a crushing pressure hit me. He hadn't been fooled for a second. Everything I'd done was for nothing. I looked him in the eye, blood blurring my vision, and then everything went black.
I woke up in the cabin, smelling woodsmoke and bitter herbs. The old man was just sitting there by the fire, reading a book like he'd just finished a nap.
He didn't even look up, but his voice made the walls shake. "You finally awake, you suicidal idiot?"
He slammed the book shut—it sounded like a gunshot in my head. He pointed a gnarled finger at me.
"You think you're so clever? You almost killed yourself! I didn't ban magic for twelve years to be mean. A genius mind in a weak body is useless here. I wanted to build you a foundation—a temple of bone and muscle. How are you supposed to handle my kind of magic if your heart gives out the second you see a little blood?"
I tried to argue, but he shut me down.
"Quiet. You aren't ready for what I have to teach yet. But since you're in such a rush to be a 'Great Man'..." He pointed toward the kitchen with his staff. "Get up. Go cook."
I looked at my shaking hands. "In this state? I can barely stand."
He chuckled, and there wasn't an ounce of pity in it. "The world doesn't stop because you have a few cracked ribs, Raymond. You'll face worse than this. If you can't make a decent stew while you're feverish and bleeding, you don't belong at my table—or in this world."
I sat there for a second, staring at the ceiling. Then, slowly, with a grimace I forced into a smirk, I got up. Pain was an old friend, after all.
"You know, you old goat," I whispered, stumbling toward the stove, "I once knew a chef in Lyon who said suffering was the secret ingredient in every great sauce. I thought he was just being pretentious."
I picked up the kitchen knife, feeling the weight of it.
"But I guess if I'm going to build an empire, I might as well start by peeling your vegetables."
He grunted and went back to his book. I caught a tiny glint of satisfaction in his eyes, but he didn't realize one thing: as I stood there cooking, I wasn't thinking about the pain. I was thinking about the structure of his magic—the power I'd finally managed to touch.