The clang of metal echoed through the academy’s training hall. Rows of weapons lined the walls, sandbags hung from chains, and wooden dummies stood waiting to be broken. At the center of it all was Michael Arden, shirt damp with sweat, eyes blazing with determination. "Today," he whispered, clenching his fists, "I’m going to surpass myself." He walked to the rack and gripped a pair of weighted gauntlets. They were made of dense alloy, heavier than his arms could comfortably carry. Strapping them on, he felt his shoulders sink under the pressure. "Good... If I can’t even carry this weight, how can I carry the title of Shadow Monarch?" He threw his first punch at the wooden dummy. The impact jolted his bones. Pain shot through his knuckles, but he didn’t stop. He punched again. And again. Each strike carried his essence—not to destroy the dummy, but to reinforce his body. Shadow wrapped his fists like padding, lightning sparked in controlled bursts to harden his impact. "Endure it, Michael. Endure it!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the empty hall. Minutes turned into an hour. The dummy’s surface splintered under his blows, but his arms felt heavier, the gauntlets grinding his stamina down. His muscles screamed, yet his eyes never lost focus. "Strength isn’t given... It’s forged," he panted, raising his fists again. When his arms gave out, he didn’t rest. He dragged a massive training log—carved with steel plates—onto his shoulders. The weight nearly drove him to the ground. His knees trembled, but he steadied himself, teeth clenched. "One... step... at a time." He began running laps across the hall, the heavy log crushing his back with every stride. Shadows slithered from his feet, steadying his balance, lightning crackled in his legs, pushing him forward in bursts. Sweat poured down his face, dripping into his eyes, but he refused to stop. "You can’t... break here! You swore you’d rise, no matter the cost!" The hall vibrated with every stomp of his lightning-boosted steps. His breaths came ragged, his vision blurred, but still he ran until his legs finally buckled, dropping him to one knee. The log slammed onto the ground with a thunderous crash. For a moment, silence. His chest heaved. His body demanded rest. But Michael pushed himself back to his feet. "No... not yet." He staggered to the training dummies once more, this time grabbing a staff. He swung it in wide arcs, his shadow lengthening to mimic his movements with phantom staves. Each rotation grew faster, sharper. When the staff slipped from his sweaty grip and clattered to the floor, he didn’t pause—he picked it up and continued. "Control... precision... discipline. If I can’t master a simple weapon, I’ll never master myself." His shadows attacked alongside him, each swing like an opponent trying to overwhelm him. Michael twisted, blocked, countered, his body moving in a dance of struggle and growth. Lightning crawled along his arms, forcing his muscles to adapt to speed, while his shadows trained his reflexes. But he wasn’t just training technique. He was training willpower. Newest update provided by noveⅼfire.net Hours passed. His palms blistered, his arms shook, his back ached under invisible pressure. Finally, he dropped the staff and collapsed to the ground. Sweat pooled beneath him, his body utterly spent. He stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling. For the first time, a voice in his mind whispered: Enough. Rest. You’ve done enough. Michael clenched his teeth. "No... Enough is never enough." He forced himself up, staggering toward the final challenge of his regimen: the strike wall. A reinforced slab of steel stood at the far end, marked with dents from generations of students. Michael positioned himself before it, raised his fist, and let his aura surge. "This wall... This is the limit I refuse to accept!" He slammed his fist into it. The impact rattled the hall, but the wall stood firm. His knuckles split open, blood smearing across the steel. He didn’t stop. Another strike. His wrist throbbed. Again. Lightning sparked along his arm. Shadows coiled around his fist, forming claws. "Stronger! Stronger! STRONGER!" He pounded the wall, each strike carrying the weight of his will. Blood, sweat, and sparks flew with every hit. His vision darkened at the edges, but his voice roared louder than the pain. "I won’t stop... not until this wall BREAKS!" And then, with one final strike, shadows and lightning exploded from his fist, the steel wall cracking under the force. The sound rang out like thunder, echoing through the hall. Michael collapsed to his knees, his chest heaving, blood dripping from his knuckles. But a smile tugged at his lips. "I did it... I really did it..." he whispered, staring at the fractured wall. His entire body trembled, but his spirit was unshaken. He pressed his hand against his chest, feeling his heartbeat pounding like war drums. "This pain... this exhaustion... it’s proof I’m getting stronger. Proof that I won’t give up." Michael leaned back, eyes closing, exhaustion finally overwhelming him. Yet his words lingered in the silence of the training hall: "I’ll break every wall in front of me. I’ll shatter every limit. Because I... am not done yet." And though his body slept, his will burned brighter than ever—an unyielding flame that promised he would rise stronger tomorrow. Michael’s eyes opened hours later. His body was still sprawled on the cold floor of the training hall, stiff and aching from overexertion. Every muscle screamed, every joint felt heavy, but the moment he tried to sit up, his spirit flared once more. "This pain..." he muttered, dragging himself upright, "this is what it means to grow. If it hurts, it means I’m changing." His gaze shifted to the racks of equipment waiting silently in the corner. Dumbbells, iron chains, resistance bands, strike pads—all weapons of endurance. Michael smiled faintly. "You’re not finished with me yet." He staggered over to the chain rack. Grabbing the thickest length, he slung it across his shoulders. The links bit into his skin, the sheer weight forcing his back to hunch. He clenched his teeth, adjusting until his balance steadied. "One... two... three..." Michael began squats, each descent like a mountain crushing down on him. His knees wobbled, sweat dripping in streams down his face. But he didn’t stop. He counted aloud, his voice growing hoarse, as though saying the numbers would anchor his will. "Twenty-five... twenty-six..." His legs shook violently, threatening to give out. Lightning crackled faintly in his thighs, stabilizing him just enough to keep moving. "Thirty!" The chains clattered as he dropped them to the ground, his legs numb and burning. He fell forward, catching himself on trembling arms. For a moment, he almost stayed down. Almost. "No... stand up!" he barked at himself, slamming a fist against the floor. "If you stay on the ground, you’ll never rise above anyone!" With a guttural growl, he pushed himself back up, staggering toward the sandbag. It hung heavily from the ceiling, swaying slightly as though mocking him. "Alright... you’re next." He wrapped his bleeding fists with torn cloth, then threw his first punch. The sandbag swung violently, but Michael met it with another strike, then a kick, then a barrage. Each blow was fueled by more than muscle—it was fueled by his fury at weakness, his desire to grow, his unshakable will. "Faster!" he yelled at himself, striking harder. "Harder!" Sparks of lightning leapt from his fists, shadows coating his arms in jagged claws. The sandbag rattled under the onslaught, dust spilling from its seams. His rhythm grew frantic, almost wild. Punch after punch, his shoulders screamed, his knuckles throbbed, his ribs ached from overexertion. Still, he refused to slow down. "Push it, Michael! If you want to stand at the top, there’s no such thing as ’enough’!" Finally, the sandbag burst, its contents spilling across the floor. Michael’s final punch left his knuckles raw and dripping blood. He staggered back, gasping for air, but in his eyes was fire. "This is... progress." He leaned against the wall, body trembling uncontrollably. He could have stopped there. Any normal student would have. But Michael was not training to be normal. He pulled himself toward the rope climb,two long, thick ropes dangling from the ceiling. With battered hands, he gripped them, hoisting his weight upward. His palms burned, the rope tearing at his skin, but he climbed higher and higher. Shadows wrapped around the rope, pulling against him, making it harder, forcing him to resist. "Don’t rely on them... overcome them!" he roared, forcing his body to pull through the resistance. His arms felt like they would tear off, but he refused to let go. Step by step, inch by inch, he reached the top. When he finally slapped the ceiling beam, his body gave out and he fell—catching himself at the last moment with a shadow platform. He dropped to the ground, landing in a crouch, breathing ragged. "Good... even my shadow manipulation is getting stronger." Michael could manipulate the shadows to coat or for them to take a form of something simple and not anything complicated or else it would crumble immediately. He wiped the sweat from his brow and turned toward the obstacle course. Walls to climb, hurdles to leap, narrow beams to balance across. Michael walked to the starting point, his eyes narrowing. "This... is where I’ll forge my speed." He sprinted forward, lightning coursing through his veins. He vaulted the first wall, landed on the beam, and sprinted across. His shadows reached upward, tugging at his ankles to slow him, but Michael pushed harder, faster, tearing through every obstacle. When he stumbled, he forced himself up without pause. When he scraped his arms on the walls, he ignored the pain. "Move, Michael! Faster! If you fall behind here, you’ll be crushed out there!" He finished the course in a blur of sweat, sparks, and shadows, collapsing at the end in a heap. His chest heaved violently, his body felt hollow, but his heart was alive. Lying flat on the ground, he whispered between breaths: "This is it... this is how I’ll surpass everyone. . By breaking myself... and rebuilding stronger." He closed his eyes for a moment, and in his mind, he saw himself standing alone in an arena, facing countless opponents. Their weapons gleamed, their eyes burned with killing intent. Yet in that vision, Michael stood tall, fists clenched, shadows swirling at his command, lightning crackling along his body, the more he used his shadow ability the more he could control and use it. "Soon... that vision won’t just be a dream. It’ll be reality." With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet once again. His entire body trembled, his hands shook, his legs barely held him—but his will refused to yield. "One more set," he muttered, staggering toward the weights. "Always... one more." The hall echoed with the sound of iron clashing, fists striking, and a lone voice that never stopped driving itself forward. "I’ll break every chain. I’ll crush every obstacle. I’ll destroy every weakness." The night came and went. The moon replaced the sun, shadows stretched long across the walls, but still Michael trained. His body was at its limit, but his will was limitless. And as dawn returned, the training hall stood in ruins—dummies shattered, sandbags torn, weights scattered. At the center of the wreckage stood Michael Arden, broken but unbowed, fists bloodied but clenched, a single whisper escaping his lips: "This... is the path I’ve chosen. The path to get stronger" Just then Michael received a message on his wrist watch , it was a message from the academy. "Wait... what a dungeon outbreak" Michael said if there was a dungeon outbreak a lot of people are in danger.