Training in the Corrupted Realm wasn't like the stories Caleb had read as a kid. There were no wise, old masters with soft hands and endless patience. No dojos with clean floors and tea breaks. There was just pain, survival, and Gorrin's strange sense of humor.
By the second week, Caleb's body had adapted enough to stop puking after every Riftenergy infusion. His soul core—once a dim flicker—now glowed faintly behind his sternum. It still sputtered when he was tired, and it still stung like hell when he pushed it too far, but it was growing. Slowly.
Just like Gorrin said it would.
"Again," Gorrin called, standing atop a blackened tree stump, arms folded.
Caleb groaned and lifted his hands. He focused—reaching inward, searching for the pulse of Riftenergy inside his chest. It trembled at first, like shy water. But then it stirred, responding to his will.
A shard of translucent energy formed in the air—a dagger this time. Lighter than metal, sharper than reason. It floated in place, quivering.
"Better," Gorrin said. "Now throw it."
Caleb exhaled and flung the dagger toward the cracked boulder in the distance.
It missed by several feet.
Gorrin blinked. "Okay. That was tragic. You just insulted every Riftborn who's ever lived."
Caleb let out a frustrated laugh. "You think I wanted to be one of you?"
"Nope," Gorrin replied, grinning. "But the Rift chose you, kid. We don't always get to vote in fate's elections."
They camped near a dead river that night. The air hummed with low, echoing growls far away. Caleb sat by the fire, nursing a shallow cut and chewing on dried fungal meat that tasted like regret and old socks.
"You ever… get used to it?" he asked.
Gorrin poked the fire with a charred stick. "The pain? The loneliness?"
"Yeah."
"No," Gorrin said simply. "But you stop flinching at it. That's something."
A pause passed between them.
Then, Caleb asked, "Why are you still here? You've survived this long. Why not escape?"
Gorrin looked up at the sky—if it could be called that. The bleeding horizon pulsed gently above. "I tried. The Rift wouldn't let me. Every time I got close to a fracture point, something pulled me back. A beast, a trap, a memory."
"A memory?"
"You'll see," Gorrin said darkly. "The Corrupted Realm doesn't just warp flesh. It knows you. It whispers to your weakest parts. If you don't learn how to face yourself, you won't get far."
Caleb sat back, eyes on the fire. "Then I need to get stronger."
"You will," Gorrin said, tossing him a crystal the size of a peach pit. "That's Riftbone. Absorbs energy like a sponge. Start training with it. Helps focus your shaping."
"How do I—"
"Figure it out," Gorrin cut in, already lying down and pulling his ragged coat over his head. "Night, student. Try not to die in your sleep. It's a bad look."
Caleb stared at the crystal.
It vibrated in his hand, pulling gently at the energy in his chest.
He closed his fingers around it and felt the pulse—slow, steady, like the rhythm of a drum waiting for a warrior.
He would learn. He had no choice.