Chapter 98. Day After Day
Adom groaned as he dragged himself up the last flight of stairs to his dormitory. Each step felt like a personal betrayal from his lower body. He was eighty years old, not eighteen, and right now every single one of those years seemed determined to make its presence known in his joints.
"This," he muttered to no one in particular, "was a terrible idea."
The hallway stretched before him like an insurmountable desert. His room, normally just a short walk, might as well have been on the other side of the continent. He leaned against the wall, catching his breath.
Biggins had warned him, of course. The old dragon had been quite specific about the pain. "Rewiring your Fluid channels," he'd called it, as if Adom were just some building getting new plumbing. The comparison wasn't entirely inaccurate. For the past seven hours, Biggins had stuck those silver needles into points all over his body, redirecting the flow of Fluid through pathways that—according to conventional magical theory—shouldn't even exist.
"Law couldn't handle it," Biggins had reminded him cheerfully while inserting a particularly painful needle at the base of Adom's skull. "His channels kept collapsing. Like trying to reroute a river through sand."
Adom pushed himself off the wall and shuffled forward. Three more doors. He could make it.
The worst part hadn't been the needles. It had been the moment when Biggins had activated them all simultaneously, sending what felt like liquid fire coursing through Adom's body. He'd expected pain, but not the sensation of being unmade from the inside out, as if every cell were being pulled apart and reassembled according to some new blueprint.
"You're doing well," Biggins had said, peering down at him with those ancient eyes while Adom writhed on the table. "Law screamed much louder."
Small comfort, that.
Two more doors.
When it was over, when the last needle had been removed and Adom could breathe again without feeling like his lungs were filled with broken glass, Biggins had patted him on the shoulder and delivered the final insult.
"We'll need to do this every day for at least a week," he'd said, as if suggesting they meet for lunch. "And you'll need to strengthen your body in between sessions. Running, swimming, weight training—whatever you can manage. The stronger your physical form, the better it can adapt to the new pathways."
One more door.
Adom had asked, in what he considered a very reasonable tone given the circumstances, why no one had ever heard of Axis before. Not in any book, not in any ancient scroll, not in any whispered legend.
"Because I discovered it on my own," Biggins had replied, cleaning his needles with meticulous care. "Born after my kind's time, with no elders to teach me, I had to find my own way. And once I did, well..." He'd paused, looking up with an expression Adom couldn't quite read. "Some knowledge is better kept close."
Adom finally reached his door. He fumbled with the key, his fingers still tingling oddly—an aftereffect of having his Fluid channels rerouted, Biggins had explained. Like pins and needles, but deeper.
The lock clicked open, and Adom practically fell into his room. He didn't bother with the lights, just made a beeline for his bed and collapsed face-first onto it.
"Never again," he groaned into his pillow. Then, after a moment's reflection, amended, "Well, until tomorrow."
Because of course he would go back. The pain was excruciating, the recovery worse, but the potential... The potential was worth it. A form of Fluid manipulation that didn't rely on emotional states? It was unheard of.
And as a mage, such a thing was, to put it mildly, exhilarating.
He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Biggins had made him promise to spend at least an hour training his body before bed, regardless of how exhausted he felt. "The physical must strengthen alongside the magical," he'd insisted. "Mind, body—all must align for Axis to manifest."
Easy for a dragon to say. They probably didn't feel like they'd been trampled by a herd of silverbacks after a simple acupuncture session.
With a sigh that contained the full weight of his suffering, Adom pushed himself up to sitting. He'd rest for a few minutes, then maybe manage some basic stretches. Perhaps a short jog around the dormitory grounds, if his legs remembered how to function.
A soft blue glow illuminated the darkness of his room. His communication crystal was pulsing in his jacket pocket—someone trying to reach him.
Adom stared at the pocket, weighing the effort of moving against the importance of potential messages. After a moment's deliberation, he reached for the crystal with a wince. Whatever it was, it would have to be extraordinarily important to justify any more movement today.
"Hello?" he managed, his voice rough from the day's ordeal.
"Well, if it isn't my favorite little mage!" Valiant's voice boomed through the crystal with such enthusiasm that Adom had to hold it away from his ear. "How's life treating you? Still doing all that boring reading and whatnot? You know what they say about all work and no play—makes Adom a dull boy! Get it? Because your name sounds like—"
"Hey, Valiant," Adom cut in, too tired for the usual banter.
There was a brief pause.
"Whoa, hey, are you alright?" Valiant asked. "You sound like you just went twelve rounds with a troll. And lost."
"I'm fine," Adom said. "Just tired. It's been a long day."
"A long day of what? Wait, let me guess—you were at that weird shop again, weren't you? The one with the old mage who's definitely not what he seems? I told you that place gives me the creeps. Last time I was there, I swear one of the bottles winked at me. A bottle! With an eye! Or maybe it was an eye in a bottle? Either way, not normal, my friend, not normal at all. Speaking of eyes, did I tell you about that cyclops I met at the tavern last week? But this one was half blood. Human and cyclop. Fascinating fellow, terrible depth perception. Speaking of half blood, I wonder how his dad managed to get his m—"
Adom pinched the bridge of his nose. On any other day, he might have indulged Valiant's meandering conversational style. Today was not that day.
"Why are you calling me, Valiant?"
"Why am I—? Oh!" There was a pause. "Right, right, got sidetracked there. Happens to the best of us. Like this one time when I was supposed to deliver a message to the for my uncle but saw this absolutely magnificent butterfly and ended up three blocks over somehow—"
"Valiant." Adom's patience, already thin, was rapidly evaporating.
"Sorry, sorry. Focus. I'm focused now." There was the sound of a deep breath. "Well, there's someone who wants you dead."
Adom chuckled, though it made his ribs ache. "There's always someone who wants me dead. You'll have to be more specific."
"No, I mean someone with actual money and influence this time. The Belmonts and the Hartwells."
Adom straightened, pain momentarily forgotten.
"You're sure?"
"As sure as I am that trolls smell bad," Valiant confirmed. "And let me tell you, trolls smell really bad. This one time my uncle brought me to—"
"Why?" Adom cut in, redirecting the conversation before it spiraled into another tangent. "What's their issue with me?"
"Oh, right. Well, they're big supporters of the Crown Prince. Not exactly thrilled about you being involved in his arrest. Apparently, they've got a lot riding on him getting acquitted. Investments, political alliances, arranged marriages—the whole noble package deal. If he goes down, they lose big."
Adom nodded to himself. It made sense.
"Do you have proof? Something concrete I could take to my father?"
"Oh, plenty!" Valiant sounded proud. "Got a couple of their messengers on my payroll. Intercepted letters with some very interesting wording."
"Can you get all of it to me? As soon as possible?"
"Already packaged up and ready for delivery. Should be at your door by morning," Valiant said. "I am extremely efficient when it comes to political blackmail material. It's kind of my specialty. Like that time with the enemy gang and the goat—"
"Thank you, Valiant," Adom said firmly, pushing himself off the wall to continue his painful journey down the hallway. "This is extremely helpful."
"No problem, no problem at all. What are friends for if not warning each other about assassination plots? Though I suppose most friends just lend each other books or help move furniture, but that's boring, isn't it? Anyway, I assume you'll be taking this straight to daddy dearest? The advantages of having the commander of the Iron Wolves for a father, am I right? Most people have to actually deal with their own problems, but you just make one call to papa and suddenly—"
"Thanks again, Valiant," Adom said, cutting the connection mid-sentence. He slipped the crystal back into his pocket.
Adom sighed, staring up at the door of his dorm.
He pushed himself up with a groan that started in his toes and worked its way up to his throat. Standing felt like an accomplishment worthy of celebration. Walking would be a miracle.
But Biggins had been clear. No exceptions.
The academy grounds would be mostly empty this time of evening. Less witnesses to his suffering. Small mercies.
Adom changed into loose training clothes, apparently, neither Sam or Zuni were there at the moment. He tied his shoes and when he finally straightened up, the room spun briefly.
"This is fine," he told himself unconvincingly. "Everything is fine."
It wasn't.
The night air hit his face as he stepped outside, cool and refreshing against his flushed skin. The academy's training field stretched before him, silver-blue in the moonlight. Usually, it would be filled with students practicing combat forms or channeling Fluid through carefully controlled exercises. Now it was empty, peaceful.
About to be disturbed by one very reluctant eighty-year-old mage.
Adom began with a walk. Just a simple walk around the perimeter. Even that felt like asking too much of his body.
"Left foot, right foot," he coached himself. "Very advanced technique, Adom. Really showing off those eight decades of magical expertise."
By the second lap, his legs had remembered they were, in fact, legs, designed for the express purpose of locomotion. They weren't happy about it, but they were cooperating. Mostly.
He increased his pace slightly. Not quite a jog, more like a hurried shuffle. His arms hung awkwardly at his sides, occasionally swinging in what might generously be called a running motion if the observer was both kind and partially blind.
The third lap brought a stitch in his side that felt like someone had embedded a dagger between his ribs. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool evening.
"This is pathetic," he gasped, stumbling to a halt. "You're supposed to rest when your body's tired!"
A group of first-year students crossed the far side of the field, laughing among themselves. One pointed in his direction. Adom couldn't hear what they said, but he could imagine.
Pride made him straighten up. Pride made him start running again.
It wasn't pretty. His arms pumped awkwardly, legs shuffling in a gait that resembled a man trying to run underwater while wearing heavy boots. His breath came in short, painful gasps.
But he kept going.
"This... better... be worth it," he wheezed.
The fourth lap nearly broke him. His lungs burned. His legs trembled. Every part of his body seemed to be shouting increasingly creative obscenities at him.
Then something strange happened.
As he rounded the eastern corner of the field, a warmth spread through his chest that wasn't just exertion. It was familiar—the sensation of Fluid moving through reconfigured channels, testing new pathways like water finding its course through freshly dug riverbeds.
Adom stumbled, caught himself, kept going.
The warmth intensified, spreading down his arms, into his legs. Not painful, exactly. More like the pleasant burn after stretching a long-unused muscle.
By the sixth lap, he wasn't shuffling anymore. His stride had lengthened. His breathing, though still labored, had found a rhythm.
The seventh lap brought a tingling sensation along his spine, as if someone were tracing the vertebrae with a finger dipped in warm honey.
And then it happened.
A soft blue glow emanated from his skin, barely visible in the moonlight. It pulsed once, twice, then flashed brighter for an instant before fading.
In his mind's eye, Adom saw something that wasn't there:
[White Wyrm's Body has reached level 10!]
He stumbled again, this time from surprise rather than exhaustion.
Curious, he pushed himself harder, picking up speed.
Three more laps. His lungs still burned, but differently now—like they were expanding, creating more space for air. His legs still ached, but the pain had a productive quality to it, the kind that promised growth rather than injury.
Another flash, this one with a distinct green tinge:
[Healing Factor has reached level 03!]
[You now heal at 6x the normal human rate]
Adom almost laughed out loud. He could feel it happening—the microscopic tears in his muscles knitting themselves back together almost as quickly as he created them. The stitch in his side vanished. The trembling in his legs steadied.
"That's more like it," he gasped, pushing harder still.
By the fifteenth lap, he was actually running. Not sprinting, certainly not gracefully, but running all the same. His arms had figured out what they were supposed to be doing. His breathing had deepened.
Another flash:
[+5 Silverback's Might]
He could feel the strength flooding into his limbs, not overwhelming but supportive, like invisible hands helping to propel him forward.
The final flash came as he completed his twentieth lap, this one a deep, rich purple:
[Iron Lungs has reached level 10!]
Suddenly, breathing was easy. The burning sensation transformed into something almost pleasant—a cool, invigorating flow that seemed to purify his blood with each inhalation.
Adom slowed to a walk, then stopped altogether, hands on his knees. He was exhausted, yes—but that wasn’t why he halted.
It was wonder.
He stood up straight, rolling his shoulders experimentally. The pain was still there, but it was different now. Manageable. Almost a friendly reminder rather than a debilitating force.
"Huh," he said to the empty field.
He took a deep breath, marveling at how efficiently his lungs worked now. The air seemed to fill every corner of his chest, rich and satisfying.
Experimentally, he channeled a small amount of Fluid through one of the new pathways Biggins had created. It flowed more smoothly than before, with less resistance. Not perfect—not yet—but improved.
His hand glowed faintly with the energy.
"So that's what you meant," Adom murmured, thinking of Biggins. The physical strengthening the magical. The body adapting to accommodate the new channels.
For a moment, he just stood there in the moonlight, feeling the changes ripple through his system. The improved circulation. The enhanced cellular regeneration. The subtle but unmistakable increase in physical strength. All feeding back into the reconfigured Fluid pathways, reinforcing them, stabilizing them.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
A realization struck him that made him laugh out loud:
This was only day one.