Tyrius knew one thing for certain.

  I really hate planks.

  His arms trembled violently, his core burning with lactic acid. Sweat streamed down his face, pooling on the stone beneath him. A faint reflection stared back—flushed, strained, and miserable.

  Why’d he have to go restore my arm just to abuse it like this?

  “How much longer do I have to do this?” he groaned to the unforgiving rock face below him, breath ragged and fogging the air with every exhale.

  “Until I get tired,” came the gruff, distracted reply—followed by the sound of a page turning.

  Well that's vague.

  Tyrius could already smell bacon roasting nearby. The satisfying sizzle was music to his ears, and the scent was heavenly to his empty belly.

  He turned his head slightly and saw his master gliding lazily above the water’s surface, casually arcing in slow circles around the cavern. Opposite him floated a small, ethereal fire with a pan hanging just over it.

  He knew his master was taunting him—punishing him for yesterday’s mistake.

  Tyrius had taken certain liberties his master didn’t agree with last night, and this was his penance.

  He wasn’t new to this sort of treatment and knew better than to push further. So he did the only thing he could: held his body rigid, muscles tense, forcing himself to maintain the pose.

  His body had undergone a rapid transformation since training here, and it now crawled with muscle—even for a ten-year-old.

  It could be a bit extreme at times, he admitted, but overall he enjoyed every day he spent here.

  There was, however, one thing he didn’t care for.

  Drip.

  Another drop of water struck the back of his head, causing his eye to twitch.

  Gods, I hate that stupid drip!

  ‘It's to help with focus,’ he thought bitterly, mimicking his master’s voice.

  Tyrius sneered at the man as he floated lazily overhead, flipping through his book like this was just another peaceful morning.

  Says who? This old man?

  The man suddenly tilted his head, a curious look blossomed across his face.

  “Hm? Did you say something?” he asked, his eyes flicking toward Tyrius, daring.

  Tyrius quickly wiped the look off his face and snapped his gaze back down.

  “No.” His voice was tight.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Drip.

  His eye twitched.

  He was left there in silence, arms quaking, stomach burning.

  Finally, his master’s voice came—sharp and smug.

  “Now, Tyrius. The next time I tell you to do one thousand pushups before the day is over, what are you not going to do?”

  “Nine hundred and ninety-nine pushups,” Tyrius replied flatly.

  “Nine hundred and ninety-nine pushups to do what, again? I forget.”

  The false innocence in his tone made Tyrius want to scream.

  “Nine hundred and ninety-nine pushups… to ‘teach that old man a lesson.’”

  He deadpanned every word through clenched teeth, enunciating the final ones with extra venom.

  “Good. Good. Well, if you think you’ve learned your lesson, you may relax—and we can go eat.”

  Tyrius exhaled hard and dropped to his knees. Relief hit him like a wave. He’d been planking for literal hours by this point.

  But he didn’t care anymore.

  There was food.

  His eyes locked on the pan as it glided through the air. It was already floating toward the exit. Saliva pooled in his mouth as he took in a long, greedy breath of sizzling meat and eggs. He could practically taste it already.

  Drip.

  His eye twitched again as he slowly glared up at the oversized stalactite above.

  Oh… I’m going to fix that drip. I swear it.

  “And don’t even think about messing with that drip,” came the immediate reply from his master, already halfway out of the meditation cave.

  Tyrius wiped all thoughts of messing with that drip from his mind and quickly leapt off the rock.

  –

  “So, you never really explained where we are or what this place is,” Tyrius said between mouthfuls of egg, gesturing around them with his fork.

  They sat at a stone table on a wide patio just outside a massive castle perched atop a lone mountain. Below them stretched an endless sea of clouds. Above, the sky remained eternally clear. The temperature never changed. Never shifted.

  Tyrius called it a “place,” but he knew it wasn’t part of the real world. It felt... replicated. A re-creation of reality. The scenery looked and felt authentic, but something in his gut told him it wasn’t. Still, it was pleasant. Tyrius felt good here—unnaturally comfortable.

  “I’ve told you—it is my Sanctuary,” his master replied, flipping another page in his book, his tone edged with vague annoyance. He drifted in lazy arcs through the air around Tyrius, never quite touching the ground.

  His master rarely ate with him. He always claimed he didn’t need to—something about a more efficient body. Advancing through the tiers, he’d once explained, enhanced many things like stamina, perception, metabolism; probably digestion, too.

  That didn’t bother Tyrius much. If anything, it just meant more food for him. And he needed it. He was burning calories faster than he could eat them.

  He was ten now, and he’d been training under the old man ever since he’d been saved three years ago. Or at least, that’s what he’d been told. Tyrius had no real way of tracking time here. The days and nights seemed to follow their own schedule. In fact, the only routine that was consistent for Tyrius was push-ups, squats, crunches, and running—so much running.

  He always got just enough sleep to be rested, and the days lasted just long enough for training to be completed. He was never allowed to truly relax or soak in comfort. Tyrius had no doubt this was his master’s doing.

  Still, he could be content—because all his needs were met perfectly. He need only do everything the smug old man asked of him.

  And some days, that was difficult.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  The training was fierce—sometimes it took everything he had just to keep up.

  But he knew it was for his benefit. Or at least, that’s what the old man always said when Tyrius complained. That—and the reminder that Tyrius had given him his life for the foreseeable future.

  The man had healed his soul—even grew his arm back as a bonus. His master had exceeded the terms of their deal, and Tyrius intended to keep his end—no matter how absurd the tasks.

  Even if it meant doing all one thousand pushups tonight.

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t really explain anything,” Tyrius said, stabbing a piece of bacon. “That’s like me asking why you’re so annoying and you saying, ‘because I am.’”

  “Well, it is no different than when I ask how you can eat so much, and you answer, ‘because you’re hungry.’”

  “Hey! I am hungry. I’m a growing boy!” Tyrius defended, cheeks full. “Maybe if it didn’t taste so good, I wouldn’t eat so much,” he muttered, biting into another strip.

  “Would you like me to make it taste worse?” his master replied, annoyance creeping into his tone.

  “No!” Tyrius squeaked, throwing his arms around the plates in front of him protectively—as if that would shield them from his master.

  “I was just curious,” he added more quietly, hiding behind his arms.

  With a sigh, the man clapped his book shut.

  “This space is both everywhere and nowhere,” he began. “It was created by my soul. And, to some degree, it is my soul.”

  Tyrius blinked. “Wait. So this entire place is your soul?” he asked through a mouthful of eggs.

  “Technically, yes.”

  A loud boom echoed out as Tyrius slammed the table with his fist and stared at the floating man.

  “You didn’t even flinch. Shouldn’t you feel that? I know I sure felt my soul when it was injured,” he said with a shiver, remembering the pain.

  The man paused mid-orbit, raising an eyebrow.

  “It doesn’t work that way. It is and it is not my soul.”

  “You just said it was! How can something be both your soul and not your soul? If it is your soul, shouldn’t it hurt when I beat it up?”

  Another long sigh escaped his master. The man rested the book on his chest, then resumed his slow, drifting circle with both hands interlaced behind his head as he looked up to the sky.

  “It’s part of me, yes. But it’s not like it’s me physically. If this space were ever destroyed or taken from me, I would most certainly be crippled for the rest of my life. It’s intertwined with me—this space is me, and I am this space. So while I didn’t directly feel your little tantrum, I was aware that you slammed my table. This place is under my domain, and I control every part of it.”

  “So... like, could you grow an apple tree?” Tyrius asked, raising an eyebrow.

  The man stopped floating and stared at the boy, as if needing to confirm that was actually what he’d just said.

  “Yes. I could do something as trivial as grow an apple tree,” he said, incredulously—as if the question itself was an insult. “Such a thing would be no more difficult than a small act of will.”

  Several long seconds passed. Tyrius simply stared at him, then slowly began glancing behind and around the man to the grassy field.

  “...So…” Tyrius trailed off.

  “So what?”

  “So... where is it?”

  “Where’s what?” The man sounded agitated now.

  “The apple tree?” Tyrius asked innocently.

  The man looked like he’d just been slapped. He pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh, then fixed Tyrius with a slow glare.

  “You know what? I think it’s time for sparring,” he said with finality and snapped his fingers.

  In response, both the food and utensils in Tyrius’s hands soundlessly popped out of existence.

  “Hey!” he protested, looking up only to lock eyes with his master—now standing over him, a large wooden sword resting against his shoulder.

  Uh oh. I’ve made him mad again.

  A wooden sword appeared, looming ominously in the air before him. Tyrius sighed and limply raised his hands, letting the weapon drop into his palms.

  He looked up at his master with pleading eyes.

  Please no.

  The man’s only response was a slow nod—and a menacing smirk. Tyrius’s fate was sealed.

  “Where?” the boy asked weakly, resigning himself.

  His master simply motioned over his shoulder toward the cave behind him.

  Not the cave.

  Tyrius looked up again, hoping for mercy. Another nod.

  He dropped his arms in defeat and trudged toward the meditation cave. The wooden sword lightly clicked against the stone steps as he made his way up, its tip dragging behind him.

  –

  Tyrius collapsed, his wooden sword clattering to the side. His hands were lightly bleeding, his arms reduced to little more than wet noodles. His body was covered in bruises, and each breath came in ragged wheezes.

  I hate the meditation cave.

  Most of his training had taken place here. It was a massive, cavernous chamber with a wide, oval-shaped platform at its center—reached only by descending a steep slope of carved stairs after entering the cave.

  The floor was cut with narrow, water-filled grooves—etched in seemingly random straight lines. Together, they formed a chaotic web of channels that crisscrossed the stone, each just wide enough to catch a foot.

  He’d broken his ankle more than once thanks to those damn things.

  In the middle of the training floor sat a crystal-clear, faintly glowing lagoon, with a single massive jet-black stone at its center.

  And around the entire area was a narrow channel of constantly moving water. When Tyrius first saw it, he’d compared it to a lazy river.

  Water was always running here, and thanks to the chamber’s strange light source, shimmering reflections danced across the walls and ceiling. The entire cave formed a high, smooth dome—one that carried sound very well.

  Especially that damn—

  Drip.

  His eye twitched.

  Tyrius glared at the overgrown stalactite jutting from the center of the ceiling, hanging directly above the large rock in the middle of the room. All the ambient water in the chamber seemed to collect on it before running down and forming that giant drop.

  Tyrius couldn’t help but smirk as he envisioned a large cork shoved over it—muzzling its endless drip.

  This place hadn’t existed during his first few weeks here. It had just... appeared one day, seemingly overnight.

  When he asked his master about it, all he’d said was:

  “It is for you. It will help you train.”

  Remembering the smile on his master’s face still sent a shiver down Tyrius’s spine. It had felt less like an answer and more like a guilty verdict—and this was his punishment.

  A warm sensation spread through his body, and he could feel the various cuts and bruises slowly mending. Tyrius closed his eyes in bliss as he felt it swirl around him.

  But just as he began to relax—just as the comfort started to settle in—it vanished.

  And he was once again reminded that he was lying on the cold, slick, wet stone floor.

  Tyrius’s eyes shot open in fresh annoyance... only to see his master floating above him, a small strip of dark cloth in hand.

  “Not the blindfold,” Tyrius whimpered.

  “Yes, the blindfold,” his master replied.

  Tyrius could already see the suffocating mist creeping in from the edges of the platform. This room was always filled with mist like this during the second half of the day.

  The mist was thick and wet. If he breathed too quickly, it felt like drowning—and he’d start coughing. But if he breathed too shallowly, he wouldn’t get enough oxygen.

  His master would just make offhanded comments about learning to breathe better and focus more.

  With a sigh, Tyrius got back to his feet, snatched the blindfold away, and trudged toward the obsidian-black rock at the center of the room.

  Each step was exaggerated, water swishing loudly beneath his feet as he crossed the lagoon.

  I hate the stupid rock in the stupid meditation cave.

  With a practiced hand, he slid his fingers along the slick surface of the stone until they caught on a familiar jagged corner. Pressing down, he reached up with his other hand, finding another well-worn grip.

  He began scaling the wet rock, relying on muscle memory and tactile instinct. Each step, each handhold was familiar—but Tyrius swung his head dramatically with each movement, sassily mocking the ritual.

  When he finally hauled himself over the edge, elbows pressing into the top of the stone, he found his master already standing there—waiting with a domineering expression.

  Tyrius barely had time to react before throwing up his right arm to block a sudden haymaker.

  The blow sent him staggering. He barely got his off-hand up to deflect the next strike.

  His master pressed forward relentlessly—punches, elbows, feints. Tyrius was pushed back, off-balance, outclassed.

  He was helpless as his master broke apart his guard and drove a brutal fist into his diaphragm.

  Before Tyrius could even gag at the sudden loss of air, his master dropped low and swept his legs out from under him.

  He slammed hard onto the rock, pain flaring up his side as he coughed harshly.

  “I think it’s about time we updated the boulder,” his master noted calmly, running a hand along his chin in thought. His demeanor was relaxed, as if he didn’t just beat the shit out of a child.

  Tyrius groaned. He had just started to push himself to his knees when the stone beneath him began to tremble.

  He knew what that meant. His master always did this when it started getting easier.

  Every time the meditation boulder changed, it got more difficult. Always.

  “Do we have to change the rock?” Tyrius wheezed.

  “Boulder,” his master corrected, eyes narrowing. “And yes. You did that far too easily.”

  “Now,” the man continued, “do it again. With the blindfold actually on this time.”

  Before Tyrius could protest, a sharp kick landed in his side—and he went flying off the edge of the boulder.

  The warm sensation of healing wrapped around him just before he slammed into the water below. A small smile grew on his lips as the warmth faded and the cold embrace swallowed him.