Thamuz felt his blood run cold as he gazed at the weapon Vixkard held in his calloused hands. It was no ordinary whip: its modifications turned it into an instrument of terror, with gleaming daggers strategically placed along its length, designed specifically to tear flesh with brutal efficiency.

“Well, good luck, son,” Tawnylon said, his voice tinged with worry and resignation as he gently squeezed his son's shoulder. “I hope Vixkard won’t be too harsh on you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Thamuz muttered, his voice betraying the fear he was trying to hide.

Tawnylon and Korro retreated to the stone stairs of the house, where they took a seat to observe the scene about to unfold. Vixkard stood in front of Thamuz, making the whip dance in the air with fluid, deliberate movements, a sardonic smile etched on his weathered face.

“Do you know what this is, young Thamuz?” Vixkard inquired, his eyes fixed on his pupil.

“According to what my mother taught me, it’s a whip,” Thamuz replied, striving to maintain his composure. “It’s used to herd beasts when they’re reluctant to obey.”

“Exactly,” Vixkard nodded. “But while ordinary whips are designed to cause discomfort in beasts, this one is a masterpiece of war. It was gifted to me by an old friend, a general in King Khumulak’s army.” He paused dramatically. “And do you know the most extraordinary feature of whips?”

Thamuz searched his mind for an answer that didn’t come. He ended up shaking his head, aware of his ignorance.

“Very well, observe,” Vixkard declared. With expert precision, he raised the whip and cracked it with such power that the very air seemed to split near Thamuz. “With the right force, they’re capable of breaking the sound barrier.”

The demonstration left Thamuz slack-jawed, but it was the deafening crack that truly shook him. Even Korro and Tawnylon, from their position on the stairs, flinched at the intensity of the sound.

“This brings me to ask,” Thamuz said, rubbing his ear with his pinky, “what is the real purpose of this training?”

“Your fighting style,” Vixkard explained, expertly coiling the whip in his right hand, “could be considered suicidal, though somehow you manage to make it work. However, in the shamonak battles, you’ll face opponents whose speed exceeds the sound barrier when they attack.” He paused significantly. “That’s why you must master a crucial passive skill: muscle control.

“Muscle control?” Thamuz repeated, his face reflecting curiosity at the unfamiliar term.

“Yes. Let’s start with a simple demonstration. Pinch your bicep,” Vixkard instructed, his voice laden with experience.

Thamuz obeyed, pinching the flesh of his arm firmly. Sharp pain spread through the area, and when he let go, a reddish mark lingered as evidence on his dark skin.

“What did you feel?” Vixkard inquired, carefully observing his pupil’s reaction.

“Pain,” Thamuz replied curtly. “I felt pain.”

“Good. Now flex your bicep until it’s fully tense and pinch it again,” Vixkard ordered, anticipation gleaming in his eyes.

Thamuz tightened the muscle until it was as hard as steel. When he pinched it again, his eyes widened in surprise—the pain had almost completely vanished.

“Muscle control seems simple, like what you just did,” Vixkard explained, his tone becoming instructive. “But what I want is for you to develop this skill instinctively. Your body must respond automatically to any blow, hardening like living armor. This will allow you to endure long enough to study your opponent and find their weaknesses.”

“Is that why my feet are buried in the sand?” Thamuz asked, beginning to grasp the methodology behind this strange lesson.

“Exactly,” Vixkard confirmed with a treacherous smile. “I’m going to hit you with this whip until you master muscle control. If your feet leave the sand, you lose.”

“Understood,” Thamuz replied, his voice taking on a grave tone of determination.

“We begin now. Get ready,” Vixkard warned, raising the whip in a fluid motion.

“Wait, I have a—” Thamuz couldn’t finish his question. The air split with a deafening crack as the whip struck his chest.

The daggers sank into his flesh like steel fangs. When Vixkard withdrew the weapon, the blades tore through Thamuz’s skin, unleashing a crimson torrent. A harrowing scream escaped his throat as one of his legs lifted involuntarily from the pain, but the other remained firmly anchored in the sand.

“You’re lucky,” Vixkard commented with professional calm, listening to his pupil’s spasms of pain. “One foot in the sand still counts as valid.”

Thamuz, clutching his wounded chest, stared in horror at the lacerated flesh pulsing to the rhythm of his racing heart. Blood flowed profusely, but in an instinctive act, he tensed the muscles around the wound, significantly reducing the bleeding.

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“Impressive,” Vixkard acknowledged, noting the sudden cessation of the blood flow and the faint sound of muscles tightening. “That’s the muscle control we aim to awaken in you, though for now, you’re only using it as an improvised tourniquet.”

Thamuz panted heavily, pain coursing through every fiber of his being as he re-anchored his leg into the sand. His feet clung to the ground like roots, his gaze fixed on Vixkard, who kept his arm raised, poised to deliver another brutal strike.

The air cracked again with a thunderous snap as the whip found Thamuz’s shoulder. This time, as the cold bite of the daggers pierced his flesh, he instinctively tensed his muscles, trapping the blades in his body.

“Interesting,” Vixkard murmured, a crooked smile forming on his face as he felt the whip resist his pull. “You’re contracting your muscles to trap the daggers. A... less-than-ideal strategy.”

With a sharp tug, Vixkard yanked the whip with devastating force, ripping the daggers free from Thamuz’s flesh and leaving bloody gashes in their wake. Thamuz’s scream tore through the air as he battled the primal urge to flee from the pain, his iron will keeping him rooted in the sand.

“When something sharp penetrates your body,” Vixkard explained, idly playing with the bloodied daggers, “tensing your muscles to hold it in place is a fatal mistake. Your opponent can exploit that, amplifying the damage.”

Foamy saliva spilled from Thamuz’s mouth, yet he remained steadfast. He dropped to one knee, spreading his arms wide as if offering his chest as a voluntary target.

Vixkard kept his arm aloft for what felt like an eternity, long enough for Thamuz to begin lowering his guard. That was when the whip struck again, slicing through the air to land on his right calf. The daggers tore mercilessly into the muscle.

The world wavered beneath Thamuz’s feet. Blood loss was taking its toll, his vision blurring intermittently, but he refused to collapse. He crouched, nearly squatting, his teeth grinding under the strain.

“Hold on, son! Don’t let a mere whip defeat you!” Tawnylon’s voice rang out from the stairs, sweat glistening on his brow.

“I never imagined seeing Thamuz endure such a trial,” Korro muttered, unconsciously clutching his chest. “Just imagining the pain chills my blood.”

Vixkard made the whip dance in the air with hypnotic movements while Thamuz slowly rose to his feet, his eyes tracking every undulation of the weapon with calculated intensity.

"The first rule of combat is to never lower your guard," Vixkard stated, marking a mysterious rhythm with his foot. "Your enemy can always have a trick up their sleeve."

The whip roared once more, and Thamuz, by reflex, tensed the front muscles of his body. His mistake became painfully clear in an instant as the daggers bit deeply into his unprotected back.

Vixkard felt the same resistance as before when the daggers sank into Thamuz's back. He smiled and shook his head, preparing to yank the whip with a brutal pull. However, his smile faded when he realized the weapon remained immobile, as if trapped in solid rock.

Thamuz, exerting extraordinary muscular control, kept the daggers locked in his back. A defiant smile spread across his bloodied face as he watched Vixkard’s futile attempts to free his weapon. Only when he chose to relax his muscles did the daggers slide free without resistance.

"The back is the optimal place to take hits," Vixkard remarked, waving the whip. "Evolution has favored us by eliminating the nerve points in that area."

Just as the whip was about to lash out again, the world seemed to freeze. Everything stopped except for Thamuz, who watched the whip advancing toward him with an unreal slowness.

"If I were you, I wouldn't let myself get hit so freely," the familiar voice of the demon echoed in his mind.

Thamuz's eyes darkened with anger as he recognized the intrusion. "What are you doing here? I'm training."

"You call being torn apart like a beast training?" the demon replied with sarcasm. "Although I must point out something concerning."

"Speak quickly," Thamuz snapped.

"This 'charming' training is bleeding you dry," the demon explained with biting irony. "Do you know what happens to someone who loses this much blood?"

"They die?" Thamuz answered flatly.

"Exactly. You're on the brink of death, even if you don't feel it. Allow me to help you," the demon said, materializing his skeletal hands over Thamuz's eyes.

The icy touch of those bony fingers made Thamuz shudder. He tried to break free, but the demon's supernatural strength overpowered him.

"I don't need your help!" Thamuz protested.

"Relax," the demon whispered in his ear. "I won’t give you extra power. I'll simply teach you to anticipate blows and tense your muscles at the precise moment. Are you willing?"

Thamuz hesitated, fully aware of the risks of accepting demonic help. Yet, recognizing that his current condition could permanently incapacitate him for combat, he nodded with resignation.

"Good. Now listen carefully," the demon whispered in an icy tone.

Time resumed its normal flow with a devastating snap, and the daggers found their way between Thamuz's ribs. The pain forced a choked growl from him as he spat a mixture of saliva and blood, feeling the blades tear his flesh as they withdrew.

"Did you hear that snap?" the demon inquired.

"Yes. What causes it?" Thamuz murmured between gasps.

"It’s the sound of the whip breaking the sound barrier, as you’ve been told. That snap can be your signal to prepare. You just need to listen and, at the precise moment..."

"Tense my muscles to block it," Thamuz finished, finally understanding.

"Exactly. You learn quickly," the demon approved.

The spectral hands remained over Thamuz's eyes, forcing him to rely solely on his hearing. When the next snap tore through the air, Thamuz tensed every muscle in his body. The daggers met an unyielding resistance, and instead of sinking into his flesh, they fell to the ground as if they had struck granite.

Vixkard watched with interest as his daggers failed to penetrate Thamuz’s hardened flesh. "Impressive. You’ve finally managed to block one of my strikes," he acknowledged with a whistle of approval.

From the stairs, Tawnylon and Korro watched in amazement as Thamuz responded to each whip crack with increasing precision. The training continued for hours, and although some wounds still broke through, the damage had significantly diminished.

"You’ve reached your limit for today," the demon announced, withdrawing his icy hands.

Thamuz remained standing in the arena, his body covered in bleeding wounds but upright with pride. The injuries, though severe, were far less debilitating than they would have been without his newfound muscular control.

Vixkard coiled the whip with expert movements. "You’ve mastered the basics of muscular control with surprising speed, but this is only the beginning," he declared, resting the weapon on his sore shoulder. "Drink bandamenas water for your wounds. Tomorrow’s training will be less forgiving."

As Vixkard walked toward the house, massaging his exhausted arm, Thamuz finally let himself collapse onto his back. His arms sprawled out over the sand as deep sighs of pain and relief escaped his battered chest. With his last reserves of energy, he watched his father and Korro approach him with a pitcher of bandamenas water and a wooden cup.